A moment’s silence, then a last appeal on the part of the mother.

“Reuther, have I ever been harsh to you?”

“No, no.”

“Then you will not think me unkind or even untender if I say that every loving thought you give now to Oliver is hurtful both to yourself and to me.  Don’t indulge in them, my darling.  Put your heart into work or into music, and your mother will bless you.  Won’t it help you to know this, Reuther?  Your mother, who has had her griefs, will bless you.”

“Mother, mother!”

That night, at a later hour, Deborah struggled with a great temptation.

The cap which hung in Oliver’s closet—­the knife which lay in the drawer of Oliver’s desk—­were to her mind positive proofs of his actual connection with the crime she now wished to see buried for all time in her husband’s grave.  The threat of that unknown indicter of mysterious letters, I know A witness, had sunk deep into her mind.  A witness of what?  Of anything which the discovery of these articles might substantiate?  If so, what peril remained in their continued preservation when an effort on her part might so easily destroy them.

Sleep, long a stranger to her pillow, forsook her entirely as she faced this question and realised the gain in peace which might be hers if cap and knife were gone.  Why then did she allow them to remain, the one in the closet, the other in the drawer?  Because she could not help herself.  Instinct was against her meddling with these possible proofs of crime.

But this triumph of conscience cost her dear.  The next morning found her pale—­almost as pale as Reuther.  Was that why the judge surveyed her so intently as she poured out the coffee, and seemed more than once on the point of addressing her particularly, as she went through the usual routine of tidying up his room?

She asked herself this question more than once, and found it answered every time she hurried by the mirror.  Certainly she showed a remarkable pallor.

Knowing its cause herself, she did not invite his inquiries; and another day passed.  With the following morning she felt strong enough to open the conversation which had now become necessary for her peace of mind.

She waited till the moment when, her work all done, she was about to leave his presence.  Pausing till she caught his eye, which seemed a little loth, she thought, to look her way, she observed, with perhaps unnecessary distinctness: 

“I hope that everything is to your mind, Judge Ostrander.  I should be sorry not to make you as comfortable as is possible under the circumstances.”

Roused a little suddenly, perhaps, from thoughts quite disconnected with those of material comfort, he nodded with the abstraction of one who recognises that some sort of acknowledgment is expected from him; then, seeing her still waiting, added politely: 

“I am very well looked after, if that is what you mean, Mrs. Scoville.  Bela could not do any better—­if he ever did as well.”