rustics would stand rather than trust their corn-fed
weight upon them. Underfoot was a store-bought carpet, as full of roses
as the Elysian Fields, and over by the door lay a round, braided rag
mat, into which Isom's old wife had stitched the hunger of her heart and
the brine of her lonely tears.

The coroner looked up from his little red-leather note-book.

"Joe Newbolt, step over here and be sworn," said he.

Joe crossed over to the witness-chair, picking his way through feet and
legs. As he turned, facing the coroner, his hand upraised, Ollie looked
at him steadily, her fingers fluttering and twining.

Twelve hours had made a woeful change in her. She was as gaunt as a
suckling she-hound, an old terror lay lurking in her young eyes. For one
hour of dread is worse than a year of weeping. One may grieve, honestly
and deeply, without wearing away the cheeks or burning out the heart,
for there is a soft sorrow which lies upon the soul like a deadening
mist upon the autumn fields. But there is no worry without waste. One
day of it will burn more of the fuel of human life than a decade of
placid sorrow.

How much would he tell? Would it be all--the story of the caress in the
kitchen door, the orchard's secret, the attempt to run away from
Isom--or would he shield her in some manner? If he should tell all,
there sat an audience ready to snatch the tale and carry it away, and
spread it abroad. Then disgrace would follow, pitiless and driving, and
Morgan was not there to bear her away from it, or to mitigate its
sting.

Bill Frost edged over and stood behind the witness chair. His act gave
the audience a thrill. "He's under arrest!" they whispered, sending it
from ear to ear. Most of them had known it before, but there was
something so full and satisfying in the words. Not once before in years
had there been occasion to use them; it might be years again before
another opportunity presented. They had an official sound, a sound of
adventure and desperation. And so they whispered them, neighbor nodding
to neighbor in deep understanding as it went round the room, like a
pass-word in secret conclave: "He's under arrest!"

There was nobody present to advise Joe of his rights. He had been
accused of the crime and taken into custody, yet they were calling on
him now to give evidence which might be used against him. If he had any
doubt about the legality of the proceeding, he was too certain of the
outcome of the inquiry to he