Judge Little was making no progress in establishing the will. Nobody had come forward in answer to his advertisements 230 in the city papers, claiming for himself the distinction of being Isom Chase’s son. But the judge gave Ollie to understand, in spite of his quiescence while he searched for the heir, that the courts must settle the question. If there were fees to be had out of that estate, Judge Little was the man to get them.
Meantime, in his cell in the county jail, Joe Newbolt was bearing the heaviest penance of his life. Alice had not come again. Two visiting days had passed, and there would be no more before the date of the trial, which was set for the following Monday. But since that dun morning when she had given him the mignonette, and he had drawn her unresisting body to the barrier of his prison door, she had visited him no more.
Joe reproached himself for it. He accused himself of having offended beyond forgiveness. In the humiliation which settled upon him, he wasted like water in the sun. The mignonette which she had given him withered, dried; its perfume vanished, its blossoms turned gray. She came no more. What did it matter if they convicted him before the judge, said he, now that Alice had condemned him in her heart. He lamented that he had blundered into such deep offending. His untutored heart had seen only the reflection of his own desire in her eyes that day. She did not care for him. It was only pity that he had distorted into love.
He had inquired about her, timidly, of the sheriff, who had looked at him with a slow wink, then formed his mouth into an egg-shaped aperture and held it so an exasperating while, as if he meant to whistle. The sheriff’s clownish behavior nettled Joe, for he was at a loss to understand what he meant.
“I thought maybe she’d sent over some books,” said Joe, blushing like a hollyhock.
“Books!” said the sheriff, with a grunt.
“Yes, sir,” Joe answered, respectfully. 231
“Huh, she never sent no books,” said the sheriff, turning away.
After a little he came back and stood before Joe’s door, with his long legs far apart, studying the prisoner calculatively, as a farmer stands when he estimates the weight of a hog.
“Cree-mo-nee!” said he.