It was decided not to search any farther that day, as there was no prospect now that Willie would be found alive. The men went home, agreeing to come again after three days, by which time the sleet and light snow that had fallen would have melted, and search for the body might be successfully made.
   John went to his house. As he met his afflicted family, and realized that little Willie was now gone, that the search was given up, and his child was dead, his Spartan firmness yielded, and he wept such tears as strong, proud men weep when ', broken on the wheel of life. The last cruel stab at his moral nature' and integrity hurt hard. He was a pure, upright man, a church-member, and without reproach.
   As the three days were passing away that were to elapse before the search for the body should begin, it became apparent in the community that John's Homeric speech had done no good. The wise heads of Whiskey Hollow declared, that at the next search there would be, first of all, a thorough overhauling about the immediate premises. Their suspicions found some favor in the community. Some were discussing indignantly and some with tolerance, the probability of john's guilt. Even good Deacon Beezman, a magistrate who "lived out on the main road," and who was supposed to carry in his own person at least half of the integrity and intelligence of his neighborhood, declared that he would not spend more of his precious time in searching for the boy. He made it the chief point in the case that John "acted guilty." He had noticed that this rustic Spartan sat in his house, and read his newspaper with apparent interest, as in ordinary times, on the day of the last search; and this indifference was evidence of his guilt. It was apparent that any color of proof, if there had been any such thing, might have served as a pretence for an arrest of the afflicted father.
   The morning appointed as the time to seek for the body came. The excitement was high; and men came from great distances to join in the exploration. Eight miles away, up across the river that flowed through the forest, dwelt Logan Bill, a hunter. At an early hour he left his cabin, and took his course down the stream toward the gathering-point. There was an April sun shining; but in the wilderness solitudes it was cold and dreary. He kept along the margin of the stream to avoid the tangle of brush and fallen trees.
   At nine o'clock, Logan was still three miles from john's clearing. He was passing through a hollow where the black spruce and pine made the forest gloomy. He came upon a bundle of clothing; he turned it over: it was Willie!

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