Bishop. "Two years. Fast bound in misery and iron.
You in misery and he only in iron. You two poor children."

His strong face worked, and for a moment he shaded it with his hand.

Then he looked keenly at Fay.

"And you have come to me to ask me to advise you how to set Michael and
yourself free?"

"Yes," whispered Fay.

"It was time to come."

There was a short silence.

"And you understand, my dear, dear child, that you can only rescue
Michael by taking heavy blame upon yourself, blame first of all for
having a clandestine meeting with him, and then blame for letting him
sacrifice himself for your good name, and lastly blame for keeping an
innocent man in prison so long."

Fay shook like a leaf.

The Bishop took her lifeless hands in his, and held them. He made her
meet his eyes. Stern, tender, unflinching eyes they were, with a glint
of tears in them.

"You are willing to bear the cross, and endure the shame?" he said.

Two large tears gathered in Fay's wide eyes, and rolled down her
bloodless cheeks.

You could not look at her, and think that the poor thing was willing to
endure anything, capable of enduring anything.

The Bishop looked at her, through her.

"Or would you rather go home and wait in misery a little longer, and
keep him in his cell a little longer: another week--another
month--another _year_! You know best how much longer you can wait."

Silence.

"And Michael can wait, too."

"Michael must come out," said Fay, with a sob. "He was always good to
me."

"Thank God," said the Bishop, and he rose abruptly and went to the
window.

Magdalen and Fay did not move. They leaned a little closer together.
Fay's timid eyes sought her sister's like those of a child which has
repeated its lesson, and looks to its teacher to see if it has done
well.

Magdalen kissed her on the eyes.

"I have said everything, haven't I?"

"Everything."

"I wish I was dead."

Magdalen had no voice to answer with.

The Bishop came back, and sat down opposite them.

"Fay," he said, "as long as you live you will be thankful that you came
to me to-day, that you were willing to make atonement by this great act
of reparation. The comfort of that remembrance will sink deep into your
troubled heart, and will heal its wounds. But the sacrifice is not to be
exacted of you. I had to ask if you were willing to make it. But there
is no longer any necessity for you to make it. Do you understand?"

The Bishop