He expected her to take this as a humorous smoothing of their first unpleasant ruffle, but if she did she shrewdly deceived him, for she looked at him with the soberest of inquiry as she asked: 

“Do you really think you are a crank?”

“I sometimes think so,” he answered.

“Isn’t it simply that you take a pride in being different from other people.  Don’t you strive to be odd?”

“Are you talking seriously?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, then, I will say seriously that I do take a pride in being different from some people?”

“Am I included?”

“Oh, nonsense, girl.  What are you thinking about?”

“Oh, I know you don’t care for any of us,” she whimpered.  “You won’t even let mother show her love for you; you try to surround yourself with a lordly mystery.”

“If I have a mystery it is far from a lordly one.”

“But it’s not far from annoying, I can tell you that.”

“Don’t try to pick a quarrel, little girl.”

“Oh, I’m not half so anxious to quarrel as you are.”

“All right; if that’s the case, we’ll get along smoothly.  Get your doll out of the little trunk and let us play with her.”

She got up and stood with her hands resting on the back of the chair.  “If I didn’t have to like you, Henry, I wouldn’t like you a single bit.  But somehow I can’t help it.  It must be because I can’t understand you.”

“Then why do you blame me for not making myself plain, since your regard depends upon the uncertain light in which you see me?”

“You are so funny,” she said.

“Then you ought to laugh at me instead of scolding.”

“Indeed!  But if I didn’t scold sometimes you would rim over me; and besides, we shouldn’t have the happiness that comes from making up again.  Really, though, won’t you think about what I have said?”

“I will think about you, and that will include all that you have said and all that you may say.”

“I oughtn’t to kiss you good night, but after that I suppose I must.  There—­Mr.—­Ungratefulness.  Good night.”

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE VERDICT.

During the first few weeks of his imprisonment, the murderer of old man Colton had maintained a lightsome air, but as the time for his trial drew near he appeared to lose the command of that self-hypnotism which had seemed to extract gayety from wretchedness.  To one who has been condemned to death there comes a resignation that is deeper than a philosophy.  Despair has killed the nerve that fear exposed, and nothing is left for terror to feed on.  But Brooks had not this deadened resignation, for he had a hope that he might escape the gallows, and so long as there is a hope there is an anxiety.  He had refused to see his wife, for he felt that in her heart she had condemned him and executed the sentence; but he