be of
any great importance to any one any more, or so they thought. It was
very sad, very tragic, but he was gone--his place knew him not.

"A bright young man, that," observed President Davison of the Girard
National, on reading of Cowperwood's sentence and incarceration. "Too
bad! Too bad! He made a great mistake."

Only his parents, Aileen, and his wife--the latter with mingled feelings
of resentment and sorrow--really missed him. Aileen, because of her
great passion for him, was suffering most of all. Four years and three
months; she thought. If he did not get out before then she would be
nearing twenty-nine and he would be nearing forty. Would he want her
then? Would she be so attractive? And would nearly five years change his
point of view? He would have to wear a convict suit all that time, and
be known as a convict forever after. It was hard to think about, but
only made her more than ever determined to cling to him, whatever
happened, and to help him all she could.

Indeed the day after his incarceration she drove out and looked at the
grim, gray walls of the penitentiary. Knowing nothing absolutely of the
vast and complicated processes of law and penal servitude, it seemed
especially terrible to her. What might not they be doing to her Frank?
Was he suffering much? Was he thinking of her as she was of him? Oh, the
pity of it all! The pity! The pity of herself--her great love for him!
She drove home, determined to see him; but as he had originally told
her that visiting days were only once in three months, and that he would
have to write her when the next one was, or when she could come, or when
he could see her on the outside, she scarcely knew what to do. Secrecy
was the thing.

The next day, however, she wrote him just the same, describing the drive
she had taken on the stormy afternoon before--the terror of the
thought that he was behind those grim gray walls--and declaring
her determination to see him soon. And this letter, under the new
arrangement, he received at once. He wrote her in reply, giving the
letter to Wingate to mail. It ran:

My sweet girl:--I fancy you are a little downhearted to think I cannot
be with you any more soon, but you mustn't be. I suppose you read
all about the sentence in the paper. I came out here the same
morning--nearly noon. If I had time, dearest, I'd write you a long
letter describing the situation so as to ease your mind; but I haven't.
It's against the rules, and I