he drifting snow, which he found was
more than a foot deep on the level, except in the woods, where it had
not fallen so thickly. But Grey was young and fearless, and he went on
rapidly, until he reached the knoll from which the house was visible not
far away. It had ceased snowing by this time, and the moon, which was
nearly at its full, was struggling to show itself through a rift in the
gray clouds. The wind, however, was still blowing in wild gusts, and as
it swept past him he, too, fancied it had in it a human sound.

"It is like Aunt Hannah's voice calling to me. I am glad I came, though
I suppose father will scold," he said, as he paused a moment to rest,
and then rapidly descended the knoll to the house.

Entering by the wood-shed door, which was first reached, he went into
the summer kitchen, and passed on into the second kitchen, where a
candle was burning dimly, and where he stopped a moment by the warm
stove. No one heard him, no one knew he was there; but as he stood in
the silence and darkness he heard distinctly his grandfather's voice,
and this was what he heard:

"I must tell you, my son, and you, my minister; but no one else, not
Grey--no, no, not, the boy Grey, who loves me so much. His life must not
be shadowed with disgrace. He must not hate me in my coffin. Oh, Grey!
Grey! May God bless him and give him every needful happiness, and make
him so good and noble that his life will blot out the stain upon our
name."

Here Grey, who stood motionless, heard his father say:

"For pity's sake tell me what you mean; the suspense is terrible."

And then came the awful response, which sounded through the silent room
like the knell to all the boy's future happiness and peace of mind.

"Thirty-one years ago to-night, in the heat of passion I killed a man
in the kitchen yonder, and buried him under this floor, under my bed,
and I have slept on his grave ever since!"

No wonder Grey's face grew white as the face of a corpse, while his
heart throbbed with unutterable pain as he whispered the word his father
had said aloud.

His grandfather, whom he had thought so good, and loved so much, a
murderer! He had killed a man in that very room, perhaps on the spot
where the boy was standing, and Grey recoiled from the place, and looked
down upon the floor, which gave no sign of the tragedy enacted there
thirty-one years ago, and kept hidden ever since.

Like a flash of lightning Grey saw all the past, and under