p shall be put to his crimes and that he shall suffer the
punishment he has so long deserved."

Marguerite was accustomed to having the remnants of her father's
down-town speeches served up at home, and her cooler judgment had
learned not to put much dependence upon them. She gave a perfunctory
assent and made another effort to reach facts.

"Yes, Father, it is certainly very dreadful that such things should
be allowed to go unpunished. But did any one see him stealing the
Fillmore Company's cattle, and do they really know that he killed Mr.
Whittaker?"

"The proof is as clear as any unprejudiced person need want. Will
Whittaker and some of his men caught Mead in the very act of driving
into his own herd a steer plainly marked with their brand. They
stopped him, and he foolishly tried to crawl out of his predicament
by accusing them of driving the branded steer into his herd. A most
absurd story! They had a quarrel, and Mead threatened to kill
Whittaker. Immediately after that Will disappeared and has not been
seen since. Evidently, he has been killed, and there is no one except
Mead, who had threatened to kill him, who could possibly have had any
motive for murdering him. The evidence may be circumstantial, but it
is conclusive. Besides, if Mead had not known that the case against
him was complete, he would not have given himself up last night as he
did. And if he had not done so he would certainly have been lynched.
The people were thoroughly aroused, and it was impossible to control
their indignation."

A little shiver ran through Marguerite's frame and she turned away,
looking much disturbed. Her father patted her head indulgently.
"There, there, my dear child, these things do not concern you in the
least. Don't trouble yourself about public affairs."

He hurried down-town and she sat alone, a little frown on her
forehead and her mouth drooping, as she thought: "I can not believe he
is a thief and a murderer, without more evidence than this. And
still--how can it be that so many men are so sure of his guilt
that--and he is in jail now--Oh, a thief and a murderer!"

She hurried from the room calling, "Paul! Paul!" The boy ran in from
the veranda and she caught him in her arms and pressed him to her
bosom, kissing him over and over again and calling him her darling,
her treasure, and all the dear names with which womankind voices its
love, and at last, sobbing, buried her face in his flaxen curls. The
child pu