"Nothing more probable," said the vicar, "but I see no way at present of discovering the real offender."
"I'll go to the park myself," exclaimed Mrs. Curtis, beginning hurriedly to put up her work. "I'll search all about the spot from which the stones must have been thrown, and see if I can pick up nothing, if I can find no clue to the secret. And you, dear Henry," Mrs. Curtis laid her hand on the arm of her husband, "you have a Bible-class with the boys this evening, let your subject be truth. You have such a power to convince, to persuade, you may lead the culprit to confess."
"I fear that you hope too much, Eliza," said the vicar, shaking his head.
"I cannot hope too much," cried the lady, "when my hope is in the mercy and justice of God, who can make all dark things light, and who will clear the guiltless. I'll go at once for my bonnet and shawl."
"The sun is very hot, still—"
"Oh! Never mind the heat," said Mrs. Curtis, as she hurried out of the room, first to pray for success, and then to take what other means she could to ensure it.
In about an hour the gentle little lady returned, looking heated and tired, but with an eager expression on her face as she reentered the study, where her husband was busy at his desk.
"Have you found anything, Eliza?" he asked, glancing up from his writing.
"Very, very little, but something," she said, taking out of her bag a bit of whity-brown paper, roughly cut into shape.
"What may this be?" asked the vicar, taking it up in his fingers.