Lucia walked with her mother to the gates of the jail, but she could not obtain permission to go any further. Although the proposal to send her to England was, in fact, abandoned, there seemed no reason why she should be brought sooner than was needful into contact with what could not but be painful; and she was obliged to yield in this matter to her mother's judgment.

They parted, therefore, at the gates; and Mrs. Costello was admitted without delay to the cell where Christian was confined. A cell, properly speaking, it was not; for they had removed him since her former visit, and he now occupied a good-sized room on the upper floor, which was nearly as bare and as glaringly white as the other, but more airy. His low wooden bedstead was drawn near to the window, which, cold as it was, stood open, while a small box-stove, heated almost red hot, kept the temperature of the room tolerably high. On the bed, partly dressed, and wrapped in a blanket, lay the prisoner. He neither moved nor paid any attention when his visitor came in, and she had time to see all the change confinement and illness had made in him. And the change was, indeed, startling. All the flush of intemperance had left his face, and at this moment his fever had subsided also, and left him only the natural dark but clear tint of his Indian blood; his hair had been smoothly combed, and looked less grey than when it hung tangled and knotted; his extreme weakness gave him an aspect of repose, which brought back the ghost of his old self—something of the look of that Christian who had been, to a girl's fancy, so fit a hero of romance.

It was but a likeness, truly, shadowy and dim, but it seemed to bridge over the interval—the long, long weary years since the hero changed into the tyrant, and to make far easier that task of comforting and helping which duty, and not love, had imposed.

She came to his side, and still he did not notice her. His eyes were fixed on the pale, grey, snowy sky, and he seemed deaf to the slight sounds of her movements. She sat down and watched him silently. From the first moment she knew that all, and more than all, Elton had said was true. She saw death unmistakable, inevitable, and close at hand, and reproached herself for not having come sooner. But in that strange calm and stillness, even self-reproach seemed to be curbed and repressed—even a quickened beating of the heart would have been out of place. So they remained until fully half an hour had passed, when the door of the room again opened; this time to admit the doctor.

He was an elderly man, kind, busy, and quick in his words and motions. He came in briskly, and looked rather surprised at seeing Mrs. Costello. She only bowed, however, and drew back as he came towards the bedside. He was followed into the room by the jailer's wife, who had compassionately tended the prisoner ever since his illness increased.

Christian seemed to wake from his stupor, or dream, at the sound of the doctor's voice. He answered the questions put to him mechanically but clearly, and with his old purity of accent and expression. The dialogue, however, even with Mrs. Elton's comments, was but a short one, and as soon as it was ended, Mrs. Costello came forward and stopped the doctor on his way from the room.

"Will you tell me," she said in a low voice, "exactly what you think of him?"

He looked at her again with some surprise.

"I am interested in the question," she went on, regulating her voice with a painful effort. "I assure you it is not from mere curiosity I ask."

"He is very low, very low indeed; but allow me to say, this is not the place for you."

"I will not do myself any harm," she answered, with a faint smile; "you shall not have any occasion to scold me."

"How long have you been here?"

"About half an hour. And you may feel my pulse if you like; it is perfectly steady."

She held out her wrist; the pulse was, in fact, quite regular, rather more so than usual, and there was nothing to show that the sick room was "not the place for her."

"Now tell me," she said; "he is dying, is not he?"

"Yes. Best thing that can happen to him, poor wretch."

"You don't think he will live to be tried?"

He shook his head.

"More than doubtful."

"But it is only a fortnight, and there seems to be no acute disease."

"He would have a better chance of living if there were. He is completely worn out—dying of exhaustion. It is a question if he lasts another week."

"Tell me, please, exactly what can be done for him."

"Very little indeed. And Mrs. Elton is a good nurse."

The same look of inquiry as before was in the doctor's face while he gave this answer, and Mrs. Costello felt that some explanation was necessary.

"I have no doubt she is. But I knew him—knew something of him—many years ago," she said; "and Mr. Strafford, the clergyman at Moose Island, you know, confided him to my care."

She spoke hurriedly, but without faltering, and the doctor was satisfied. He told her briefly all that could be done for his patient, and then went away, with a last warning not to stay too long.

This short conversation had been carried on rapidly and in very low tones. Mrs. Elton had left the room, and Christian seemed quite unconscious of the presence of the speakers. When the doctor was gone, his wife again came to his bedside, and seeing that he had not yet sunk back quite into his former lethargic state, she laid her hand gently on his without speaking.

He did not move, but merely raised his languid eyes to her face. Something there, however, seemed to fix them, and he lay looking at her with a steady intent gaze, as if trying to recognise her.

"Christian," she said very softly, with a trembling voice, "do you remember me?"

"I remember," he answered in a half whisper, "not you, but something like you."

"I am changed since then," she went on; "we are both changed, but we shall be together again now."

He was still watching her, and there seemed to be a clearer consciousness in his gaze.

"Are you Mary?" he asked after a moment.

"I am Mary, your wife," she answered.

"There was something else," he went on, slowly groping as it were for broken memories of the past. "There was another."

"Our child?" she asked, "Do you remember her?"

"Yes; is she here?"

"No. Would you like to see her?"

"No matter. I lost you. Where have you been?"

"Near here. Forget that; now I shall not leave you again for long."

"I am tired; I think I shall sleep."

And the light began to fade out of his eyes, and the same kind of dull insensibility, not sleep, crept over him again.

She left him at last in much the same state as she found him; and after a long talk with Mrs. Elton, who was at first a little inclined to be jealous of interference, but came round completely after a while, she left the jail and started for home.

It was a dreary walk, through the snowy roads and under the leaden-coloured sky. She had to pass through a part of the town which lay close to the river, where the principal shops and warehouses stood. Passing one of the shops, or as they were generally called, "stores," she remembered some purchases she wanted to make, and went in. While she was occupied with her business, some loud voices at the further end of the store attracted her attention, and she was aware of a group of men sitting upon barrels and boxes, and keeping up a noisy conversation, mixed with frequent bursts of laughter.

The store was not one of the best class even for Cacouna, but Mrs. Costello had gone into it because it had a kind of "specialitÉ," for the articles she required. It was most frequented by rough backwoodsmen and farmers, and to that class the noisy party seemed to belong. Some little time was necessary to find from a back shop one of the things Mrs. Costello asked for, and while she waited she could not help but hear what these men were saying. A good many oaths garnished their speeches, which, deprived of them, were much as follows:

"You did not go into mourning, anyhow?"

"Not I. Saved me a deal of trouble, he did."

"You'll be turned out all the same, yet, I guess."

"They have not turned me out yet. And if Bellairs tries that trick again, I'll send my old woman and the baby to Mrs. Morton. That'll fix it."

There was a roar of laughter. Then,

"They are sure to hang him, I suppose?"

"First hanging ever's been at Cacouna if they do."

"I guess you'll be going to see him hung, eh, Clarkson?"

"I reckon so; but it's time I was off."

One of the speakers, a thickset, heavy-browed man, came down the store, stared rudely at Mrs. Costello as he passed, and going out, got into a waggon that stood outside, and drove away.

At the same moment the shopman came back and wondered at his customer's trembling hand as he showed her what he had brought. She scarcely understood what he said. She had turned cold as ice, and was saying over and over to herself, "The murderer, the murderer." She hurried to finish her business and get out into the open air, for in the store she felt stifled. She had never before seen, to her knowledge, this Clarkson, whom she accused in her heart; and now his evil countenance, his harsh voice and brutal laugh had thrown her into a sudden terror and tumult. As she walked quickly along, she remembered a story she had heard of him, when and how she scarcely knew, but the story itself came back to her mind with singular distinctness.

A poor boy, an orphan, had been engaged by Clarkson as a servant. Much of the hard rough work about the kind of bush farm established by the squatter, fell to his share; he was not ill fed, for Mrs. Clarkson saw to that, but his promised wages never were paid. The lad complained to his few acquaintance that nearly the whole sum due to him for two years' service was still in his master's hands, and though he dared not let Clarkson know that he had complained, he took courage, by their advice, to threaten him with the law. One day soon after this, Clarkson and his servant were both engaged loading a kind of raft, or flat boat, with various produce for market. A dispute arose between them, the boy fell or was pushed overboard, and though the creek was quite shallow, and he was known to be able to swim, he was never seen from that time.

This was the story which had been whispered about until Mrs. Costello heard it, and which now returned to her mind with horrible force. A murderer, a double, a treble murderer—(for was not Christian dying from the consequences of his guilt?); she felt at that moment no resignation, but a fierce desire to push aside all the cruel, complete, false evidence, and force justice to recognize the true criminal.

"Coward that I am!" she cried in her heart. "But I will at least do what I can. To-morrow I will let the truth about myself be known, and try whether that cannot be made to help me to the other truth. To-morrow, to-morrow!"

She reached home exhausted, yet sustained by a new energy, and told Lucia her story and her determination. To her, young and impatient of the constant repression and concealment, this resolve was a welcome relief; and they talked of it, and of the future together until they half persuaded themselves that to restore to Christian his wife and daughter would be but the beginning of a change which should restore him both life and liberty.