hat your so feeling comforts her the most; to know that
you have not the terrible struggle of faith disturbed by injustice.'

'If--I have not,' said Leonard, 'it is her doing. In those happy days
when we read Marmion, and could not believe that God would not always
show the right, she showed me how we only see bits and scraps of His
Justice here, and it works round in the end! Nay, if I had not done
that thing to Henry, I should not be here now! It is right! It is
right!' he exclaimed between the heaving sobs that still recurred. 'I
do try to keep before me what she said about Job--when it comes burning
before me, why should that man be at large, and I here? or when I think
how his serpent-eye fell under mine when I tried that one word about
the receipt, that would save my life. Oh! that receipt!'

'Better to be here than in his place, after all!'

'I'd rather be a street-sweeper!' bitterly began Leonard.--'Oh, Dr.
May, do let me have that!' he cried, suddenly changing his tone, and
holding out his hand, as he perceived in the Doctor's button-hole a
dove-pink, presented at a cottage door by a grateful patient. For a
space he was entirely occupied with gazing into its crimson depths,
inhaling the fragrance, and caressingly spreading the cool damask
petals against his hot cheeks and eyelids. 'It is so long since I saw
anything but walls!' he said.

'Three weeks,' sadly replied the Doctor.

'There was a gleam of sunshine when I got out of the van yesterday. I
never knew before what sunshine was. I hope it will be a sunny day
when I go out for the last time!'

'My dear boy, I have good hopes of saving you. There's not a creature
in Stoneborough, or round it, that is not going to petition for
you--and at your age--'

Leonard shook his head in dejection. 'It has all gone against me,' he
said. 'They all say there's no chance. The chaplain says it is of no
use unsettling my mind.'

'The chaplain is an old--' began Dr. May, catching himself up only just
in time, and asking, 'How do you get on with him!'

'I can hear him read,' said Leonard, with the look that had been
thought sullen.

'But you cannot talk to him?'

'Not while he thinks me guilty.' Then, at a sound of warm sympathy
from his friend, he added, 'I suppose it is his duty; but I wish he
would keep away. I can't stand his aiming at making me confess, and I
don't want to be disrespectful.'

'I see, I see. It cannot be otherwise. But how wo