The quiet of a September evening was upon the fields, a light mist rose from the creek and crept over the garden bank across the lawn.

Already the prison doors were shut in that hot country at the junction of the Niles.

"He is to pay for his fault ten times over, then," she cried, in revolt against the disproportion.

"And the fault was his father's and mine too more than his own.

For neither of us understood." She blamed herself for the gift of that fourth feather.