The Court then announced: “I want everyone to understand that the least attempt at an expression of approval or disapproval of this verdict, as it is read, will be punished by a fine for contempt. Mr. Clerk, read the verdict.”
The clerk obeyed. His voice was clear and everyone heard: “We, the jury, agree and find the defendant, Ephriam Cooley, guilty of the murder of Dorothy Carr, and fix his punishment at death.”
Elliott Harding quietly left the scene, feeling already a lightening of the intolerable load which had so long weighed upon him.
CHAPTER XXII.
Mr. Carr, who had been slowly succumbing to his great grief, was ill the closing day of the trial. Dragging heavily through an existence that was not life, he was but a wraith of his former self. Waiting patiently, submitting with lifted head to the law’s justice. When he was told of the doom of Cooley, he seemed hardly to hear it, and he made no comment. It seemed now as if little else of life remained and yet occasional incoherent phrases showed the signs of some duty neglected and weighing heavily on the wandering mind.
One morning, Elliott, seeing the longing visibly reflected on the old man’s countenance, asked:
“What is it, father? Is there anything I can do?” And he laid his face to the withered palm of the outstretched hand. The sick man suddenly seemed to realize that his reason was abandoning him, and he made a supreme effort to collect his ideas and frame them into coherent speech.
“Help me!” he said piteously. Then turning his head toward the window where he could see the grave so lately made for Dorothy, his worn face quivered and the big, slow tears ran down his furrowed cheeks.
“Is it something of her you would say?” Elliott inquired.
But the aged lips made no answer. For a time Elliott sat beside him, silent. Suddenly the old face lighted. Lifting up his sorrowful eyes, he said: