TWO DAYS' SOLITARY IMPRISONMENT By Edward Bellamy 1898 Mr. Joseph Kilgore was suffering from one of those spring influenzaswhich make a man feel as if he were his own grandfather. His nose hadacquired the shape of a turnip and the complexion of a beet. All hisbones ached as if he had been soundly thrashed, and his eyes were weakand watery. Your deadly disease is oftener than not a gentleman whotakes your life without mauling you, but the minor diseases aremere bruisers who just go in for making one as uncomfortable andunpresentable as possible. Mr. Kilgore's influenza had been coming onfor several days, and when he woke up this particular morning and heardthe rain dripping on the piazza-roof just under his bedroom-window, heconcluded, like a sensible man, that he would stay at home and nursehimself over the fire that day, instead of going to the office. So heturned over and snoozed for an hour or two, luxuriating in a sense ofaches and pains just pronounced enough to make the warmth and softnessof the bed delightful. Toward noon, the edge of this enjoyment becoming dulled, he got up, dressed, and came downstairs to the parlor, where his brother's wife (hewas a bachelor, living with a married brother) had considerately kindledup a coal-fire in the grate for his benefit. After lying off in the rocking-chair till past dinner-time, he began tofeel better and consequently restless. Concluding that he would like toread, he went rummaging about the bookcases for a likely-looking novel. At length he found in the upper shelf of a closet a book called "Rôlesof a Detective, " containing various thrilling accounts of crimes and theentanglement of criminals in the meshes of law and evidence. One story in particular made a strong impression on his mind. It was atale of circumstantial evidence, and about how it very nearly hung aninnocent man for a murder which he had no thought of committing. It struck Joseph rather forcibly that this victim of circumstantialevidence was as respectable and inoffensive a person as himself, andprobably had never any more thought of being in danger from the law. Circumstances had set their trap for him while he was quite unconsciousof peril, and he only awoke to find himself in the toils. And from thishe went on to reflect upon the horrible but unquestionable fact thatevery year a certain proportion, and perhaps a very considerableproportion, of those who suffered the penalties of the law, and eventhe death-penalty, are innocent men, --victims of false or mistakenevidence. No man, however wise or virtuous, can be sure that he will notbe taken in this fearful conscription of victims to the blind deity ofjustice. "None can tell, " thought Joseph, with a shudder, "that the wordhe is saying, the road he is turning, the appointment he is making, orwhatever other innocent act he is now engaged in, may not prove thelast mesh in some self-woven death-net, the closing link in some damningchain of evidence whose devilish subtlety shall half convince him thathe must be guilty as it wholly convinces others. " Timidity is generally associated with imaginativeness, if not itsresult, and Joseph, although he concealed the fact pretty well underthe mask of reticence, was constitutionally very timid. He had anunprofitable habit of taking every incident of possible embarrassmentor danger that occurred to his mind as the suggestion for imaginarysituations of inconvenience or peril, which he would then work out, fancying how he would feel and what he would do, with the utmostelaboration, and often with really more nervous excitement than he wouldbe likely to experience if the events supposed should really occur. So now, and all the more because he was a little out of sorts, thesuggestions of this story began to take the form in his mind of animaginary case of circumstantial evidence of which he was the victim. His fancy worked up the details of a fictitious case against himself, which he, although perfectly innocent, could meet with nothing more thanhis bare denial. He imagined the first beginnings of suspicion; he saw it filming theeyes of his acquaintances, then of his friends, and at last sicklyingover the face even of his brother Silas. In fancy he made franticattempts to regain the confidence of his friends, to break through theimpalpable, impenetrable barrier which the first stir of suspicion hadput between their minds and his. He cried, he begged, he pleaded. But invain, all in vain. Suspicion had made his appeals and adjurations soundeven to his friends as strange and meaningless as the Babel-builders'words of a sudden became to each other. The yellow badge of suspiciononce upon him, all men kept afar, as if he were a fever-ship inquarantine. No solitary imprisonment in a cell of stone could so utterlyexclude him from the fellowship of men as the invisible walls of thisdungeon of suspicion. And at last he saw himself giving up the hopelessstruggle, yielding to his fate in dumb despair, only praying that theend might come speedily, perhaps even reduced to the abject-ness ofconfessing the crime he had not committed, in order that he might atleast have the pity of men, since he could not regain their confidence. And so strongly had this vision taken hold on him that his breath cameirregularly, and his forehead was damp as he drew his hand across it. As has been intimated, it was Mr. Joseph Kil-gore's very bad habit towaste his nervous tissue in the conscientiously minute elaboration ofsuch painful imaginary situations as that above described, and in hispresent experience there was nothing particularly novel or extraordinaryfor him. It was the occurrence of a singular coincidence between thisinternal experience and a wholly independent course of actual events, which made that waking nightmare the beginning of a somewhat remarkablecomedy, or, more properly, a tragedy, of errors. For, as Joseph lay backin his chair, in a state of nervous exhaustion and moral collapse, theparlor-door was thrown open, and Mrs. Silas Kilgore, his sister-in-law, burst into the room. She was quite pale, and her black eyes were fixedon Joseph's with the eager intensity, as if seeking moral support, noticeable in those who communicate startling news which they have nothad time to digest. The effect of this apparition upon Joseph in his unstrung condition maybe readily imagined. He sprang up, much paler than Mrs. Kilgore, hislips apart, and his eyes staring with the premonition of somethingshocking. These symptoms of extraordinary excitement even before shehad spoken, and this air as if he had expected a shocking revelation, recurred to her mind later, in connection with other circumstances, butjust now she was too full of her intelligence to dwell on anything else. "A man was murdered in our barn last night. They 've found the body!"she exclaimed. As the meaning of her words broke on him, Joseph was filled withthat sort of mental confusion which one experiences when the scene orcircumstances of a dream recur in actual life. Was he still dreamingthat ghostly vision of suspicion and the death-trap of circumstances?Was this a mere continuation of it? No, he was awake; his sister-in-lawstanding there, with pallid face and staring eyes, was not anapparition. The horrid, fatal reality which he had been imagining wasactually upon him. "I did not do it!" dropped from his ashen lips. "You do it? Are you crazy? Who said anything about your doing it?" criedthe astounded woman. The ring of genuine amazement in her voice was scarcely needed to recallJoseph to the practical bearing of his surroundings, and break the spellof superstitious dread. The sound of his own words had done it. With apowerful effort he regained something like self-control, and said, witha forced laugh:-- "What an absurd thing for me to say! I don't know what I could have beenthinking of. Very odd, was it not? But, dear me! a man murdered in ourbarn? You don't tell me! How terrible!" His constrained, overdone manner was not calculated to abate Mrs. Kilgore's astonishment, and she continued to stare at him with anexpression in which a vague terror began to appear. There are fewshorter transitions than that from panic to anger. Seeing that herastonishment at his reception of the news increased rather thandiminished, he became exasperated at the intolerable position in whichhe was placed. His face, before so pale, flushed with anger. "Damnation! What are you staring at me that way for?" he cried fiercely. Mrs. Kilgore gave a little cry, half of indignation, half of fright, andwent out of the room, shutting the door after her. Joseph had ample opportunity to review the situation before he was againdisturbed, which, indeed, was not till some hours later, at dusk, whenSilas came home, and the tea-table was set. Silas had been promptlysummoned from his shop when the discovery of the body was made, and hadbeen busy all the afternoon with the police, the coroner, and the crowdsof visitors to the scene of the tragedy. The conversation at the tea-table ran entirely upon the variousincidents of the discovery, the inquest, and the measures of the policefor the apprehension of the criminal. Mrs. Kilgore was so full ofquestions that she scarcely gave Silas time to answer, and Josephflattered himself that his comparative silence was not noticeable. Nevertheless, as they rose from the table, Silas remarked:-- "You don't seem much interested in our murder, Joseph; you have n'tasked the first question about it. " Mrs. Kilgore was just leaving the room, and she turned her head tosee how he would answer. But he, too, turned off the matter by sayingsomething about Maria's loquaciousness having left him no chance. Aftertea the little family circle was gathered in the parlor. Mrs. Kilgorewas sewing; Silas read the newspaper, and Joseph sat up by the fire. From time to time, as he glanced around, he caught Mrs. Kilgore's eyesstudying him very intently. Her manner indicated that her indignationat his behavior and language earlier in the afternoon had been quiteneutralized by her curiosity as to its cause. "There 's nothing in the paper to-night but the murder, and I know thatalready, " exclaimed Silas, finally. "Maria, where's there something toread? Hullo! what's this?" He had taken up from the table the story of circumstantial evidencewhich Joseph had been reading that morning. "Why, Maria, here's that murder-book you wouldn't let me finish lastsummer for fear I'd murder you some night. Who on earth hunted up thatbook of all books, to-day of all days?" "I did, " replied Joseph, clearing his throat, in order to speak with anatural inflection. "You did?" exclaimed Silas. "You must have looked the house over to find it, for I hid itcarefully, " said Mrs. Kilgore, looking sharply at him. "What made you soanxious to get it?" "I was not particularly anxious. I was merely looking for something toread, " said Joseph, making a pretense of yawning, as if the matter was avery trivial one. "I suppose the murder brought it to his mind, " said Silas. "Why, no!" exclaimed Mrs. Kilgore quickly. "You must have been readingit before the murder. Now that I remember, I saw it in your hands. " "Before the murder, were you, Joseph? Why, that's almost enough to makeone feel superstitious, " said Silas, turning around in his chair, so asto look fairly at him. Joseph had half a mind to make a clean breast of the matter then andthere, and explain to them how curiously the reading of that book hadaffected him. But he reflected that Silas was rather unimaginative, andwould probably be more mystified than enlightened by his explanation. "I do believe it was reading that book which made you act so queerlywhen I brought you in the news of the murder, " pursued Mrs. Kilgore. "How is that? How did he act queerly?" asked Silas. "I am not aware that I acted queerly at all, " said Joseph doggedly. He knew well enough he had acted queerly, and did not mean to denythat; but, as children and confused persons often do, he answered to theunderlying motive rather than the language. He only thought of denyingthe inference of suspicion that her words seemed to him to suggest. Butto Mrs. Kilgore he very naturally seemed to be prevaricating. "Why, Joseph!" said she, in a raised voice, and with a slight asperity;"you know how you jumped up, looking like a ghost, the moment I openedthe door, and the first thing you said after I 'd told you that they'd found a murdered man in the barn, was--Why, Joseph, what's thematter?" But I must go back a little. When the conversation turned on the bookand Joseph's connection with it, a minute or so previous, Silas hadquite naturally glanced over at his brother, and, as the talk went on, his glance had become a somewhat concentrated gaze, although expressiveof nothing but the curiosity and slight wonder which the circumstancessuggested. It would not do to have Silas think that he avoided his eyes, and so Joseph had, as soon as he felt this gaze, turned his own facerather sharply toward it. He had meant merely to meet his brother's lookin a natural and unaffected manner. But, although never more sensible ofjust what such a manner would be, he was utterly unable to compass it. He was perfectly aware that the expression of his eyes was much tooserious and challenging, --and yet he could not, for the soul of him, modify it. Nor did he dare to withdraw his gaze after it had once methis brother's, although knowing that it was fast becoming a fiercestare, and perceiving that Silas had already noticed something peculiarin it. For to drop his eyes would be utter discomfiture and rout. AsMrs. Kilgore alluded to his queer demeanor when she told him the news, his face began to flush with the anticipation of the revelation that wascoming at this most unfavorable moment, even while his eyes were lockedwith the already startled ones of Silas. As she went on, the flushcovered the lower part of his face, and rose like a spring-tide up hischeeks, and lent a fierce, congested glare to his eyes. He felt howwoeful and irretrievable a thing it would be for him just then to losehis countenance, and at the thought the flush burned deeper and mergedhigher. It overspread his high, bald, intellectual forehead, andincarnadined his sconce up to the very top of it. At this moment it wasthat Mrs. Kilgore broke off her narrative with the exclamation, "Why, Joseph, what's the matter?" At her words it seemed as if every drop of blood in his body poured intohis face. He could endure it no longer. He rose abruptly, strode out ofthe parlor, and went to his room, although it was but eight o'clock, and he had no fire there. If he had staid another moment he must havebrained Silas and his wife with the poker, such an ungovernable angerboiled up in him with the sense of his causeless, shameful discomfiture. As Joseph left the parlor the eyes of Silas and his wife met each other, --his dull with bewilderment and terror at a spectral fear; hers keenwith a definite suspicion. But even her loquacity was subdued by a realfright. She had nothing to say. Her sensation was like that of one who, hunting a hare, stumbles upon a wolf. She had been both offended andmade curious by Joseph's demeanor that afternoon, but the horrid ideathat within a moment had been suggested to both their minds had solittle occurred to her as a serious possibility that she was even on thepoint of rallying Joseph on it before her husband. Some time after hehad left the parlor Silas asked, with averted face:-- "What was it that he said when you told him the news?" and then sherepeated his words. And Joseph, sitting wild-eyed upon his bed in the darkness in the roomabove, red no longer, but pale as death, heard the murmur of the voices, and knew that she was telling him. No one of the household slept muchthat night, except Mrs. Kil-gore. Whenever she awoke she heard herhusband tossing restlessly, but she dared not ask him what wasthe matter. In vain did Silas rehearse to himself all through thenight-hours how petty were the trifles in Joseph's demeanor whichhad disturbed him. They were of the sort of trifles which create thatspecies of certainty known as moral certainty, --the strongest of allin the mind it occupies, although so incapable of being communicated toothers. It mattered little how much evidence there was, if it sufficedto lodge the faintest trace of suspicion in his mind. For, like somepoisons, an atom of suspicion is as fatal as the largest quantity, Nay, perhaps, even more surely so, for against great suspicion the mind oftentakes arms and makes valiant head; but a little doubt, by its timid andhesitant demeanor, disarms opposition, and is readily entertained. Andall that night, lying awake, and knowing that Silas was sleepless justthe other side of the partition, and that the fungus of suspicion wasmoment by moment overgrowing his mind, he could hardly wait for morning, but would fain have rushed, even now in the darkness, to his bedside tocry: "I did not do it! Believe me, brother, I did not do it!" In the morning, however, the sun shone brightly into his room, and lastnight's events and misunderstandings seemed like a bad dream. He wentdownstairs almost cheery. He did not find Silas, but Mrs. Kilgorewas about. He was rather startled to observe the entire change in herdemeanor. Yesterday she was constantly following him up with her sharpblack eyes and brisk questions and exclamations, but now she seemedfrightened, acted in a constrained manner, and avoided his eyes. "Where is Silas?" he asked, as they sat down to table. "He said that there was something he must see to at the shop before workbegan, so he had an early breakfast, " replied Mrs. Kilgore, with hereyes on her plate. Had she been looking up, she would have seen a piteous constriction inthe muscles of Joseph's face. His heart was sick, and all his regainedcourage sank away. It was no bad dream. Silas was afraid to meet him. He left his meal untasted, and went to the office. A dozen acquaintancesstopped him on his way down-street to ask about the murder; and all daylong somebody was dropping in to pester him on the same subject. He toldthem with a dull, abstracted air all the fresh details he knew, butfelt all the time as if he cheated each auditor of the vital part of thematter, in that he failed to shout after him:-- "Silas suspects me of it!" Silas had, indeed, left the house early for the purpose of avoiding hisbrother. He was in a condition of mind and nerve in which he did notdare to meet him. At tea the brothers met for the first time since thenight previous. There was a constraint between them like that betweenstrangers, but stronger and more chilling far than ever that is. Thereis no chill like that which comes between friends, and the nearer thefriends the more deathly the cold. Silas made a little effort to speakof business-matters, but could not keep it up, and soon a silencesettled over the party, only broken by the words of table-service. Mrs. Kilgore sat pale and frightened all through the meal without venturing asingle phrase, and scarcely looking up from her plate. The silence was of that kind which all felt to be more expressive thanthe loudest, most explicit language could be, --more merciless than anyform of verbal accusation. Such silence is a terribly perfect medium, in which souls are compelled to touch each other, resent as they maythe contact. Several times Joseph was on the point of rising and rushingfrom the table. How many more such meals could he stand or could theystand? All of them recognized that the situation had become perceptiblymore serious and more pronounced on account of that silent tea-table. There was in particular not the slightest allusion made by any one tothe murder, which, seeing that it had happened but yesterday, andwould naturally still have been an engrossing topic, was an omissionso pointed as to be an open charge of guilt. There is such a thing asemphasizing a topic by suppressing it, as letters are sunk into stone. The omission impressed Silas as it did Joseph, but, regarding it fromhis point of view, it did not occur to him but that Joseph was the onesolely responsible for it. He, Silas, had refrained from reference to itbecause his suspicions in regard to Joseph made the topic unendurable. But he could not imagine that Joseph could have had any other motivefor his silence on the subject but a guilty conscience, --some secretknowledge of the crime. Thus regarded, it was a terrible confirmation. That a perception that he was suspected might cause an innocent man toact very much as if he were conscious of guilt did not occur to Silas, as, perhaps, it would have failed to occur to most persons in just hisposition. After leaving the tea-table the brothers went together into the parlor, according to the family custom. They took their accustomed seats onopposite sides of the fireplace, but there was no conversation. A veilwas between them. Both were thinking of the same thing, --thinking ofit intensely, --and each knew that the other was thinking of it, andyet neither for worlds could have commanded the courage to speak of it. The suspicion had grown definite in Silas's mind, and yet, whenever hebrought himself to the point of putting it in words, it suddenly seemedimpossible, cruel, and absurd. But if Silas found it impossible tospeak, far more so it seemed to Joseph. To charge another with suspecting us is half to confess ourselves worthyof suspicion. It is demoralizing, --it is to abandon the pride ofconscious rectitude. To deny an accusation is to concede to it apossibility, a color of reason; and Joseph shrank with unutterablerepugnance from that. He felt that he could be torn limb from limbsooner than betray by a word that he recognized the existence ofsuspicion so abominable. Besides, of what avail would be a denialwithout evidence to disprove a suspicion which had arisen withoutevidence? It was a thing too impalpable to contend with. As well fight afog as seek to destroy by mere denial suspicion so vague, unsubstantial, and subtile, as that which enveloped him. Silas would, of course, eagerly accept his denial; he well knew how he would spring to his side, how warm and firm would be his hand-clasp, and how great, perhaps, his momentary relief. But he was, after all, but human, and no man cancontrol his doubts. Silas would still be unable, when he thought thematter over, to help the feeling that there was, after all, somethingvery strange about his conduct from first to last. It is the subtilernature of doubt to penetrate the heart more profoundly than confidence, and to underlie it. No generous St. George of faith can reach the netherden where it lurks. Or, rather, is it like the ineradicable witch-grasswhich, though it be hewed off at the surface, still lives at the root, and springs forth luxuriantly again at the first favoring season? Moreover, Joseph hoped that some circumstance, the detection of themurderer, or a healthier moral tone, might dissipate the cloud ofsuspicion between them, and then it would be far better not to havespoken, for, once put in words, the hateful thing would ever remaina mutual memory, never again to be denied, and which might come up totheir minds whenever they looked each other in the eye thereafter. Andso the brothers sat opposite each other in silence, their faces growinggrayer as the clock ticked. "The weather is growing cooler again, " said Joseph, at last, rising togo to his room. It was at least two hours before his usual bedtime, but he could sitthere no longer. "Yes, I think we shall have a frost, " replied Silas, and the brothersparted. After Joseph had gone, Mrs. Kilgore came into the parlor and sat downwith some sewing. She waited for her husband to speak and tell her ifJoseph had said anything. But he sat there staring at the wall, and tookno notice of her. Although she knew so well what had been preying uponhis mind since last evening, yet he had not once referred to the matter, and she had not dared to do so. It was hard for a talkative little ladylike her to understand this reticence about a matter so deeply felt. Shecould not comprehend that there may be griefs so ghastly that we darenot lift from them the veil of silence. She wanted to "talk it over" alittle. She felt that would do Silas good, because she knew it would bea relief to her. Nor was she insensible to the gratification it wouldafford her vanity to discuss so serious a matter with her husband, whose general tone with her was one of jest and pleasantry, to thedisparagement of her intellectual powers, as she thought. So, afterglancing up several times timidly at Silas's still set profile, shesaid, in a weighty little voice:-- "Don't you think Joseph behaves very strangely about the murder?" Herwords seemed to be several seconds in making an impression on Silas'smind, and then he slowly turned his face full upon her. It was aterrible look. The squared jaw, the drawn lips, the dull, distant stare, repulsed her as one might repulse a stranger intermeddling with a bitterprivate grief. Who was she, to come between him and his brother? He didnot seem to think it worth while to say anything to explain so eloquenta glance, but immediately faced about again, as if dismissing theinterruption from his mind. Mrs. Kilgore did not try to make any moreconversation, but went to her bedroom and cried herself to sleep. But Silas sat in his chair in the parlor, and took no note of the hourstill the lamp spluttered and went out. All through the evening, inJoseph's room, which was directly above, he had heard him walking to andfro, to and fro, sitting down awhile, and then starting again; and ifthe pacing had not finally come to an end, Silas could not have gone tobed, for his heart went out to his brother wrestling there alone withhis dreadful secret, and he could not rest till he thought that he, too, was at rest. Indeed, for the very reason that Joseph was so dear to him, and he feltnothing could change that, he actually hesitated the less to admit thesehorrible suspicions. Love is impatient of uncertainly, and would ratherpresume the guilt of a friend from its longing to pour itself out inpity and tenderness, than restrain itself while judgment scrutinizesevidence and decides by a straw's weight. A practical reflection, moreover, had occurred to Silas. If Joseph had really--he did not dare to say to himself what--thenit was of the utmost importance that they should quickly understand eachother, so as to take steps to place him in safety. His desire to shareJoseph's horrible secret was like the feeling with which one would fainuncover a friend's loathsome disease in order to help him. Before hewent to sleep that night he resolved, therefore, that he would win hisconfidence by letting him see in every possible way, short of actualwords, that he suspected the true state of things, and that Joseph mightstill confide in him as a faithful brother who would stand by him in theworst emergency. On first meeting him the following morning he began to carry out thisproject so worthy of fraternal devotion. He sought occasion to shakehands with Joseph, and gave a meaning pressure to his clasp. Atbreakfast he was the only one who talked, and endeavored by his mannerto let Joseph understand that he perfectly comprehended the situation, and was talking to cover his embarrassment and prevent Mrs. Kilgorefrom suspecting anything. Several times also he managed to catch hisbrother's eye, and give him a glance implying sympathy and mutualunderstanding. This demeanor added the last touch to Joseph'sexasperation. Evading Silas's evident intention of walking down-street, he got awayalone, and took both dinner and tea at a restaurant, to put off meetinghis brother and sister-in-law as long as possible. He lingered long overhis tea in the darkest, loneliest corner of the eating-house, for theprospect, no longer to be avoided, of returning home to confront hissister-in-law's frightened face and Silas's pathetic glances appearedintolerable. Wild ideas of flying from the city and returning never, ornot until the truth about the murder had come to light, occurred to him. He even began to arrange what sort of a letter he should write to Silas. But men of forty, especially of Joseph's temperament, who have moved inthe same business and domestic ruts all their lives, do not readilymake up their minds to bold steps of this sort. To endure suffering orinconvenience is more natural than to change their settled habits. Soit all ended in his going home at about eight o'clock, and being greatlyrelieved to find some callers there. All three of this strangely stricken family, indeed, shared thatfeeling. It was such a rest from the nervous strain whenever eitheror both were left alone with Joseph! The earnestness with which Mrs. Kilgore pressed her guests to stay a little longer was so unusual andapparently uncalled for that I fancy Mr. And Mrs. Smith had a vaguesuspicion that they were being made game of. But they would have beendisabused of that impression could they have appreciated the sinkingof heart with which their hosts heard the frontdoor close, and realizedthat they were again left to themselves. Only one thing had occurred tomar the relief which the call had afforded. The topic of the murder hadbeen exhausted before Joseph entered, but, just as she was leaving, Mrs. Smith made a return to it, saying:-- "Mrs. Kilgore, I was telling my husband I should think you must bescared to be in the house, for fear the murderer might still be hangingaround. " Mrs. Kilgore shuddered, and cast an instantaneous, wholly involuntaryglance at Joseph. Her husband intercepted it, and, catching his eye, shesaw an expression in it as if he could strangle her for what was reallyonly the fault of her nerves. She stammered something, and the bustle ofthe retiring guests covered her confusion well enough. Unfortunately, Joseph, too, had caught that sudden, terrified glance ofhis sister-in-law's at him, and it affected him more than anything thathad occurred in either of the two days since the murder. As the gueststook their leave, his head dropped on his breast, and his arms fell bythe sides of his chair. Mr. Kilgore wanted to send his wife from theroom, but his voice stuck in his throat, his tongue refused to move. They waited a moment, and then Joseph said:-- "Send for the police! For God's sake, take me out of this! I can't standit any longer!" It was not yet nine o'clock, and a boy came by in the street crying:-- "Extra! The Kilgore barn murderer captured! Full confession!" Although the words were perfectly audible through the lowered windowsto all in the room, Mrs. Kilgore was the only one who took any mentalcognizance of them. Nor did either of the men, who sat there likestones, take note of her as she left the room. A minute later they heardher scream, and she ran back with the open paper in her hands. "He did not do it! He is crazy! They have found the murderer!" Silas fixed an incredulous, questioning stare upon his wife, and thenturned quickly toward his brother. As for Joseph, at first and forseveral moments, he gave no sign that he had heard at all. Then heslowly raised his eyes to his brother's face with a deliberate, cruelgaze of contemptuous sarcasm and cold aversion. The first effect of thisgreat relief was to flood his mind with bitter wrath at those who haddone him the great wrong from which, no thanks to them, he had beenrescued. Mrs. Kilgore hastily read aloud, in a breathless voice, the newspaperaccount It seemed that two tramps had taken refuge in the barn fromthe storm that had raged the night of the murder, and getting into somequarrel before morning, one had stabbed the other and fled, only to becaptured two days later and confess everything. When Mrs. Kilgore ceasedreading, Joseph said:-- "It must be a great disappointment for you that they are not going tohang me for it. I sincerely condole with you. " Mrs. Kilgore cried, "Oh, don't!" and Silas made a gesture ofdeprecation, but both felt that Joseph had a right to revile them as hechose, and they had no right to complain. But he, even while he couldnot deny himself the gratification of a little cruel reproach, knew thatthey were not to be blamed, that they had been as much the victims ofa fatality as himself, and that this was one of those peculiarlyexasperating wrongs which do not leave the sufferer even thesatisfaction of being angry. Soon he got up and walked across the room, stretched himself, drew his hand over his forehead, and said:-- "I feel as if I had just been dug up after being buried alive. " At this sign of returning equanimity, Silas took courage and ventured tosay:-- "I know we 've been a pair of crazy fools, Joe, but you 're a littleto blame. What's made you act so queerly? You won't deny that you haveacted so?" Joseph smiled, --one does n't appreciate the pure luxury of a smileuntil he has been deprived of it for a while, --lit a cigar, sat downwith his legs over the arm of his arm-chair, --he had not indulged in anunconstrained posture for two days, --and told his side of the story. He explained how, thanks to that tale he was reading, and the ghastlyreverie it suggested, his nerves were all on edge when Mrs. Kilgoreburst in with a piece of news whose extraordinary coincidence with histrain of thought had momentarily thrown him off his balance; and hetried to make them see that, after that first scene, all the rest was alogical sequence. Mrs. Kilgore, by virtue of her finer feminine nervous organization, understood him so readily that he saw he had made a mistake in notunbosoming himself to her at first. But Silas evidently did not soeasily take his idea. "But why did n't you just tell us that you had n't done it, and end themisunderstanding at one blow?" he asked. "Why, don't you see, " replied Joseph, "that to deny a thing before youare distinctly suspected of it is to suggest suspicion; while to deny itafterward, unless you have proof to offer, is useless?" "What should we have come to but for the capture of the real murderer?"cried Mrs. Kilgore, with a shudder.