“Oh, father, father,” Hannah cried, in an agony of entreaty; “do not ask me to help!  Do not ask me to swear, though I promise not to tell, if I can avoid it.  But if he is missed, if inquiry is made for him, if he is traced here, and I am questioned, am put upon my oath, I cannot tell a lie, and maybe they would not hang you when they knew the circumstances.  He was very unreasonable and aggravating, and called us both liars.  I can testify to that.  Oh, father, consider a moment!  Would it not be better to go at once, and confess the truth to some one who has influence.  Captain Grey is our friend.  Tell him, and ask his advice.  Go, father; now, and leave him where he lies.  I shall not be afraid to stay alone, knowing you are doing right.  Go, father.”

She was on her knees before him now, clasping his feet, and pleading piteously.  But she might as well have talked to a stone.

“Give himself up to the hangman?  Never!” he answered.  And she was no daughter of his to desire his death, as she evidently did.  She could stay there in the corner with her dog, as great a sneak as herself!  He did not wish her services; he could manage alone, he said, angrily, as he turned from her and entered his room, where she heard him moving out his bed, and knew that he was taking up a portion of the floor.

Then there came over her a great blackness, and a buzzing in her head like the sound of many bees in the summer time, and she fell upon her face, unconscious of everything.  How long she lay thus she did not know, but when she came to herself again there was no light in the room except that made by the dying fire upon the hearth and Rover was licking her cold face and hands, and now and then uttering a low whine as if in token of sympathy.  The body was still upon the floor near her, but from her father’s room there came a sound, the import of which she understood perfectly.  Shivering as with a chill, she moaned: 

“Oh! how can I bear it?  My life will be one long, living death, and I shall always want to shriek out the dreadful thing which father says I must keep!  Can I?  Ought I?  And could they hang my father?  I do not think so.  They would call it manslaughter, and pardon him, for my sake—­for Burton’s.”

And here the poor girl groaned bitterly, as she thought of Burton, her young brother, whom she loved so much, and of whom she was so proud, and for whom she was so glad that he could live in Boston, amid all the fine sights of a city, which suited him better than the homely life at the farm-house.  When, after her mother’s funeral, her aunt, Mrs. Wetherby, had offered to take him home with her and bring him up as her own, Hannah had felt for a time as if she could not let him go and leave her there alone; but when she thought of all the benefit it would be to him, and saw how much he wished it, she stifled every selfish feeling, for his sake, and saw him leave her without a sign of the pain at her heart, or the unutterable longing she had for his companionship.  And now, as she thought of him, her bitterest pang came from the fact that if this deed were known, he would suffer all his life from the shame of it, and, to herself, she said: