“Why, since when have you started to keep dogs, parson?” asked the last speaker.
The minister had an inspiration.
“That dog walked in here this evening,” he said. “I believe him to be the dog of the boy you speak of.” He spoke truth, but he had evaded answering the leading question.
“Great George!” cried the man at the fireplace. “Then some of the spies are in the neighborhood yet!” There were shouts of assent from his companions.
“When did the dog stray in?” was asked.
“More than an hour ago,” said Mr. Buckley.
“Come, let’s try another hunt!” called out a young planter. The men were out of the house the next minute, separating into groups of two and three to scour the countryside. The lights of their lanterns, which had shone out in the rain like will-o’-the-wisps, grew dimmer and dimmer, and finally disappeared.
As the front door closed the minister sat down near the table, and buried his face in his hands.
“I wonder if I did wrong,” he said, almost to himself. “But I could not take a life—and that is what it would have been if I had given them up.”
“Pa, you’re too soft-hearted for this world,” snapped Miss Cynthia.