The morning found him sullen, bitter, desperate. The policemen said afterward that his eyes looked actually fiendish when he was placed in the Black Maria to be conveyed to the court-house in Chambers street.
That fiendish look was still in his eyes when they started to transfer him from the vehicle to the court-house, and—how it exactly happened they never could tell—but the seemingly quiet prisoner whom they had not thought it necessary to handcuff, suddenly struck out with two athletic fists, landing one startled policeman on the snowy pavement, and the other one flat in the gutter. Then he fled like a professional sprinter, and nobody tried to stop him, perhaps because they pitied the poor devil, and wished him his liberty this glorious Christmas morning.
[CHAPTER XXIII.]
CISSY'S SECRET.
Ay, but, darling, speak his name;
Give to sorrow words and tears;
This strange silence, proud and cold,
Fills my heart with anxious fears.
Curse him, bairnie, or forgive him,
For I know Love's subtle art;
The grief that's never spoken
May sometimes break the heart.
Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
"I must tell you my guarded secret," sobbed Cissy, to Geraldine, and the latter put a loving arm around her, whispering, tenderly:
"Yes, tell me all, dear; for maybe it will ease your sore heart. You know the poet says:
"'Give sorrow words—the grief that does not speak
Whispers the o'erfraught heart and bids it break.'"