The officer shrugged his shoulders. "We don't pretend to say he was alone," he answered; "nor do I attempt to account for any freak on the part of criminals. I have learned that you never can tell what to expect; perhaps all this was a movement of his to make himself appear innocent—who knows? They say he is very long-headed, and has for months made some of the First Church people think he was a saint, when he was a sinner." And the officer chuckled over his own poor wit.
"You wouldn't speak so of him, if you knew him as we do," broke in Mrs. Woodhull, warmly.
"I hope you may be right," replied the officer, "but I must do my duty, nevertheless." His countenance, however, said only too plainly, "I have worked up this case, and I know that boy is guilty."
Ray now appeared, carefully dressed for his journey. "I presume there is no objection to my taking this book with me," he said, as he showed the officer his Bible.
"No," was the curt answer; but the manner of the officer indicated that his thought was: "You can't pull any wool over my eyes by your pious tricks."
Bidding each member of the family an affectionate good-bye, and kissing the sleeping children, Ray followed the officers to their wagon.
"We shall earnestly pray for you, and early Monday you may look for me," Mr. Woodhull said, as he parted with him at the door.
An hour or two later Ray was locked in a cell at the village station house, and when the town clock struck twelve, and ushered in the Lord's Day, he lay on his hard pallet, sleeping as peacefully as in his own bed. Every anxiety had vanished, every burden had lifted, for he had committed his way unto the Lord, and the divine voice had answered back: "Fear not; for I am with thee."
There was peace in his soul—the peace of God "which passeth all understanding."