and her reckless,
wayward brother drifted helplessly down the dark, swift river of doom.
At every revival of fears for his safety, up started the mighty
temptation that never slumbered, to confess all to Mr. Dunbar; but as
persistently she took it by the throat, and crushed it back, resolved
at all hazards to secure, if possible, the happiness of the woman who
had trusted her.

In the midst of the wreck of her life, out of the depths of the dust of
humiliation, had sprung the beautiful blossom of love, shedding its
intoxicating fragrance over ruin; yet, because the asp of treachery
lurked in the exquisite, folded petals, she shut her eyes to the
bewildering loveliness, and loyalty strove to tear it up by the roots,
to trample it out; learning thereby, that the fibrous thread had struck
deep into her own heart, defying ejectment.

She had forbidden his visits, interdicted letters; but she could not
expel the vision of a dear face that haunted her memory; nor exorcise
the spell of a voice that had first thrilled her pulses when pleading
with the jury in her behalf.

Sometimes she wondered whether she had been created as a mere sentient
plummet to sound every gulf of human woe; then humbly recanted the
impious repining, and thanked God that, at least, she had been spared
that deepest of all abysses, the Hades of remorse. That which comes to
most women as the supreme earthly joy--the consciousness of possessing
the heart of the man they love, fell upon Beryl like the lash of
flagellation; rendering doubly fierce the battle of renunciation, which
she fought, knowing that sedition and treason were raising the standard
of revolt within the fortress.

During the eight months that had elapsed since Leo sailed for Europe,
Beryl had exchanged no word with Mr. Dunbar; but twice a sudden,
tumultuous leaping of her heart surprised her at sight of him, standing
in the door of the chapel; watching her as she sat within the altar
rail, playing the little organ, while the convict congregation stood up
to sing. Although no name was ever appended, she knew what hand had
directed the various American and foreign art magazines, which brought
their argosy of beauty to divert and gladden her sombre meditations.

On Christmas morning, the second of her sojourn within penitentiary
walls, the express messenger had brought to the door of her cell, two
packages, one a glowing heart of crimson and purple passion flowers,
the other an exquisite