The evening shadows were lengthening along the path as Jack climbed up to the little house back of the railroad yards, and softly opened the door and entered. Mary was in the kitchen, and, at the sound of his step, turned toward him, her face very pale, her eyes asking the question her lips did not dare to utter. Jack saw the question and understood.
“He’s dead,” he said, briefly.
“Oh, Jack, not that!” cried Mary, her face gray with horror. “Not that! I didn’t mean it! God knows I didn’t mean it!”
“Don’t worry. ’Twasn’t me killed him. T knowed I couldn’t do it. But I’d ’a’ took him back to th’ pen, myself, an’ waited t’ see him locked up.”
Mary drew a deep breath of relief, and the colour returned to her face again.
“Thank God!” she said. “I was prayin’ all night, Jack, that you wouldn’t find him; I was so worrited t’ think that I’d let you go like that! And yet he wasn’t no better than a snake!”
“Well, he’s gittin’ his deserts now,” and Jack told her the story of the finding of the body.
Mary listened to the end without offering to interrupt.
“’Twas God’s judgment, Jack,” she said, solemnly, when he had finished. “But,” she added, with a quick return of housewifely instinct, “you must be half-starved.”