The night before the trial, Lady Arden, by especial favour and kind connivance, passed in the prison of her son. She knelt at the side of the bed, on which she had insisted on his laying himself, and, if possible, sleeping, in order that he might obtain strength and composure for the task which awaited him.

After many last words and repeated affectionate entreaties, that he would try the effect of silence and stillness, at length, with a hand fondly clasped in both his mother's, he did sleep, though but for a short time, as calmly as an infant. Lady Arden, in the position in which she knelt, shaded from his countenance the immediate glare of the lamp which stood on a small table behind her. Sufficient light, however, still rested on his sleeping features to give to her fond gaze all their loveliness. The perfect beauty they always possessed, the more than common share of a mother's love she had ever borne him, the enthusiasm of every feeling naturally exerted by his impending peril, altogether called up such emotions, that she seemed to look on the face of an angel; while fast falling tears unconsciously inundated her cheeks, as memory pourtrayed the infant years of this her darling son;—the smiling babe sleeping in her bosom; the laughing child playing at her feet. Then followed pictures of his boyish sports and gleeful hours, till her heart bled; then traits of docile obedience and dutiful affection; and, as he grew in years, of that gentle, noble, self-immolating nature, so peculiarly his own. All these were remembered with tender yearnings which no words can describe. A fearful idea next presented itself, that such beings were but lent to earth: they were not destined to sojourn with us; in a moment of agony and terror to those left behind, they were caught up again, and absorbed by that all-perfect spirit of which they were but emanations. Such thoughts gave, for a time, a character of wildness to the fervour of her prayers; confusion of every faculty followed; she became unconscious of the purport of the words she rapidly uttered; and then her lips ceased to move: a silent statue, with hands and eyes uplifted, one solitary thought possessed her being; it was, that in her helplessness she knelt at the foot-stool of Him who had restored to life the widow's son when he was already dead, and had given him back to his mother. Her son was still alive; the mercy that had restored surely could preserve. Alfred smiled in his sleep, and gently pressing the hand which still held his, suddenly opened his eyes with an expression which showed that for a second he knew not where he was. Short was the respite: in a moment more, the shade of pain which passed over his brow, and the look of anxious, kind inquiry which followed, as his eye met that of his mother, proved that consciousness had returned.

Morning was near; and though there were still many lingering hours of suspense to get through, sleep was thought of no more—conversation was renewed—every minute particular again enumerated—Alfred's defence reconsidered.

His language, the expression of his countenance as he spoke, had again the effect of awaking a proud confidence in the mind of Lady Arden, that it was impossible for any one to believe him guilty. As for Alfred himself, his confidence was still based on the firm belief that, on full investigation, what called itself justice, could not so fearfully err as that life should be forfeited on false grounds.

Thus supported, both, as the time approached, instead of sinking, seemed to acquire supernatural strength. To part, when the unavoidable moment came, was indeed a severe pang. But this over, Lady Arden's demeanor, among the numerous friends who flocked around to offer her their countenance, attendance and support on the terrible occasion, was calm, dignified, noble, almost haughty.

Though, of course, no one in her presence volunteered to pronounce, in so many words, a fear or even a doubt respecting the result of Alfred's trial, the expression of many a countenance did so; while also the very excess of almost reverential consideration for himself seemed to infer such a feeling; and she could not forgive any one, however kind and well-meaning, who did not spurn with unequivocal contempt, as the breath of pestilential slander, the thought of an accusation against her son. Such an accusation, too! and against such a son!