“Well, I didn’t mean to strike her:  and I don’t believe there is a man in this bar-room who thinks that I did—­not one.”

“I’m sure I do not,” said the individual with whom he was in controversy.  “Nor I”—­“Nor I” went round the room.

“But, as I wished to set forth,” was continued, “the case will not be so plain a one when it finds its way into court, and twelve men, to each of whom you may be a stranger, come to sit in judgment upon the act.  The slightest twist in the evidence, the prepossessions of a witness, or the bad tact of the prosecution, may cause things to look so dark on your side as to leave you but little chance.  For my part, if the child should die, I think your chances for a term in the state’s prison are as eight to ten; and I should call that pretty close cutting.”

I looked attentively at the man who said this, all the while he was speaking, but could not clearly make out whether he were altogether in earnest, or merely trying to worry the mind of Slade.  That he was successful in accomplishing the latter, was very plain; for the landlord’s countenance steadily lost color, and became overcast with alarm.  With that evil delight which some men take in giving pain, others, seeing Slade’s anxious looks, joined in the persecution, and soon made the landlord’s case look black enough; and the landlord himself almost as frightened as a criminal just under arrest.

“It’s bad business, and no mistake,” said one.

“Yes, bad enough.  I wouldn’t be in his shoes for his coat,” remarked another.

“For his coat?  No, not for his whole wardrobe,” said a third.

“Nor for the ’Sickle and Sheaf thrown into the bargain,” added a fourth.

“It will be a clear case of manslaughter, and no mistake.  What is the penalty?”

“From two to ten years in the penitentiary,” was readily answered.

“They’ll give him five.  I reckon.”

“No—­not more than two.  It will be hard to prove malicious intention.”

“I don’t know that.  I’ve heard him curse the girl and threaten her many a time.  Haven’t you?”

“Yes”—­“Yes”—­“I have, often,” ran round the bar-room.

“You’d better hang me at once,” said Slade, affecting to laugh.

At this moment, the door behind Slade opened, and I saw his wife’s anxious face thrust in for a moment.  She said something to her husband, who uttered a low ejaculation of surprise, and went out quickly.

“What’s the matter now?” asked one of another.

“I shouldn’t wonder if little Mary Morgan was dead,” was suggested.

“I heard her say dead,” remarked one who was standing near the bar.

“What’s the matter, Frank?” inquired several voices, as the landlord’s son came in through the door out of which his father had passed.

“Mary Morgan is dead,” answered the boy.

“Poor child!  Poor child!” sighed one, in genuine regret at the not unlooked for intelligence.  “Her trouble is over.”