rine's approaching
marriage.

Left to himself, Gabriel wandered hither and thither over the open
heath, neither knowing nor caring in what direction he turned his steps.
The doubts about his father's innocence which had been dissipated by his
visit to the Merchant's Table, that father's own language and manner had
now revived--had even confirmed, though he dared not yet acknowledge so
much to himself. It was terrible enough to be obliged to admit that the
result of his morning's search was, after all, not conclusive--that
the mystery was, in very truth, not yet cleared up. The violence of his
father's last words of distrust; the extraordinary and indescribable
changes in his father's manner while uttering them--what did these
things mean? Guilt or innocence? Again, was it any longer reasonable to
doubt the death-bed confession made by his grandfather? Was it not, on
the contrary, far more probable that the old man's denial in the morning
of his own words at night had been made under the influence of a
panic terror, when his moral consciousness was bewildered, and his
intellectual faculties were sinking? The longer Gabriel thought of these
questions, the less competent--possibly also the less willing--he felt
to answer them. Should he seek advice from others wiser than he? No;
not while the thousandth part of a chance remained that his father was
innocent.

This thought was still in his mind, when he found himself once more in
sight of his home. He was still hesitating near the door, when he saw it
opened cautiously. His brother Pierre looked out, and then came running
toward him. "Come in, Gabriel; oh, do come in!" said the boy, earnestly.
"We are afraid to be alone with father. He's been beating us for talking
of you."

Gabriel went in. His father looked up from the hearth where he was
sitting, muttered the word "Spy!" and made a gesture of contempt but did
not address a word directly to his son. The hours passed on in silence;
afternoon waned into evening, and evening into night; and still he never
spoke to any of his children. Soon after it was dark, he went out, and
took his net with him, saying that it was better to be alone on the sea
than in the house with a spy.

When he returned the next morning there was no change in him. Days
passed--weeks, months, even elapsed, and still, though his manner
insensibly became what it used to be toward his other children, it never
altered toward his eldest son At the rare