She became restless, perplexed, and feverish--her tears ceased to flow--she sighed deeply, and seemed to sink into that most withering of maladies, dry grief, which, in her case, was certainly the tearless anguish of the heart.
In this state she went to bed, conscious of her own purity, but by no means, in its full extent, of the ruined reputation to which she must awake on the succeeding day.
Mary's brothers, with the exception of the words in which they joined their father and mother in consoling her, scarcely uttered a syllable that night--the same silent spirit, be it of good or evil, remained upon them.

They looked at each other, however, from time to time, and seemed to need no other interpreter of what passed within them, but their own wild and deep-meaning glances.

This did not escape their father, who was so much struck, perhaps alarmed, by it, that he very properly deemed it his duty to remonstrate with them on the subject.
"Boys," said he, "I don't understand your conduct this night, and, above all, I don't understand your looks--or rather, I think I do, I'm afraid I do--but, listen to me, remember that revenge belongs to God.

You know what the Scripture says, 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, and I will repay it.' Leave that bad son of a worse father to God." "He has destroyed Mary's reputation," said John, the eldest; "I might, possibly, forgive him if he had killed her like a common murderer, but he has destroyed our pure-hearted sister's reputation, ha, ha, ha." The laugh that followed these last words came out so unexpectedly, abruptly, and wildly, that his father and mother both started.

He then took the poker in his hands, and, with a smile at his brothers, in which much might be read, he clenched his teeth, and wound it round his arms with apparent ease.