When all had gone into Sunday-school, the boy turned, wiping his eyes. Sue stood beside him, a portrait of despair.
"Le's go home an' tell our father," said she.
They started slowly, but as their indignation grew their feet hurried. Neither spoke in the long journey to their door. They ran through the hall and rushed in upon their father who sat reading.
"Oh, father!" said the girl, in excited tones; "Lizzie Cornell says you're a thief an' a drunkard."
Gordon rose and turned pale.
The hands and voices of the children were ever raised against him.
"It's a lie!" said he, turning away.
He stood a moment looking out of the window. He must take them to some lonely part of the wilderness and there make an end of his trouble and of theirs. He turned to the children, saying, "Right after dinner we'll start for the woods."
So it befell that in the afternoon of a Sunday late in June, Socky and Sue, with all their effects in a pack-basket, and their father beside them, started in a spring-wagon over the broad, stony terraces that lift southward into thickening woods, on their way to great peril.
And so, too, it befell that in leaving home and the tearful face of dear Aunt Marie, they were sustained by a thought of that good and mighty man whom they hoped soon to see—their Uncle Silas.