“Fred!—dear Fred!”
“Well, no, I won’t curse him. It’s the boy’s training, not his nature. He ought not to cut the poor old man, though, in his disgrace. Claire, damn it all; I don’t believe father killed that old thing.”
He looked at his sister with a quick intelligent gaze, full of conviction; but as he met her full in the eyes, and saw the change that came over her countenance, the conviction seemed blunted, and he shuddered.
“She believes it!” he muttered. Then aloud: “Why, Claire!”
“Hush—don’t—don’t speak to me—don’t say anything,” she panted. “Fred, shall I be dragged before the judge and be forced to answer questions—horrible questions?”
He was silent.
“You believe I shall. You think I shall,” she panted. “Oh, Fred, Fred, I would sooner die.”
He drew a long breath, and looked at her in a horrified way, while she seemed to be growing wild with dread.
“I could not bear it,” she cried, “to go up before those people and condemn my own father. It would be too horrible. It would be against nature. I could not, I would not speak.”
“Hush, little sister,” said Fred tenderly. “You are growing wild. Perhaps you will not have to go. Perhaps they will find out the right man before the time—hush!—hush!”