on the way, and there I'll
have you married to Huldy."

The sword-hilt and coins were disinterred, and in that ancient edifice
of hard pine, where the worship of her English race had long been
celebrated, the naval officer's daughter became the wife of the son of
his voluptuous and perverted friend. As Jimmy Phoebus kissed them he
said:

"Levin, when your mother says 'Yes,' all four of us will settle in the
West. Illinois has become a free state, after a hard fight, and I reckon
that'll suit us."

* * * * *

For a while Patty Cannon, by her affability and sorrow, had easy times
in jail, and was allowed to eat with the jailer's family; but, as the
examination proceeded before the grand jury, and her menials hastened to
throw their responsibility in so many crimes upon her alone, an outer
opinion demanded that she be treated more harshly, and some of the irons
she had manacled upon her captives were riveted upon her own ankles.
Very soon dropsy began to appear in her legs and feet, and, after it
became evident to her that neither money nor friends were forthcoming in
her defence, she fell into a passive despair.

The frequent conferences between Jimmy Phoebus and Cy James led to the
belief that not only had Hulda recovered portions of her father's money
and valuables, hidden in the beehives and flower-pots old Patty had so
assiduously attended, but that Phoebus had seized upon property
indicated by the informer, and was to have whatever remained of it after
procuring the latter's release.

This result was hastened by Patty Cannon's death, which happened, to the
great relief of many respectably considered people in that region, who
had feared from the first that she would make a minute confession,
implicating everybody who had dealt with her band.

Among these was Judge Custis, who opened his skeleton-in-the-closet to
John M. Clayton one spring-like day. Clayton had quietly prodded on the
conviction of Patty Cannon, but the jealousy of the slaveholding
interest made him wary of any open appearance against her.

They were sitting in the little parlor of the Methodist parsonage, a
small frame house with a conical-roofed portico and big end-chimney, a
little off from the public square, whither they had gone to send the
pastor to wait on the aged Chancellor, who had been taken ill in the
court-room, and lay in the hotel.

"Clayton," said Judge Custis, in a low tone of voice, "what thi