Half an hour afterward, and Frank Slade was a lonely prisoner in the county jail!

Does the reader need a word of comment on this fearful consummation?  No; and we will offer none.

NIGHT THE TENTH.

The closing scene at the “Sickle and sheaf.”

On the day that succeeded the evening of this fearful tragedy, placards were to be seen all over the village, announcing a mass meeting at the “Sickle and Sheaf” that night.

By early twilight, the people commenced assembling.  The bar, which had been closed all day, was now thrown open, and lighted; and in this room, where so much of evil had been originated, encouraged and consummated, a crowd of earnest-looking men were soon gathered.  Among them I saw the fine person of Mr. Hargrove.  Joe Morgan—­or rather, Mr. Morgan—­was also one of the number.  The latter I would scarcely have recognized, had not some one near me called him by name.  He was well dressed, stood erect, and though there were many deep lines on his thoughtful countenance, all traces of his former habits were gone.  While I was observing him, he arose, and addressing a few words to the assemblage, nominated Mr. Hargrove as chairman of the meeting.  To this a unanimous assent was given.

On taking the chair, Mr. Hargrove made a brief address, something to this effect.

“Ten years ago,” said he, his voice evincing a slight unsteadiness as he began, but growing firmer as he proceeded, “there was not a happier spot in Bolton county than Cedarville.  Now, the marks of ruin are everywhere.  Ten years ago, there was a kind-hearted, industrious miller in Cedarville, liked by every one, and as harmless as a little child.  Now, his bloated, disfigured body lies in that room.  His death was violent, and by the hand of his own son!”

Mr. Hargrove’s words fell slowly, distinctly, and marked by the most forcible emphasis.  There was scarcely one present who did not feel a low shudder run along his nerves, as the last words were spoken in a husky whisper.

“Ten years ago,” he proceeded, “the miller had a happy wife, and two innocent, glad-hearted children.  Now, his wife, bereft of reason, is in a mad-house, and his son the occupant of a felon’s cell, charged with the awful crime of parricide!”

Briefly he paused, while his audience stood gazing upon him with half-suspended respiration.

“Ten years ago,” he went on, “Judge Hammond was accounted the richest man in Cedarville.  Yesterday he was carried, a friendless pauper, to the Alms-house; and to-day he is the unmourned occupant of a pauper’s grave!  Ten years ago, his wife was the proud, hopeful, loving mother of a most promising son.  I need not describe what Willy Hammond was.  All here knew him well.  Ah! what shattered the fine intellect of that noble-minded woman?  Why did her heart break?  Where is she?  Where is Willy Hammond?”