"You have thought of some way by which we can find him?" she said, with a gush of gratitude mellowing her voice.
"No, Katharine, that is impossible. Ships that have sailed can never be overtaken; but have you forgotten, child, that the guilty alone stand in need of flight—God protects the innocent."
"Oh, he has abandoned me," sighed the poor fugitive. "Some wicked thing has woven snares about me that look so like guilt that even he turns away."
"He never turns away. By-and-by, child, his doings will be made clear. Out of the depths of tribulation great mercies are sometimes wrought."
"You do not think it wise that I escaped from those men," she faltered.
He pressed one broad hand lovingly on her head. The touch sent a holy shock through her frame. Some of the broad courage that filled his Christian heart entered hers, and it flashed upon her how cowardly her flight had been—how much like a confession of guilt it appeared.
"I have nowhere to go," she said, mournfully. "If I get away every one will think it was from a sense of guilt that I left. I am his wife, your son's wife, and must not let myself be unjustly condemned. Is that what you mean, father?"
"Go to bed, child, and before you sleep ask these questions of our Father who is in heaven. He will turn your heart aright."
She bent her head and clung for a moment to the hand which he had extended; a great pain struggled at her heart; she knew what his words portended. Like the angel who met Hagar in her extremity, he was about to warn her back to her bonds.
They parted for the night, and Katharine went up to Thrasher's chamber, led through the darkness by the gentle guidance of his mother. The moonlight lay full in the room, and she could see all the objects it contained—his bed, the glass in which he had feared to look, and the carpet which his boyish knees had pressed.