dded to the narrative.

"Well, Buck, I am willing to grant that you are a hero," said Clarence,
good-naturedly; "and you have done things for which I should have been
slow to give you the credit, if the facts were not fully attested by all
these witnesses. So you have made a voyage from Torrentville to New
Orleans on a raft?"

"I have, and brought Flora with me."

"You have proved yourself to be a smart boy, and I only wish you had
left a better reputation behind you at Torrentville."

I thought this remark was a little harsh. I do not wish to say anything
against my brother, but I was very much disappointed in the view which
he took of the robbery question. I know that he valued reputation as the
apple of his eye, and keenly felt that it was cowardice for an innocent
person to run away from the appearance of evil. I know that he was very
indignant at the treatment which the Fishleys had bestowed upon Flora
and me; but he seemed to believe that I had exaggerated it, and that I
had fled from Torrentville solely to escape the consequences of robbing
the mail.

He was not satisfied with my conduct, and declared that my character
must be cleared from all suspicion. The name he bore must not be tainted
even by the appearance of a crime. He had been an honest man; his father
had been an honest man; and he would rather have his brother sunk in the
deepest depths of the Mississippi than that the stigma of a crime
should be fastened upon him. I was awed and abashed by the dignity of
his bearing and his speech.

"Buck, dare you go back to Torrentville?" he asked.

"I should only be thrown into jail if I went."

"No matter for that. Dare you trust to your own integrity for the final
result?"

"I can't bring the gentleman into court to say that he gave me the
money, which is the only thing against me."

"Have you told the person how you are situated, and of the charge
against you?"

"No, I haven't seen him. He lives a hundred miles from Torrentville."

"I suppose so. Such witnesses are always a great way off when they are
wanted," added my brother, with an ill-concealed sneer.

"I see that you think I am guilty, Clarence," I replied, wounded beyond
measure at his severe conclusions.

"I confess that the affair looks to me like a trumped-up story."

"No, no, Clarence," interposed poor Flora, her eyes filled with tears,
as she came to my chair and put her arm lovingly around my neck. "Dear
Buckland, I know you are