The sentence was pronounced; the time of execution fixed. Each morning, as the prisoner awoke, he said to himself, another is gone; so many, and so many days are left. I dare not say that this man did not occasionally shrink from the agony that awaited him; or that the clouds of doubt did not grow black above his head, more than once; but at all times his mien was tranquil, his words full of resignation. Some hope, some sublime faith, stronger than death, seemed to bear him up.

His daughter came to him more than once, and always left the cell with a changed manner and subdued aspect. While there was a hope of saving the prisoner, she had been excited and almost wild in her demeanor. She appealed to the governor in person. She lavished gold. On every hand the great power of her personal influence was all tested to the utmost, but in vain. There exist cases in which the fangs of the law fasten deep, and no human power can unloose them. In this instance, mercy veiled her face, and justice became cruelty.

At no time did the old man sanction or partake of his daughter's efforts. Shall I say, that he did not even desire them to succeed? One sublime idea had taken possession of his mind, and when he prayed, it was not that he might be saved from death, but that the pang which sent him into eternity might open the gates of paradise to his child.

I have said that the old man was feeble, and scenes through which no human being could pass with unshaken nerves, had gradually undermined the little strength that age and privation had spared. Those who saw him every day scarcely noticed this, the change was so gradual; but the sheriff, who came but once each week, remarked how frail he was becoming, and how difficult it was for him to support the irons with which they had manacled his limbs. More than once he said to himself, "It will scarcely be more than a shadow that they force me to strangle." Still, as his strength gave way, the holy faith within him beamed out stronger and brighter, as a flame becomes more brilliant from increased purity of the oil on which it feeds.

All hope was gone—and Ada saw her father every day, always alone, and her visits lasted for hours. At such times, Jacob Strong, who kept sentinel at the door, would pause and hold his breath, struck, as it were, by the sweet, solemn tones that came through the door. Sometimes you might have seen him brush one huge hand across his eyes; and then, bowing his head upon his bosom, pace slowly to and fro, with a mournful but not altogether dissatisfied look.

After these visits, Ada would come forth with a subdued and gentle air, which no person had ever witnessed in her before. The entire character of her beauty changed. Her features became thin; her person lost something of its roundness, but gained in that refined grace which is indescribable. Her eyes grew darker and softer from the shadows that deepened under them. Something of holy light there was too, that brooded sadly there in place of the brilliancy that had kindled them so often almost into wildness. If Ada had been beautiful when we first knew her, she was far lovelier now. The heart yearned toward her as it felt the glance of her eyes. The earthly was becoming purified from her being, and the resemblance between her and the old man seemed to have found a spiritual link. Truly the solemn faith within him was near its reward.