morrow in that other; and everywhere, and at all times,
he was a flitting sojourner; for, as they lived waiting for him,
he lived looking for them. How often their thoughts passed each
other in the endless search, his coming, theirs going! It was such
sweet flattery for them to say to each other, "While he lives,
we shall not be forgotten; as long as he remembers us, there is
hope!" The strength one can eke from little, who knows till he
has been subjected to the trial?

Our recollections of them in former days enjoin us to be respectful;
their sorrows clothe them with sanctity. Without going too near,
across the dungeon, we see they have undergone a change of
appearance not to be accounted for by time or long confinement.
The mother was beautiful as a woman, the daughter beautiful as a
child; not even love could say so much now. Their hair is long,
unkempt, and strangely white; they make us shrink and shudder
with an indefinable repulsion, though the effect may be from an
illusory glozing of the light glimmering dismally through the
unhealthy murk; or they may be enduring the tortures of hunger
and thirst, not having had to eat or drink since their servant,
the convict, was taken away--that is, since yesterday.

Tirzah, reclining against her mother in half embrace, moans piteously.

"Be quiet, Tirzah. They will come. God is good. We have been mindful
of him, and forgotten not to pray at every sounding of the trumpets
over in the Temple. The light, you see, is still bright; the sun
is standing in the south sky yet, and it is hardly more than the
seventh hour. Somebody will come to us. Let us have faith. God is
good."

Thus the mother. The words were simple and effective, although,
eight years being now to be added to the thirteen she had attained
when last we saw her, Tirzah was no longer a child.

"I will try and be strong, mother," she said. "Your suffering
must be as great as mine; and I do so want to live for you and
my brother! But my tongue burns, my lips scorch. I wonder where
he is, and if he will ever, ever find us!"

There is something in the voices that strikes us singularly--an
unexpected tone, sharp, dry, metallic, unnatural.

The mother draws the daughter closer to her breast, and says, "I
dreamed about him last night, and saw him as plainly, Tirzah, as I
see you. We must believe in dreams, you know, because our fathers
did. The Lord spoke to them so often in that way. I thought we were
in the Wo