to little purpose, and by the time
they reached the door of the prison she was so excessively pale, and
looked so faint and ill, that Mr. Strafford almost repented of his
advice. It was too late now, however, to turn back, and all that could
be done was to say, "Take courage; don't betray yourself by your face."
The hint was enough, to one so accustomed to self-restraint; and when
the jailer met them, she had forced herself to look much as usual.

But though she had sufficient command over herself to do this, and even
to join, as much as was necessary, in the short conversation which took
place before they were admitted to the prisoner's cell, she could not
afterwards remember anything clearly until the moment when she followed
Mr. Strafford through a heavy door, and found herself in the presence of
her husband.

Then she seemed suddenly to wake, and the scene before her to flash at
once and ineffaceably into her mind. It was a clean bare room, with a
bed in one corner, and a chair and table in the middle; the stone
walls, the floor and ceiling, all white, and a bright flood of sunshine
coming in through the unshaded window. Sitting on the only chair, with
his arms spread over the table, and his head resting on them, was the
prisoner. His face was hidden, but the coarse, disordered dress, the
long hair, half grey, half black, lying loose and shaggy over his bony
hands, the dreary broken-down expression of his attitude, made a picture
not to be looked upon without pity. Yet the thing that seemed most
pathetic of all was that utter change in the man which, even at the
first glance, was so plainly evident. This visitor, standing silent and
unnoticed by the door, had come in full of recollections, not even of
him as she had seen him last, but of him as she had married him twenty
years ago. Of _him?_ It seemed almost incredible--yet for the very sake
of the past and for the pitiful alteration now, she felt her heart yearn
towards that desolate figure, and going softly forward she laid her hand
upon his shoulder.

"Christian!" she said in a low and trembling voice.

The prisoner slowly moved, as if waking from a doze. He raised his
head, pushed back his tangled hair and looked at her.

What a face! It needed all her pity to help her to repress a shudder;
but there was no recognition in the dull heavy eyes.

"Christian," she repeated. "See, I am your wife. I am Mary, who left
Moose Island so many years ago."

Still he