The magistrate reached across the railing, and handed the commitment to the constable. “Farewell, father,” said Tom, “thee believes that I’m innocent; don’t thee?” “Yes; I do,” said his father, in a husky voice. Then he gave way to his feelings, as no one had ever seen him do before—he laid both hands on his son’s shoulders, and kissed him on the cheek. “Farewell, John; farewell, William,” said he, reaching out his hands to his brothers. “Farewell, Thomas,” said John, clapping him upon the shoulder, and trying to speak cheerfully; “thee’ll come out all right; I know thee will!” “I hope so,” said Tom. “You’ll have to come along, now,” said the constable. Then they went out again through the curious crowd, Johnson pushing a way through the people for himself and his prisoner. They stepped into the gig, and drove away to the gaol. CHAPTER XVIII. TOM GRANGER had been in Eastcaster gaol about an hour, when Will Gaines came to see him. Since the click of the lock that shut him in his cell as a murderer had sounded in his ears, a calmness and a peace almost akin to happiness had fallen upon his spirit. This may sound strange, but there are periods, in times of trouble and grief, when the soul is relaxed from its tension of pain, and quietude comes for the time being. Tom’s brain was as clear as crystal, and he reviewed his position with a keenness that surprised himself He saw that the evidence was strong against him—damningly strong. As he walked up and down his cell, thinking over all that the witnesses had said—and he seemed to remember every word—he felt as though he were shut in by a wall of evidence that he could never hope to break through. But, though realizing all this, he had none of that anxiety regarding it, that it would have seemed natural for him to feel; it was almost as though these things concerned another person. So he walked up and down his cell, going over all that had passed in the squire’s office. Of a sudden, a flaw in a certain part of the evidence struck him; it was but a small thing, but it was sufficient to arouse a new thought within him. Then he stood quite still in the middle of the cell, looking down upon the floor, and sunk in meditation, for his mind was busy in following up point after point of this thought, as a hound follows up the scent of game that it has freshly started. How long he stood there I do not know, but he was aroused at last by the opening of the door of his cell, and Will Gaines came in to him. Will did not say a word; neither did he look at Tom, but he flung his hat and cloak despondingly upon the table. “Sit down, Will,” said Tom, “take that chair; I’ll sit here on the edge of the cot.” “Thank’ee,” said Will, “I will sit down, if you don’t mind. I’m kind of tired and fagged out.” “How did you leave mother and Susan?” said Tom, after a moment or two of silence had passed.