When I came to myself I was lying by a tiny brook at the roadside, my
head resting on John's knees. He was bathing my forehead: I could not
see him, but I heard his smothered moan.

"David, don't mind. I shall be well directly."

"Oh! Phineas--Phineas; I thought I had killed you."

He said no more; but I fancied that under cover of the night he yielded
to what his manhood might have been ashamed of--yet need not--a few
tears.

I tried to rise. There was a faint streak in the east. "Why, it is
daybreak! How far are we from Norton Bury?"

"Not very far. Don't stir a step. I shall carry you."

"Impossible!"

"Nonsense; I have done it for half-a-mile already. Come, mount! I am
not going to have Jonathan's death laid at David's door."

And so, masking command with a jest, he had his way. What strength
supported him I cannot tell, but he certainly carried me--with many
rests between, and pauses, during which I walked a quarter of a mile or
so--the whole way to Norton Bury.

The light broadened and broadened. When we reached my father's door,
haggard and miserable, it was in the pale sunshine of a summer morning.

"Thank God!" murmured John, as he set me down at the foot of the steps.
"You are safe at home."

"And you. You will come in--you would not leave me now?"

He thought a moment--then said, "No!"

We looked up doubtfully at the house; there were no watchers there. All
the windows were closed, as if the whole peaceful establishment were
taking its sleep, prior to the early stirring of Norton Bury
households. Even John's loud knocking was some time before it was
answered.

I was too exhausted to feel much; but I know those five awful minutes
seemed interminable. I could not have borne them, save for John's
voice in my ear.

"Courage! I'll bear all the blame. We have committed no absolute sin,
and have paid dearly for any folly. Courage!"

At the five minutes' end my father opened the door. He was dressed as
usual, looked as usual. Whether he had sat up watching, or had
suffered any anxiety, I never found out.

He said nothing; merely opened the door, admitted us, and closed it
behind us. But we were certain, from his face, that he knew all. It
was so; some neighbour driving home from Coltham had taken pains to
tell Abel Fletcher where he had seen his son--at the very last place a
Friend's son ought to be seen--the play-house. We knew that it was by
no means to learn the trut