Ella, she would
trust, and she did trust, that in some way or other all would be well.

She felt as if even Leonard's death could be accepted thankfully as the
captive's release. But that sorrow was spared her.

The account of Leonard came from Mr. Wilmot, who had carried him the
tidings. The prisoner had calmly met him with the words, 'I know what
you are come to tell me;' and he heard all in perfect calmness and
resignation, saying little, but accepting all that the clergyman said,
exactly as could most be desired.

From the chaplain, likewise, Mr. Wilmot learnt that Leonard, though
still only in the second stage of his penalty, stood morally in a very
different position, and was relied on as a valuable assistant in all
that was good, more effective among his fellow-prisoners than was
possible to any one not in the same situation with themselves, and
fully accepting that position when in contact either with convicts or
officials. 'He has never referred to what brought him here,' said the
chaplain, 'nor would I press him to do so; but his whole tone is of
repentance, and acceptance of the penalty, without, like most of them,
regarding it as expiation. It is this that renders his example so
valuable among the men.'

After such a report as this, it was disappointing, on Dr. May's next
visit to Portland, at two months' end, to find Leonard drooping and
downcast. The Doctor was dismayed at his pale, dejected, stooping
appearance, and the silence and indifference with which he met their
ordinary topics of conversation, till the Doctor began anxiously--

'You are not well?'

'Quite well, thank you.'

'You are looking out of condition. Do you sleep?'

'Some part of the night.'

'You want more exercise. You should apply to go back to the
carpenter's shop--or shall I speak to the governor?'

'No, thank you. I believe they want me in school.'

'And you prefer school work?'

'I don't know, but it helps the master.'

'Do you think you make any progress with the men? We heard you were
very effective with them.'

'I don't see that much can be done any way, certainly not by me.'

Then the Doctor tried to talk of Henry and the sisters; but soon saw
that Leonard had no power to dwell upon them. The brief answers were
given with a stern compression and contraction of face; as if the
manhood that had grown on him in these three years was no longer
capable of the softening effusion of grief; and Dr. May, with