as red as bitter-sweet," said he.

"There was frost last night," she laughed, "and the cool wind makes my
face burn."

"I know just how it feels," said he, looking again toward the window
with pathetic wistfulness, the hunger of old longings in his eyes.

"It will not be long now until you are free," she said in low voice of
sympathy.

He was still looking at the brown branches of the bare elm, now palely
touched with the cloud-filtered autumn sun.

"I know where there's lots of it," said he, as if to himself, "out in
the hills. It loves to ramble over scrub-oak in the open places where
there's plenty of sun. I used to pick armloads of it the last year I
went to school and carry it to the teacher. She liked to decorate the
room with it."

He turned to her with apologetic appeal, as if to excuse himself for
having wandered away from her in his thoughts.

"I put it over the mantel," she nodded; "it lasts all winter."

"The wahoo's red now, too," said he. "Do you care for it?"

"It doesn't last as long as bitter-sweet," said she.

"Bitter-sweet," said he reflectively, looking down into the shadows
which hung to the flagstones of the floor. Then he raised his eyes to
hers and surprised them brimming with tears, for her heart was aching
for him in a reflection of his own lonely pain.

"It is emblematic of life," said he, reaching his hand out through the
bars to her, as if to beg her not to grieve over the clouds of a day;
"you know there are lots of comparisons and verses and sayings about it
in that relation. It seems to me that I've always had more of the bitter
than the sweet--but it will all come out right in time."

She touched his hand.

"Do you like mignonette?" she asked. "I've brought you some."

"I love it!" said he with boyish impetuosity. "I had a bed of it
last--no, I mean the summer before last--before I was--before I went to
work for Isom."

She took the flowers from her bosom and placed them in his hand. The
scent of them was in his nostrils, stirring memories of his old days of
simple poverty, of days in the free fields. Again he turned his face
toward the window, the little flowers clutched in his hand. His breast
heaved as if he fought in the deep waters of his soul against some
ignoble weakness.

She moved a little nearer, and reached timidly through the bars with the
breathless quiet of one who offers a caress to a sleeper. Her
finger-tips touched his arm.

"Joe," said she, as if