borhood.
So, when the gardener explained that it was one up above who would
enjoy her work, her eyes instantly sought the celestial heights. She
was thinking of sun, or star, or angel, may-be, and smiling at Sandy's
speech, for sympathy.

He saw her new mistake, and made haste to correct this also.

"Not so high," said he, cautiously.

Then, but as it seemed of chance, and not of purpose, the eyes of
Elizabeth Montier turned toward the prison-wall, and fixed upon that
window, the solitary one visible from the garden, and her face flushed
in a manner that told her surprise--when she saw a man behind the iron
bars.

"Oh," said she, looking away quickly, as if conscious of a wrong done,
"what made you tell me?"

"I guess you will like to think one shut up like him will take a little
pleasure looking at what he can't get at," said Sandy, almost
sharply,--replying to something he did not quite understand, the pain
and the reproof of Elizabeth's speech.

"Oh, yes!" she answered, and went on with her work.

But though she might be pleased to think that her labor would answer
another and more serious purpose than her own gratification, or that of
the pretty flowers, it was something new and strange for the girl to
work under this mysterious sense of oversight.

"You have only got to speak the word," said the gardener, who had
perceived her perplexity, and was desirous of bringing her speedily to
his view of the case, "just speak, and he will be carried back to his
old cell below, t'other side."

"Will he?"

"Yes,--sure's you live, if he troubles you, Miss Elizabeth. Nobody will
think of letting him trouble you."

"Oh, me!" she exclaimed, quickly, "I should die quicker than have him
moved where he couldn't see the garden."

"I thought so," said Sandy, satisfied.

"Did you think I would complain of his standing by his window, Sandy?"

"How did I know you would like to be stared at?" asked he, with a
laugh.

Elizabeth blushed and looked grave; to her the matter seemed too
terrible.

"I might have said something," she mused, sadly.

"And if it had been to the wrong person," suggested Sandy;--"for they
a'n't very fond of him, I guess."

"Who is he, then? I never heard."

"He has been shut up in that building now a'most five year, Elizabeth,"
said Sandy, leaning on the handle of the spade he had struck into the
ground with emphasis.

"Five years!"

"Summer heat, and winter cold. All the same to him. No w