ars streaming down her cheeks, and
sighs heaved from the very bottom of her breast--as she listens to the
kind voices vainly essaying to console her--she herself says not a word.
Her sorrow is too deep, too absorbing, to find expression in speech.
But in her thoughts are two men--before, her distracted fancy two
faces--one of a murdered man, the other his murderer--the first her own
son, the second that of Ephraim Darke.

Notwithstanding ignorance of all these circumstances, the thoughts of
her sympathising neighbours--those in council outside--dwell upon Dick
Darke; while his name is continuously upon their tongues. His
unaccountable conduct during the day--as also the strange behaviour of
the hound--is now called up, and commented upon.

Why should the dog have made such demonstration? Why bark at him above
all the others--selecting him out of the crowd--so resolutely and
angrily assailing him?

His own explanation, given at the time, appeared lame and
unsatisfactory.

It looks lamer now, as they sit smoking their pipes, more coolly and
closely considering it.

While they are thus occupied, the wicket-gate, in front of the cottage,
is heard turning upon its hinges, and two men are seen entering the
enclosure.

As these draw near to the porch, where a tallow dip dimly burns, its
light is reflected from the features of Simeon Woodley and Edward
Heywood.

The hunters are both well-known to all upon the ground; and welcomed, as
men likely to make a little less irksome that melancholy midnight watch.

If the new-comers cannot contribute cheerfulness, they may something
else, as predicted by the expression observed upon their faces, at
stepping into the porch. Their demeanour shows them possessed of some
knowledge pertinent to the subject under discussion, as also important.

Going close to the candle, and summoning the rest around, Woodley draws
from the ample pocket of his large, loose coat a bit of wood, bearing
resemblance to a pine-apple, or turnip roughly peeled.

Holding it to the light, he says: "Come hyar, fellurs! fix yar eyes on
this."

All do as desired.

"Kin any o' ye tell what it air?" the hunter asks.

"A bit of tree timber, I take it," answers one.

"Looks like a chunk carved out of a cypress knee," adds a second.

"It ought," assents Sime, "since that's jest what it air; an' this child
air he who curved it out. Ye kin see thar's a hole in the skin-front;
which any greenhorn may tell