h she took
to be the New Testament. She drew it from its hiding-place and sat down
to read it. But when she opened the book, she found it to
be--"Celebrated Criminal Trials."

At once it seemed to have a fearful interest for her, and this interest
was terribly augmented when, on further examination, she discovered that
a portion of the work was devoted to the "Fatal Errors of Circumstantial
Evidence."

To this part of the book she turned at once, and her attention soon
became absorbed in its subject. Here she read the cases of Jonathan
Bradford, Henry Jennings, and many others tried for murder, convicted
under an overwhelming weight of circumstantial evidence, executed, and
long afterwards discovered to be entirely innocent of the crimes for
which they had been put to death. Sybil read on hour after hour. And as
this evening, while sitting in solitude and idleness and thinking of her
home and all its charms, she had first realized the bitterness of her
exile, so now, in reading these instances of the fatal effects of
circumstantial evidence upon guiltless parties, she also first realized
the horrors of her own position.

She closed the book and fell upon her knees, and weeping, prayed for
pardon of those fierce outbursts of hereditary passion, that had so
often tempted her to deeds of violence, and that now subjected her to
the dread charge of crime. Yes, she prayed for forgiveness of this sin
and deliverance from this sinfulness, even before she ventured to pray
for a safe issue out of all her troubles.

Relieved, as every one feels who approaches our Father in simplicity and
faith, she arose from her knees, and sat down again before the fire to
wait for the return of her husband.

He came at length, looking really tired now, but speaking cheerfully as
he entered the room.

"I have been gone from you a long time, dear Sybil, but I could not help
it. I had to go to Portsmouth in search of our ship," he said, as he put
his hat on the floor, and sat down at the fire.

"Then you found a ship?" she inquired, with so much more than usual
anxiety in her expression, that he looked up in painful surprise as he
replied to her question.

"Yes, dear; I have found a ship that will suit us. It is the
'Enterprise,' Captain Wright, bound for Liverpool within a few days."

"Oh! I wish it were to-morrow," sighed Sybil.

"Why, love, what is the matter?" tenderly inquired her husband, taking
her hand, and looking into her fac