Charles Henry sprang after him. "Father," he cried, "do you not hear me? Can you--"

The old man did not really appear to hear him, for he walked toward the village justice with a quiet, unmoved face, as the latter advanced to meet him.

"Friend," said Buschman, in a loud, firm voice, "I am fatigued with my walk; will you lend me your arm?"

He leaned heavily upon the offered arm, and walked quickly onward. All heard these words, but only the justice saw the tears which rolled down his pale, sunken cheeks.

"You were very harsh, father," murmured the justice, as they walked on.

"Were you more forgiving?" said the old man, with a trembling voice. "Was not your son amongst the twelve, and did you speak to him, or look at him?"

"He did not pass the night in my house; I drove him away!" said the justice gloomily.

"Oh, oh!" sighed the old man; "how bitter is our grief! We love our children most when they give us most sorrow; but it must be so, friend, we cannot act otherwise. Let us enter the church, and pray God to give us strength to do what is right."