“They’ll hang that boy, Alice,” said the colonel, shaking his head sadly. “Nothing short of a miracle can save him now.”
“No, they’ll never do that,” said she, in quiet faith.
The colonel looked at her with an impatient frown.
“What’s to save him, child?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she admitted, thoughtfully. Then she proceeded, with an earnestness that was almost passionate: “It isn’t for himself that he’s keeping silent–I’m not afraid for him on account of what they wanted to make him tell! Can’t you see that, Father, don’t you understand?”
“No,” said the colonel, striking the pavement sharply with his stick, “I’ll be switched if I do! But I know this bad business has taken hold of you, Alice, and changed you around until you’re nothing like the girl I used to have.
“It’s too melancholy and sordid for you to be mixed up in. I don’t like it. We’ve done what we can for the boy, and if 302 he wants to be stubborn and run his neck into the noose on account of some fool thing or another that he thinks nobody’s got a right to know, I don’t see where you’re called on to shove him along on his road. And that’s what this thing that you’ve done today amounts to, as far as I can see.”
“I’m sorry that you’re displeased with me, Father,” said she, but with precious little indication of humility in her voice, “but I’d do the same thing over again tomorrow. Joe didn’t want to tell it. What he needed just then was a friend.”
That night after supper, when Colonel Price sat in the library gazing into the coals, Alice came in softly and put her arm about his shoulders, nestling her head against his, her cheek warm against his temple.
“You think I’m a bold, brazen creature, Father, I’m afraid,” she said.