Jud hung panting and slavering like a dog that had been run over by a heavy wagon and waited to be put out of its misery. RoBards spoke again at last: “Tell your mother you’re going to New Bedford and ship before the mast.” “Where’s New Bedford, mister? how’d a feller git there?” “I don’t know! What difference does it make how you get there—or where you go? The thing is to get away from this country. Haven’t you brains enough to run off and save your own life? Look here, do you know the way to Poughkeepsie?” “Yessir; yessir; I been there.” “Well, there are whaling vessels there. Go there and ask them to take you. Tell your mother you’re going to sea.” “She’ll cry awful hard. She always does when I talk about runnin’ away.” “Let her cry! She’ll cry harder if I kill you, won’t she? And I will if you let her keep you here! But don’t tell her why you’re going. Don’t tell her what happened here. Just get away—far—far! and never come back. Oh, you poor thickwitted toad! Oh, God, that such a beast should befoul such a flower! Oh, Immy, Immy! my baby! my little girl.” He fell against a tree and beat upon its harsh bark and wept, wagging his head and twisting his mouth like a boy’s, while the tears came pelting down. Keith dared not go to him. He felt that he ought not to spy on his father’s agony. As he slipped through the gap in the rocks, his last backward glance showed him Jud Lasher scrambling weakly to his feet and shambling off into the thicket. Keith went to his sister where she lay among the trampled leaves. She was crying so softly and wearily that he was afraid to speak to her. He stood wondering what to do, until, by and by, his father came lurching up and dropped down to her side. Her voice rose at once to a loud wail: “Papa! bad, bad man—hurt Immy!” “Hush! hush, sweetness! Don’t tell—don’t tell! Promise papa you’ll never tell anybody about this—not anybody on earth.” “Not Mamma?” “No—never—never!” “Not Abby?” “Nobody on earth!” “God?” “He knows, honey.” “Why did God let that man——” “Hush, my baby. Don’t!” The torn and bruised child was hardly more baffled than her father. He picked her up and went on, as dazed as any little girl whose doll has been torn by a playful dog. Keith tagged after them, wondering. His father took note of him at last and paused to turn on the boy and say with pleading anxiety: “You’re not going to tell?” “No, papa, ’course not. Big men don’t tell things.” His father did not take comfort from this braggart wisdom. He groaned: “That two little children should have such a secret to keep!” “Just what is the secret we’re to keep, papa?” “Nothing!” “How can we keep it, then, papa!” “Never speak to anybody about Jud Lasher—never say his name—never think of it.” “All right, papa. I p’omise.” He could not speak the word, but he accepted the pledge.