John Elkton had been a week in prison. His arrest had excited much indignation among his friends, who had a high opinion of his character. His silence, however, in regard to the damaging charge against him excited distrust in some, even his friends. His employer was one of these. He offered to see that John was released on bail, if he would only explain to him this mystery. But John would not explain, and did not want bail.

He was moody and unhappy in his contracted prison cell, and grew cross and nervous as the long days wore on.

One thing wore on him more than aught else. He had seen and heard nothing of Jennie Arlington. How was his disgrace going to affect her? He did not believe that she could turn from him for an unproved crime, but she was under the direct influence of his enemies, and what stories might not be told, and what arguments brought to bear on her?

He was fully aware of the natural conclusion from his persistent silence, and could not blame people for distrusting his innocence. But he had fondly hoped that she had more confidence in him, and would not turn away from him so lightly.

But as the days wore on and she came not he began to fear that she was lost to him, and to grow miserably unhappy in consequence.

Another thing seemed to annoy him. Some of his friends kept aloof from him, one in particular of whom he had had a very exalted opinion, and whose absence caused him much mental disquiet. He finally sent a message to this man, Jesse Powers by name, with an urgent request to have him come to the prison and see him.

It failed in its effect. His friend was out of town and did not get his epistle.

It was nearly the end of the first week in prison life when the door of his cell was one morning unlocked, and a new visitor admitted.

He sat disconsolate and moody, fretting in spirit at the defection of his betrothed, when he lifted his eyes and saw her standing before him, her eyes full of love and sympathy.

“Oh, John!” was her piteous exclamation.

He sprung to his feet with new life, clasped her in his arms, and rained kisses on her distressed face.

“This is very good in you, Jennie,” he said. “I have just been thinking of you, and wishing for you; but not hoping.”

“You did not think I had forgotten you?” she said, reproachfully.

“No, no, Jennie; I had faith in your love. But how I did want you!”

He kissed her again, clasping her still closer.

“And what a place this is,” she said, looking round the cell. “I would have been here before, John, but I was hindered. I thought, indeed, the first few days, that you would not stay here.”

“How could I help myself, Jennie? No bird would stay in its cage if the door was open.”

“You could open the door with a word. You know you could,” she said, looking tenderly but eagerly into his face. “You are innocent. Why will you not clear yourself?”

“It looks as if I were guilty,” he replied, leading her to the only chair the cell afforded. “The law and the public seem to think so.”

“It is your own fault, John. You are incomprehensible. Why are you so silent? I cannot guess a reason. You must clear yourself.”

“And convict others?”

“If they are guilty, yes.”

“There are things that cannot be told, Jennie, and reasons why I should not convict even the guilty. I hope you will not press this matter further. I have not taken my course without excellent reasons. If you knew all, you would counsel me to do as I have done. Let that suffice.”

Jennie was silent for a little, thinking. She clasped his hand with a warm pressure. His gladdened eyes were fixed eagerly upon her face.

“Let it be so,” she said, at length. “For the present, at least, we will forget it.”

The conversation changed. Seated upon the floor at her feet, and looking lovingly up into her eyes, their talk grew of softer themes. Their voices fell, mellowed by love. Hours, it seemed to them, they conversed in that sweet love gossip so hard to translate, so weak and meaningless when put into words.

Looks, tones, hand-pressures, form the soul of lovers’ talk, and these no pen can write down. The words spoken are dreadfully prosy to outsiders; all the poetry lies in the language of lips and eyes.

“Your friends have all visited you, then?” she at length asked.

“Not all. Nearly all,” he replied. “Their kindness has helped me greatly.”

“Could they do less, and be friends?” she quickly replied. “I do not think much of those who have failed to come.”

“I do not blame them. They might have been away, or unable to come. And my very equivocal position is a very good reason for their absence.”

“It is no reason at all,” she broke out. “They are no friends of yours to desert you in your extremity.”

“Well, well, Jennie, there are only three or four.”

“Let me know their names?”

“And why?” he asked, laughing. “Are you going to put them in your black book?”

“No matter. I want to know their names,” she excitedly replied.

“Well, since it must be, it must be,” he said, resignedly. “First, there is Ellis Branson. Have you him down?”

“Yes. Go on,” she said, writing down the name.

“Harry Howard.”

“Proceed.”

“James Milton.”

“And the next?”

“Is not that enough?” he said. “You have three good names there.”

“Not enough unless it is all,” she replied, with an earnest look.

“That is all the names I can give you, Jennie,” he said, more seriously. “This is an odd whim of yours, anyhow. Do you know you are acting strangely?”

“Not half as strangely as you,” she replied. “Are there any more names?”

“I decline to answer,” he said, with a slight frown on his brow.

“There, I do believe the absurd man is getting angry,” she exclaimed, laughing. “I must leave now, before the thunder-clouds arise.”

“No, no! Not so soon. You have been here no time. I will smile like a summer’s day if you will only remain.”

“Listen to the tramp of that turnkey’s feet. He is getting impatient. I must really go now.”

“To return soon?”

“Yes. I am staying in the city now. I will not leave you alone.”

A few more parting words, and she left the cell.

The turnkey, a young, pleasant-looking man, attended her toward the great door of the prison.

“It is a horrible place, this,” she said, shuddering.

“I do not find it so, miss,” he replied. “As for Mr. Elkton, he is very comfortable.”

“Has he any privileges?”

“Oh, yes. He gets his meals outside. And he can have his friends in his cell, and can write to them and receive answers.”

“He has written to some of them, then?” she asked, quickly.

“Only one letter, I believe.”

“Any answer?”

“No, miss.”

“Do you remember the name of the person he wrote to?”

“Very well. It was Jesse Powers. I took the letter myself, as I had an errand in the city.”

“Did you see him?”

“No. He was absent from home.”

“The name is familiar. Where did he live?”

“No. 1,485 North Tenth street.”

“Thank you. Excuse my curiosity. Women will be asking questions, you know.”

The turnkey smiled as he opened the gate.

“Jesse Powers,” she said, with compressed lips, on getting outside. “That is the name he refused to tell me. I believe I am on the track of the mystery.”