ld not hurt him;
God would not let them.'

The joy and relief were so great as to absorb all thought or
realization of what this mercy was to the prisoner himself, until Dr.
May was able to pay him a visit on Monday afternoon. It was at a
moment when the first effects of the tidings of life had subsided, and
there had been time to look forth on the future with a spirit more
steadfast than buoyant. The strain of the previous weeks was reacting
on the bodily frame, and indisposition unhinged the spirits; so that,
when Dr. May entered, beaming with congratulations, he was met with the
same patient glance of endurance, endeavouring at resignation, that he
knew so well, but without the victorious peace that had of late gained
the ascendant expression. There was instead an almost painful
endeavour to manifest gratitude by cheerfulness, and the smile was far
less natural than those of the last interview, as fervently returning
the pressure of the hand, he said, 'You were right, Dr. May, you have
brought me past the crisis.'

'A sure sign of ultimate recovery, my boy. Remember, dum spiro spero.'

Leonard attempted a responsive smile, but it was a hopeless business.
From the moment when at the inquest he found himself entangled in the
meshes of circumstance, his mind had braced itself to endure rather
than hope, and his present depressed state, both mental and bodily,
rendered even that endurance almost beyond his powers. He could only
say, 'You have been very good to me.'

'My dear fellow, you are sadly knocked down; I wish--' and the Doctor
looked at him anxiously.

'I wish you had been here yesterday,' said Leonard; 'then you would not
have found me so. No, not thankless, indeed!'

'No, indeed; but--yes, I see it was folly--nay, harshness, to expect
you to be glad of what lies before you, my poor boy.'

'I am--am thankful,' said Leonard, struggling to make the words truth.
'Wednesday is off my mind--yes, it is more than I deserve--I knew I was
not fit to die, and those at home are spared. But I am as much cut off
from them--perhaps more--than by death. And it is the same disgrace to
them, the same exile. I suppose Henry still goes--'

'Yes, he does.'

'Ah! then one thing, Dr. May--if you had a knife or scissors--I do not
know how soon they may cut my hair, and I want to secure a bit for poor
Ave.'

Dr. May was too handless to have implements of the first order, but a
knife he had, and was rather dismayed