"The news we have been waiting for all these years. The squaw is found at last--the right one. She is sister of the one who was taken up at the time. The two changed clothes. That accounts for the confusion at the trial. Those who identified her recognized the clothes. Those who swore to her being in Caughnawaga that day spoke truth, too."
"Oh, George!" with a weary sigh; "Is it all to be gone through again? The misery and the pain? Yet now I feel so sure my precious one is at peace, in the arms of God, that I think I can bear it. It is well the discovery, whatever it may be, did not come earlier to embitter our grief."
"And yet, my dearest, already something which will shock you has come to light--the instigator of the wrong is named. His accomplice accuses him. That wretched fortune of your most misguided brother has been at the root of all our trouble. That men who find themselves so little wise in directing their own courses, should strive to perpetuate their folly, by imposing their will on others after they are dead!"
"You mean that it was Ralph? I have often suspected that; but it seemed so merciless and inhuman a thing to do, that I have blushed for shame at my suspicions, even when alone, and cast the thought behind me. Poor wretch! Look at him now!--shamed and dishonoured--run away to the States--afraid to show his face in Canada! Martha and the boy are to be pitied in belonging to him, for they are good; but they do not know him, and no one will be ruffian enough to enlighten them. Martha is back at St. Euphrase again. Susan had a letter from her to-day. The house there is settled on her, it seems, and she wants to give it up to the creditors, but Ralph says she must not, and that before long he will be on his feet again, and pay everybody."
"I fear Ralph meant worse than merely to set the child aside, and it is no thanks to his intentions if he has not innocent blood on his hands."
"Hush! George. It is right you should tell me the facts, but do not draw inferences. Judge not."
"My dear, I judge no one; but I have seen the squaw. She tells me she was ordered to make away--to bury. The very box, which was to have been used, was produced in court--produced as it had been dug out from under the kitchen floor, and you may fancy how my heart died within me at the sight; but when the box was opened, it was found to be empty, and the squaw has told me that when she came to look at our angel, she found it was impossible to obey the inhuman command. She buried the empty box and carried the child away. She speaks of a road with trees, and a valley with a broad river, and says that she laid the baby upon the stoop of a house before going down the hill. She says she recollects the house perfectly. A police sergeant, who seems to have charge of the case, says he believes it must be near St. Euphrase, and the sheriff has allowed me to take him and his prisoner there to-morrow. I have ordered a carriage, and we will endeavour to take her over the old ground."
"Something will come of it, George, I feel sure. Take me with you, dearest; it will be maddening to live through the interminable hours between now and your return. Let me come with you."
"There will not be room, dear. A squaw out of jail would not be pleasant company in a carriage. They are not over tidy, remember. For myself, I shall sit with the driver."
"Then I shall take the early train to St. Euphrase, and go to Judith's. Be sure you come to me as early as ever you can, I shall be faint with impatience."