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That night, too, Vona Harnden kept vigil, her door locked against her mother, whose fatuous commonplaces of commiseration were like files against the raw surface of the girl's agony. The front parlor of the Harndens had been converted into a sleeping room for Tasper Britt. Vona's room was over the parlor. She could hear the rasping diapason of his snoring.
Frank and Vona had definitely adopted the policy of waiting, and he resolved to take no chances on having that policy prejudiced by anybody carrying random stories to Britt, reports that the cashier had said this or the other. Vaniman took occasion to reassure Mr. Britt on that point, and the latter had displayed much gratitude. "If you don't hurt me, Frank, I won't hurt you!"
"Cry, sonny! Cry a little," the Squire adjured him. "Put your head on Xoa's knee and have it out. It will tide you over till your own mother can comfort you." But wild desire for knowledge burned the sudden tears out of Vaniman's eyes. "Where is Vona? What is happening?" "We'll see to it mighty quick that Vona knows, sonny. The right word must get to her in the right way. Mother will know how.
But every time I buy one of his checks I buy a lot of honest comfort for myself." "I think, young man, that the Harnden family better not interfere with the comfort of the Vaniman family," averred the father, loftily. "I'd hate to think I was a party to taking bread from the mouths of a mother and a sister. I'm sure Vona feels the same way." "Certainly!" supplemented Mrs. Harnden.
He backed away and did a grand salaam, flourishing the cane whose taps on the window had startled the lovers. "You must not take the time, Vona," protested the young man. "I'll bring the supper when I'm on my way to the hall. Not another word!
The sweat of anguish stood out on him as he pondered in the jolting van; he found no pleasure in the respite of the peaceful woods. By the plot of Wagg he had dealt his loved ones the cruel blow that sudden death inflicts on the affections. In spite of what he hoped to gain from his freedom, Vaniman was accusing himself, realizing what his mother, his sister, and Vona were suffering.
Britt was plainly determined to allow guesswork to deal in the blackest construction regarding the letter. Vaniman turned his back on the others. He talked directly to Vona. The agonized query in her eyes demanded a reply from him. "Mr. Britt has in his hand a letter from some banking friend of his. The letter says that my father was sentenced to the penitentiary, charged with embezzlement.
"We'd better arrange to have a private talk to-night before we go to sleep, and another talk when we wake up. I suggest that you come to the tavern and lodge with me." "It's a good plan, Mr. Starr," the cashier returned, bravely. But in the distressed glance which Frank and Vona exchanged they both confessed that they knew he was politely and unofficially under arrest.
There's something we don't see through!" "I don't dare to waste any more time wondering what the trouble is, Vona. I must get on to the job." "Both of us must." "It's time for you to be going home." "I'm going to stay here." "But, dear girl, there's the play! You have the leading part!" "The words will stick in my throat and tears will blind me when I think of you working here alone.
Barnes comes late, but he comes in style and with all his bells," Vona suggested. The equipage swung up beside the tavern porch and the big man threw off the robes and stamped in, leaving the driver to take the horses to the stable. Landlord Files had furnished an accompaniment for the clangor of the bells; he was pounding his dinner gong.
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