I did not venture to the house of my friend again.  She had dropped a curtain between us, and I said, “It shall be a wall of separation.”

Not until spring opened was the body of Albert Martindale recovered.  It was found floating in the dock, at the end of the street down which young Gordon saw him go with unsteady steps in the darkness and storm on that night of sorrow.  His watch was in his pocket, the hands pointing to half-past two, the time, in all probability, when he fell into the water.  The diamond pin was in his scarf, and his pocket-book in his pocket, unrifled.  He had not been robbed and murdered.  So much was certain.  To all it was plain that the bewildered young man, left to himself, had plunged on blindly through the storm, going he knew not whither, until he reached the wharf.  The white sheet of snow lying over everything hid from eyes like his the treacherous margin, and he stepped, unheeding, to his death!  It was conjectured that his body had floated, by an incoming tide, under the wharf, and that his clothes had caught in the logs and held it there for so long a time.

Certainty is always better than doubt.  On the Sunday after the saddest funeral it has ever been my lot to attend, Mrs. Martindale appeared for the first time in church.  I did not see her face, for she kept her heavy black veil closely drawn.  On the following Sunday she was in the family pew again, but still kept her face hidden.  From friends who visited her (I did not call again after my first denial) I learned that she had become calm and resigned.

To one of these friends she said, “It is better that he should have died than live to be what I too sadly fear our good society would have made him—­a social burden and disgrace.  But custom and example were all against him.  It was at the house of one of my oldest and dearest friends that wine enticed him.  The sister of my heart put madness in his brain, and then sent him forth to meet a death he had no skill left to avoid.”

Oh, how these sentences cut and bruised and pained my heart, already too sore to bear my own thoughts without agony!

What more shall I write?  Is not this unadorned story sad enough, and full enough of counsel and warning?  Far sooner would I let it sleep, and go farther and farther away into the oblivion of past events; but the times demand a startling cry of warning.  And so, out of the dark depths of the saddest experience of my life, I have brought this grief, and shame, and agony to the light, and let it stand shivering in the face of all men.

The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Son of My Friend, by T.S.  Arthur *******This file should be named snfrn10.txt or snfrn10.zip********

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