Mr. Chatford walked from the house to the barn and back again, and about the yard and stables, in an absent-minded way, frowning, and looking strangely uneasy in his mind. His wife, in the mean while, tried to forget her grief and anxiety in doing something for poor Jack,—packing a portmanteau of such clothes as she thought he would need if he went to jail, putting in a few books, a pin-cushion, a box of Mrs. Pipkin’s cookies, which he was fond of, and some cakes of maple-sugar, besides many little things for his comfort, or to remind him that he still had a friend.