It was Adolphus himself who spoke to Pauline the next day, after he had deliberately thrown himself in the way of the prisoner, that he might with his own eyes see what manner of man he was; for seeing was believing.

“Pauline,” said he, almost persuaded of the truth of his own words, “you and Elizabeth would make a different place of that prison from what it is now.  I should like to see it tried.”

Pauline Montier made no haste to answer; she was afraid that she knew what he expected of her.

“Do you see,” continued Adolphus, “Elizabeth won’t speak of it again?  But what must she think of us?  He is a man.  They say we are all brothers.”

“I know it,” said, almost sighed, his wife.

“Looking out for our own comfort!” exclaimed Adolphus.  “So mighty afraid of doing what we’d have done for us!  Besides, I believe we could make it pretty pleasant.  Cool in summer, and warm in winter.  I’d whitewash pretty thorough.  And if the windows were rubbed up, your way, the light might get through.”

“Poor Joan Laval!” said Pauline.  “Body and mind gave out.  She was different at first.”

“Do you think it was the prison?” asked Adolphus, quickly, like a man halting between two opinions,—­there was no knowing which way he would jump.

“Something broke her down,” replied his wife.  She was looking from one window,—­he from another.

“Joan Laval was Joan Laval,” said Adolphus, with an effort.  “Always was.  Frightened at her own shadow, I suppose.  But—­there! we won’t think of it.  I know how it looks to you, Pauline.  Very well,—­I don’t see why we should make ourselves miserable for the sake of somebody who has got to be miserable anyhow,—­and deserves it, I suppose, or he wouldn’t be where he is.”

“Poor fellow!” sighed Pauline,—­as if it were now her turn on the rack.

Here Adolphus let the matter rest.  He had overcome his own scruples so far as honestly to make this proposal to his wife.  But he would do no more than propose,—­not for an instant urge the point.  Surely, that could not be required of him.  Charity, he remembered, begins at home.

But Pauline could not let the matter rest here.  Her struggle was yet to come.  It was she, then, who alone was unwilling to sacrifice her present home for the sake of a stranger and prisoner!

Now Pauline Montier was a good Christian woman, and various words of holy utterance began herewith to trouble her.  And from a by no means tranquil musing over them, she began to ask herself, What, after all, was home?  Was happiness indeed dependent on locality when the heart of love was hers?  Could she not give up so little as a house, in order to secure the comfort of a son of misfortune,—­a solitary man,—­a dying prisoner?  What she would not give up freely might any day be taken from her.  If fire did not destroy it, the government, which took delight in interference, might see fit to order that the house they occupied should be used again for the original purpose of storage.