It had been an experiment, the lawyer having doubted whether Uncle
John's untrained fingers, dulled by age, could pick out the letters,
large as they were. He had nothing more to offer, therefore, and no way
of answering the appeal. But that night an order for the New Testament
in raised characters for the blind went out from Shelbyville.

Judge Little was making no progress in establishing the will. Nobody had
come forward in answer to his advertisements in the city papers,
claiming for himself the distinction of being Isom Chase's son. But the
judge gave Ollie to understand, in spite of his quiescence while he
searched for the heir, that the courts must settle the question. If
there were fees to be had out of that estate, Judge Little was the man
to get them.

Meantime, in his cell in the county jail, Joe Newbolt was bearing the
heaviest penance of his life. Alice had not come again. Two visiting
days had passed, and there would be no more before the date of the
trial, which was set for the following Monday. But since that dun
morning when she had given him the mignonette, and he had drawn her
unresisting body to the barrier of his prison door, she had visited him
no more.

Joe reproached himself for it. He accused himself of having offended
beyond forgiveness. In the humiliation which settled upon him, he wasted
like water in the sun. The mignonette which she had given him withered,
dried; its perfume vanished, its blossoms turned gray. She came no more.
What did it matter if they convicted him before the judge, said he, now
that Alice had condemned him in her heart. He lamented that he had
blundered into such deep offending. His untutored heart had seen only
the reflection of his own desire in her eyes that day. She did not care
for him. It was only pity that he had distorted into love.

He had inquired about her, timidly, of the sheriff, who had looked at
him with a slow wink, then formed his mouth into an egg-shaped aperture
and held it so an exasperating while, as if he meant to whistle. The
sheriff's clownish behavior nettled Joe, for he was at a loss to
understand what he meant.

"I thought maybe she'd sent over some books," said Joe, blushing like a
hollyhock.

"Books!" said the sheriff, with a grunt.

"Yes, sir," Joe answered, respectfully.

"Huh, she never sent no books," said the sheriff, turning away.

After a little he came back and stood before Joe's door, with his long
legs far apart, study