And she indicated the old, coarse gloves so crudely darned and patched together.
But my uncle looked down at her, strangely, and with a cold, inexorable face.
"My child," he said "there is a curious virtue in this thing that moves you. Perhaps it will also move the man whose handiwork it is. Let us go up and see him."
Then he called the Justice.
"Randolph," he said, "come with us."
The Justice turned about. "Where do you go?" he asked.
"Why, sir," Abner answered, "this child is weeping at the sight of the dead man's gloves, and I thought, perhaps, that old Benton might weep at them too, and in the softened mood return what he has stolen."
The Justice looked upon Abner as upon one gone mad.
"And be sorry for his sins! And pluck out his eye and give it to you for a bauble! Why, Abner, where is your common sense. This thing would take a miracle of God."
My uncle was undisturbed.
"Well," he said, "come with me, Randolph, and help me to perform that miracle."
He went out into the hall, and up the wide old stairway, with the girl, in tears, upon his arm. And the Justice followed, like one who goes upon a patent and ridiculous fool's errand.