The old lady, speechless with grief, fell upon her neck and wept there silently for a moment; then low and gaspingly, in a voice broken with sobs, "I—have—come to—ask about—George," she said, "can it, oh can it be that he has done this dreadful thing?" and shuddering she hid her face on Elsie's shoulder her slight frame shaken with the sobs she vainly strove to suppress.
"Dear Mrs. Carrington, I am so sorry, so very sorry to think it," Elsie said, in a voice full of tears, "my heart aches for you who love him so; you who have been so sorely afflicted: may the Lord give you strength to bear up under this new trial."
"He will! he does! My sister's son! oh tis sad, 'tis heart-breaking! But the proofs: what are they?"
Elsie named them; first drawing her friend to a seat where she supported her with her arm.
"Yes, yes, his voice, his gait are both peculiar, and—his hand. Let me see that—that garment."
Leading her into a private room, and seating her comfortably there Elsie had it brought and laid before her.
Mrs. Carrington gave it one glance, and motioning it away with a look and gesture of horror, dropped her face into her hands and groaned aloud.
Elsie kneeling by her side, clasped her arms about her and wept with her.
"A slayer of the weak and helpless—a murderer—a midnight assassin!" groaned the half distracted aunt.
"May there not possibly be some mistake. Let us give him the benefit of the doubt," whispered Elsie.