On the second day he went into Lulu’s room, hoping to say a word of comfort to her.  She listened apathetically, and turned her face to the wall with a great sob.  He began to feel some irritation in the atmosphere of misery which surrounded him.  It was very hard to be made so wretched for another’s sin.  The thought in an instant became a reproach.  Was he altogether innocent?  The second and third days passed; he began to be sure then that David must have reached a point beyond the probability of pursuit.

On the fourth day he went to the cotton field.  He visited the overseer’s house, he spent the day in going over accounts and making estimates.  He tried to forget that something had happened which made life appear a different thing.  In the grey, chill, misty evening he returned home.  The negroes were filing down the long lane before him, each bearing their last basket of cotton—­all of them silent, depressed with their weariness, and intensely sensitive to the melancholy influence of the autumn twilight.

Lorimer did not care to pass them.  He saw them, one by one, leave their cotton at the ginhouse, and trail despondingly off to their cabins.  Then he rode slowly up to his own door.  A man sat on the verandah smoking.  At the sight of him his heart fell fathoms deep.

“Good evening.”  He tried to give his voice a cheerful welcoming sound, but he could not do it; and the visitor’s attitude was not encouraging.

“Good evening, Lorimer.  I’m right sorry to tell you that you will be wanted on some unpleasant business very early to-morrow morning.”

He tried to answer, but utterly failed; his tongue was as dumb as his soul was heavy.  He only drew a chair forward and sat down.

“Fact is your son is in a tighter place than any man would care for.  I brought him up to Sheriff Gillelands’ this afternoon.  Perhaps he can make it out a case of ’justifiable homicide’—­hope he can.  He’s about as likely a young man as I ever saw.”

Still no answer.

“Well, Lorimer, I think you’re right.  Talking won’t help things, and may make them a sight worse.  You’ll be over to Judge Lepperts’ in the morning?—­say about ten o’clock.”

“Yes.  Will you have some supper?”

“No; this is not hungry work.  My pipe is more satisfactory under the circumstances.  I’ll have to saddle up, too.  There’s others to see yet.  Is there any one particular you’d like on the jury?”

“No.  You must do your duty, Sheriff.”

He heard him gallop away, and stood still, clasping and unclasping his hands in a maze of anguish.  David at Sheriff Gillelands’!  David to be tried for murder in the morning!  What could he do?  If David had not confessed to the shooting of Whaley, would he be compelled to give his evidence?  Surely, conscience would not require so hard a duty of him.