"Stop!" said Mr. Dinsmore authoritatively, "you are speaking against the sainted dead, and he entirely innocent of the cause of your sufferings."
"What! is he dead? When? where? how did he die?"
"At Ion, scarce two months ago, calmly, peacefully, trusting with undoubting faith in the atoning blood of Christ."
Boyd stood leaning against the outer wall of the restaurant; he was evidently very weak; he seemed awe-struck, and did not speak again for a moment; then, "I did not know it," he said in a subdued tone. "So he's gone! And his wife? She was very fond of him."
"She was indeed. She is in this city with her family, on her way to Viamede."
"I'm sorry for her; never had any grudge against her," said Boyd. "And my aunt?"
"Is still living and in good health, but beginning to feel the infirmities of age. She has long mourned for you as worse than dead. You look ill able to stand; let me help you to your home."
"Home? I have none." There was a mixture of scorn and despair in the tones.
"But you must have some lodging place?"
"Yes, sometimes it is a door-step, sometimes a pile of rotten straw in a filthy cellar. On second thoughts, Dinsmore, I rather wish you'd have me arrested and lodged in jail," he added with a bitter laugh. "I'd at least have a bed to lay my weary limbs upon, and something to eat. And before the trial was over I'd be beyond the reach of any heavier penalty."