with her
smile in his eyes? Rather he shall--"

"We will find out the truth, and, if possible, you shall be saved from
yourself, Elder Craigmile, and your son will not be proven a murderer.
Let me still be your friend." Bertrand's voice thrilled with
suppressed emotion and the sympathy he could not utter, as he held out
his hand, which the Elder took in both his own shaking ones. His
voice trembled with suppressed emotion as he spoke.

"Pray God Hester may stay where she is until this thing is over. And
pray God you may not be blinded by love of your daughter, who was not
true to my son. She was promised to become his wife, but through all
these years she protects by her silence the murderer of her lover.
Ponder on this thought, Bertrand Ballard, and pray God you may have
the strength to be just."

Bertrand walked homeward with bowed head. It was Saturday. The day's
baking was in progress, and Mary Ballard was just removing a pan of
temptingly browned tea cakes from the oven when he entered. She did
not see his face as he asked, "Mary, where can I find Betty?"

"Upstairs in the studio, drawing. Where would you expect to find her?"
she said gayly. Something in her husband's voice touched her. She
hastily lifted the cakes from the pan and ran after him.

"What is it, dear?"

He was halfway up the stairs and he turned and came back to her. "I've
heard something that troubles me, and must see her alone, Mary. I'll
talk with you about it later. Don't let us be disturbed until we come
down."

"I think Janey is with her now."

"I'll send her down to you."

"Bertrand, it is something terrible! You are trying to spare me--don't
do it."

"Ask no questions."

"Tell Janey I want her to help in the kitchen."

Mary went back to her work in silence. If Bertrand wished to be alone
with Betty, he had a good reason; and presently Janey skipped in and
was set to paring the potatoes for dinner.

Bertrand found Betty bending closely over a drawing for which she had
no model, but which was intended to illustrate a fairy story. She was
using pen and ink, and trying to imitate the fine strokes of a steel
engraving. He stood at her side, looking down at her work a moment,
and his artist's sense for the instant crowded back other thoughts.

"You ought to have a model, daughter, and you should work in chalk or
charcoal for your designing."

"I know, father, but you see I am trying to make some illustrations
that will look lik