ecution of Richard May, the Doctor
could hardly have given a deeper groan.

He left the train at the county town. He had so arranged, that he
might see the prisoner on his way home; but he had hardly the heart to
go, except that he knew he was expected, and no disappointment that he
could help must add to the pangs of these last days.

Leonard was alone, but was not, as before, sitting unemployed; he
carefully laid down his etching work ere he came forward to meet his
friend; and there was not the bowed and broken look about him, but a
fixed calmness and resolution, as he claimed the fatherly embrace and
blessing with which the Doctor now always met him.

'I bring you no certainty, Leonard. It is under consideration.'

'Thank you. You have done everything,' returned Leonard, quietly;
'and--' then pausing, he added, 'I know the day now--the day after my
birthday.'

'Let us--let us hope,' said the Doctor, greatly agitated.

'Thank you,' again said Leonard; and there was a pause, during which
Dr. May anxiously studied the face, which had become as pale and almost
as thin as when the lad had been sent off to Coombe, and infinitely
older in the calm steadfastness of every feature.

'You do not look well, Leonard.'

'No; I am not quite well; but it matters very little,' he said, with a
smile. 'I am well enough to make it hard to believe how soon all sense
and motion will be gone out of these fingers!' and he held up his hand,
and studied the minutiae of its movements with a strange grave sort of
curiosity.

'Don't--don't, Leonard!' exclaimed the Doctor. 'You may be able to
bear it, but I cannot.'

'I thought you would not mind, you have so often watched death.'

'Yes; but--' and he covered his face with his hands.

'I wish it did not pain you all so much,' said Leonard, quietly. 'But
for that, I can feel it to be better than if I had gone in the fever,
when I had no sense to think or repent; or if I had--I hardly knew my
own faults.'

'You seem much happier now, my boy.'

'Yes,' said Leonard. 'I am more used to the notion, and Mr. Wilmot has
been so kind. Then I am to see Ave to-morrow, if she is well enough.
Henry has promised to bring her, and leave her alone with me; and I do
hope--that I shall be able to convince her that it is not so very bad
for me--and then she may be able to take comfort. You know she would,
if she were nursing me now in my bed at Bankside; so why should she not
when she sees