public misjudgment and humiliation, all that pain and
twisting of the conscience on Morgan's account? What would it avail in
the end? Perhaps Ollie would prove unworthy his sacrifice for her, as
she already had proved ungrateful. Even then the echo of her testimony
against him was in his ears.

Why should he hold out faithfully for her, in the hope that Morgan would
come--vain hope, fruitless dream! Morgan would not come. He was safe,
far away from there, having his laugh over the muddle that he had made
of their lives.

"I will ask you again--what were the words that passed between you and
Isom Chase that night?"

Joe heard the question dimly. His mind was on Morgan and the white road
of the moonlit night when he drove away. No, Morgan would not come.

"Will you answer my question?" demanded the prosecutor.

Joe turned to him with a start. "Sir?" said he.

The prosecutor repeated it, and stood leaning forward for the answer,
his hands on the table. Joe bent his head as if thinking it over.

And there lay the white road in the moonlight, and the click of buggy
wheels over gravel was in his ears, as he knew it must have sounded when
Morgan drove away, easy in his loose conscience, after his loose way.
Why should he sacrifice the promise of his young life by meekly allowing
them to fasten the shadow of this dread tragedy upon him, for which
Morgan alone was to blame?

It was unfair--it was cruelly unjust! The thought of it was stifling the
breath in his nostrils, it was pressing the blood out of his heart! They
were waiting for the answer, and why should he not speak? What profit
was there in silence when it would be so unjustly interpreted?

As Ollie had been thoughtless of Isom, so she might be thoughtless of
him, and see in him only a foolish, weak instrument to use to her own
advantage. Why should he seal his lips for Ollie, go to the gallows for
her, perhaps, and leave the blight of that shameful end upon his name
forever?

He looked up. His mind had made that swift summing up while the
prosecutor's words were echoing in the room. They were waiting for his
answer. Should he speak?

Mrs. Newbolt had risen. There were tears on her old, worn cheeks, a
yearning in her eyes that smote him with an accusing pang. He had
brought that sorrow upon her, he had left her to suffer under it when a
word would have cleared it away; when a word--a word for which they
waited now--would make her dun day instantly bright. O