me. I'm so
tired--"

"You must not talk," said she. "It will tire you more." Then she gave him
some drink. "Try and sleep," she said in a soothing tone.

"I cannot--oh, Mary, I am very ill."

"But you will get well again--"

Goddard started suddenly, and laid his hand upon her arm with more force
than she suspected he possessed.

"Where am I?" he asked, staring about the room. "Is this your house,
Mary? What became of Juxon?"

"He is not hurt. He brought you home in his arms, Walter, to his own
house, and is taking care of you."

"Good heavens! He will give me up. No, no, don't hold me--I must be
off"

He made a sudden effort to rise, but he was very weak. He fell back
exhausted upon his pillow; his fingers gripped the sheet convulsively,
and his face grew paler.

"Caught--like a rat!" he muttered. Mary Goddard sighed.

Was she to give him hope of escape? Or should she try to calm him now,
and when he was better, break the truth to him? Was she to make him
believe that he was safe for the present, and hold out a prospect of
escape when he should be better, or should she tell him now, once for
all, while he was in his senses, that he was lost? It was a terrible
position. Love she had none left for him, but there was infinite pity
still in her heart and there would be while he breathed. She hesitated
one moment only, and it may be that she decided for the wrong; but it was
her pity that moved her, and not any remnant of love.

"Hush, Walter," she said. "You may yet escape, when you are strong
enough. You are quite safe here, for the present. Mr. Juxon would not
think of giving you up now. By and by--the window is not high, Walter,
and I shall often be alone with you. I will manage it."

"Is that true? Are you cheating me?" cried the wretched man in broken
tones. "No--you are speaking the truth--I know it--God bless you, Mary!"
Again he closed his eyes and drew one or two long deep breaths.

Strange to say, the blessing the miserable convict called down upon her
was sweet to Mary Goddard, sweeter than anything she remembered for a
long time. She had perhaps done wrong in giving him hopes of escaping,
but at least he was grateful to her. It was more than she expected, for
she remembered her last meeting with him, and the horrible ingratitude
he had then shown her. It seemed to her that his heart had been softened
a little; anything was better than that rough indifference he had
affected before. Presently he