Edwards, in spite of his cold exterior, was a man of strong feeling, and there was, in fact, a deep joy and a deep regret at his heart. He knew with thankfulness that he had a truthful and courageous son. He saw with passionate self-reproach that he had done the boy a great injustice. But why, why had Jim cleaned the gun?
Farnsworth, little guessing the turmoil in the heart of the grave man by his side, was wondering if, after all, Miss Ware could be right in thinking that Jim had sacrificed himself for this unfeeling parent.
"If she is right," he reflected, thinking how harsh had been the father's treatment of the boy, "what a little brick Jim is!"
He had a very human desire to present this view and prick this automaton into some show of life.
"Mr. Edwards," he said suddenly, "Jim knew, didn't he, that you were the only person besides himself at home?"
"I suppose so."
"Does it occur to you that he may have thought you did the shooting?"
"That can't be so," said Mr. Edwards; but there was a note of shocked concern, of dismay, in his tone which satisfied Farnsworth, and again he thought more kindly of his companion.
And Mr. Edwards was stirred by the unexpected question. After all, he thought, since Jim was not trying to shield himself, whom else could he wish to shield? And a sudden deep enthusiasm filled him for this son who was not only courageous and truthful, but who, in spite of his unjust treatment, was loyal, who—he thrilled at the word—loved him! But no, it was not possible! How could his son have thought that he could accuse his boy of what he had done himself?
And upon this doubt, he found himself with a quickened pulse at the door of the jail. Farnsworth rang the bell. Soon they stood in Mrs. Calkins's sitting-room, facing Jim and Nancy. And then Miss Ware caught Farnsworth by the arm and drew him quickly into the hall, and shut the door behind her.