past, I should not have to turn my eyes from my own child in shame, and that I have done ever since you were a boy, and came from Boston to see us. How old was he, Hannah? How old was Burton when the terrible thing happened?"
"'Twelve," Hannah answered, and her father went wandering on like one out of his mind, talking of Burton when he was a boy—of his dead wife—of Hannah, who had suffered so long, and of the storm, which he said was like the one which swept the New England hills thirty-one years ago that very night, when the snow fell so deep that no one came near the place till Monday.
"Three whole days," he said. "Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and I had time to hide the dark deed so securely that it has never been suspected."
Burton started quickly, and glanced at his sister with a look of amazed inquiry. He had thought of forgery, and theft, and embezzlement, but never of what his father's words might imply, and the cold sweat began to froze from the palms of his hands while a kind of nightmare crept over him, and kept him rooted to the spot as his father went on:
"But, oh! what agony of remorse I have endured! The tortures of the lost are not more intense than my sufferings have been! Think of my meeting people day after day with the mark of Cain upon my brow, burning there so hotly that it seemed as if you must all see it, and know my guilt. How could I join myself to God's people with this sin unconfessed? I could not, and yet, I feel in my heart that I am forgiven, washed in His blood as white as snow, so that there is rest for me in Paradise. Still, I must confess; I must tell you, my son, and you, my minister; but no one else—not Grey—no, no, not the boy Grey, who loves me so much. His life must not be shadowed with disgrace. He must not hate me in my coffin. Oh, Grey! Grey! May God bless the boy and give him every needful happiness, and make him so good and noble that his life will blot out the stain upon our name.
"Father!" Burton cried, in a choking voice; "for pity's sake, have done, and tell me what you mean! The suspense is terrible."
"I mean," and the old man spoke clearly and distinctly—"I mean that, thirty-one years ago to-night, in the heat of passion, I killed a man in the kitchen yonder, and buried him under this floor, under my bed, and I have slept over his grave ever since!"
"A murderer!" dropped from Burton Jerrold's pale lips; and "A murderer!" was echoed in the next room by lips far whiter than Burton Jerrold's, and which quivered with mortal pain as the boy Grey started from his stooping position over the stove and felt that he was dying.
For Grey was there, and had been for the last few minutes, and had heard the secret which he was not to know.
After his father left Grey's Park, he had sat a few minutes with his mother and aunt, and then, complaining of a headache, had asked to be excused, and gone to his room, which was at the head of some stairs leading down into a narrow hall and out into the side yard. When the boy entered his chamber, he had no intention of going to the farm-house, but as he thought of his grandfather dying, and that to-morrow might perhaps be too late to see him alive, the wish to go there grew stronger and stronger, until it became an impulse which he could not resist.
"Something tells me I must go," he said; "that it is needful for me to be there, and go I shall. I am not afraid of the snow. It cannot be more than a foot on the level. I have waded through more banks than that, and it is only a mile from here across the fields and through the woods. I shall not tell any one, but I am going."
And in a few moments Grey had descended the stairs, and unlocking the outer door, locked it again, and putting the key in his pocket, started for the farm-house, striking into a cross-road which led across the fields, and which in summer he used often to take in preference to the highway. It was a little nearer, and led through grassy lanes, and cool pinewoods, and pleasant pasture lands, across a stream where he had once built a dam, and had a little water-wheel which his grandfather made for him.
The way, however, was anything but pleasant now, with the cold, dark sky, the tall, leafless trees, and the drifting snow, which he found was more than a foot deep on the level, except in the woods, where it had not fallen so thickly. But Grey was young and fearless, and he went on rapidly, until he reached the knoll from which the house was visible not far away. It had ceased snowing by this time, and the moon, which was nearly at its full, was struggling to show itself through a rift in the gray clouds. The wind, however, was still blowing in wild gusts, and as it swept past him he, too, fancied it had in it a human sound.
"It is like Aunt Hannah's voice calling to me. I am glad I came, though I suppose father will scold," he said, as he paused a moment to rest, and then rapidly descended the knoll to the house.
Entering by the wood-shed door, which was first reached, he went into the summer kitchen, and passed on into the second kitchen, where a candle was burning dimly, and where he stopped a moment by the warm stove. No one heard him, no one knew he was there; but as he stood in the silence and darkness he heard distinctly his grandfather's voice, and this was what he heard:
"I must tell you, my son, and you, my minister; but no one else, not Grey—no, no, not, the boy Grey, who loves me so much. His life must not be shadowed with disgrace. He must not hate me in my coffin. Oh, Grey! Grey! May God bless him and give him every needful happiness, and make him so good and noble that his life will blot out the stain upon our name."
Here Grey, who stood motionless, heard his father say:
"For pity's sake tell me what you mean; the suspense is terrible."
And then came the awful response, which sounded through the silent room like the knell to all the boy's future happiness and peace of mind.
"Thirty-one years ago to-night, in the heat of passion I killed a man in the kitchen yonder, and buried him under this floor, under my bed, and I have slept on his grave ever since!"
No wonder Grey's face grew white as the face of a corpse, while his heart throbbed with unutterable pain as he whispered the word his father had said aloud.
His grandfather, whom he had thought so good, and loved so much, a murderer! He had killed a man in that very room, perhaps on the spot where the boy was standing, and Grey recoiled from the place, and looked down upon the floor, which gave no sign of the tragedy enacted there thirty-one years ago, and kept hidden ever since.
Like a flash of lightning Grey saw all the past, and understood now what had been singular in his grandfather's manner and in his Aunt Hannah's, too; for she had been privy to the deed, and had helped to keep it from the world, and to Grey this was the bitterest thought of all, the one which made him sick, and faint and dizzy, as he groped his way to the door, which he opened and closed cautiously, and then fell heavily upon his face in the snow, with all consciousness for the moment blotted out.
The chill, however, and the damp revived him almost immediately, and struggling to his feet he started on his route back to Grey's Park along the same road he had come, seeing nothing, bearing nothing but that one word, that name his father had given to his grandfather, and which he, too, had echoed. Over and over again the winds repeated it until the, woods seemed full of it, and he said to himself:
"Will it always be so? Shall I never hear anything but that again so long as I live, and I am so young, only fourteen, and I meant to be a great and honorable man, and a good one, too. And I can still be that. God knows I am not to blame. Would he hear me, I wonder, if I should ask him now to take some of this pain away which fills my heart to bursting!"
And there, on the pure white snow, in the shadow of the leafless woods, the heart-broken boy knelt down, and with clasped hands, and the great tears streaming over his upturned face, asked God to forgive him for his grandfather's sin, and take the pain away, and help him to be a good
