throwing his hands in the air,
wailed, "Oh, God--it is too hard--I can't, father--I can't."

And with the miniature in his hand he walked from the room, and
Philemon Ward went to his closet and wrestled through the night. At
dawn his son sat reading and re-reading a letter. Finally he pressed
another letter to his lips, and read his own letter again. It read:--

"MY DARLING GIRL: This is the last letter I shall ever mail to you,
perhaps. I can imagine no miracle that will bring us together again.
My duty, as I see it, stands between us. The government inspector is
going to put me under oath to-morrow--unless I run, and I
won't--and question me about your father's business. What I must
tell will injure him--maybe ruin him. I am going to tell your father
what I am going to do before I do it. But by all the faith I have
been taught in a God--and you know I am not pious, and belong to no
church--I am forced to do this thing. Oh, Jeanette, Jeanette--if I
loved you less, I would take you for this life alone and sell my
soul for you; but I want you for an eternity--and in that eternity I
want to bring you an unsoiled soul. Good-by--oh, good-by.
NEAL."

The next morning when Neal Ward went out of the office at the mill,
John Barclay sat shivering with wrath and horror. Every second stamped
him with its indelible finger, as a day, or a month, puts its stain on
other men.

Another morning, a week later, as he sat at his desk, a telegram from
his office manager in the city fluttered in his hands. It read: "We
are privately advised that you were indicted by the federal grand jury
last night--though we do not know upon what specific charge--our
friend B. will advise us later in the day."

It was a gray December day, and a thin film of ice covered the
mill-pond. Barclay looked there and shuddered away from the thought
that came to him. He was alone in the mill. He longed for his wife and
daughter, and yet when he thought of their homecoming to disgrace, he
shook with agony. Over and over again he whispered the word
"indicted." The thought of his mother and her sorrow broke him down.
He locked the door, dropped heavily into his chair, and bowed his head
on his crossed arms. And then--

What, tears? Tears for Mr. Barclay?--for himself? Look back along the
record for his life: there are many tears charged to his account