"I wouldn't," broke in the mother; "my heart would break if I was sure of it."
"It's a black thing," continued he, taking no notice of her remark, although the nervous twitching about his mouth, and the tremulous movement of his hands, proved that he had heard and shared in her feelings. "If I could look him in the eyes," he continued, the sternness creeping over his face again, "I should be answered."
"Don't think harshly of him!" returned his wife. "Don't do that! If we were to hear he was dead, remember how we should blame ourselves for any wrong feeling."
"I would rather see him lying dead yonder, where he used to sit, than know that he had tempted that poor girl into sin."
"Yes, I know. But don't talk in that way, father; don't look like that! I feel as if it wasn't you, with that frown on your face."
She put out her hand and took his. He clasped his hard fingers about hers with the faithful love of a lifetime; but the determination and gloom did not leave his features.
"I want to go down to the house," pursued the old lady, "but I've put it off—I hadn't the courage, somehow."
"Nor I," replied Mr. Thrasher; "but isn't it a dreadful thing when we are dreading to ask questions, for fear we should stand face to face with our son's crime?"
"No, no, I don't believe it! I won't believe it, father! Such cruel words are unbecoming his parents!"
"I don't mean to be cruel to you or him, wife. Was I ever so?"