If Jack should die, all though her fault, she could never forgive herself. Presently he reached out and laid his hand upon Spurlock's motionless shoulders. There was no way to warn her of his presence without startling her. Coolly and gingerly, she kissed it as it stood at its hard angle from his body. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him. Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. “Excellent!” he exclaimed. “Very likely. She did not hear his approach, but continued her occupation without raising her head.
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