She sank down on her knees, and covered her face with her hands.

“Yes, Harry, think of it.  Our Richard, so bright, so dear, within prison walls!  He may pass his life there for what he has done for your sake, unless you help him.”

“Help him?  I would die for him!”

“Calm yourself.  Sit down.  To grieve is selfish where one can do better; when all is lost it is time enough for that.  All will be lost a fortnight hence, unless we bestir ourselves.  Hush!  I hear a step in the passage.  Who is that?”

“It is Sol, madam—­Solomon Coe.”

“The man you are to marry, is it not?”

A stifled groan was the girl’s reply.

“I can not speak what I have to say here,” said the other, thoughtfully.  “Is there no other place?  Stay.  I can be ill—­overfatigued with my journey—­and you will come and tend me in my own room presently.  That can be managed, can’t it?”

“Yes, madam, yes.”

“Then wipe your eyes—­be a brave girl.  Think of Richard, and not of yourself—­think of him, when yonder boor is clasping the hand that once rested in his—­think of him, when those alien lips press yours at parting, and be strong!  If I were in your place, he would find that I had not deserted him in his trouble.”

“Desert him, madam?  I?  Oh, never!”

“To be weak is to desert him, girl—­to let yonder man and your father suspect that any friend of Richard’s is beneath this roof is to desert him—­to weep when there is need to work is to desert him.  Did I not tell you I was his own mother; and yet I shed no tears!  Look up, and learn your lesson from me.”

The faces of the two women were indeed in strong contrast—­the younger, yielding, feeble, despairing; the elder, calm, patient of purpose, and inflexible.  Her cheeks were plump, and radiant with health; her form erect and composed; her eyes, indeed, betrayed anxiety, but it was from want of confidence in the person she addressed, not in herself; the white hair seemed to fitly crown that figure, so full of earnestness and firmness.

“I will do my best,” cried the young girl, “though I know I am but weak and foolish.  Pity me, and pray for me.  I am going to the torture, but I will be resolute.  Tell Hannah—­the servant-maid—­that you wish me to attend you in your room.  Send for me soon, for mercy’s sake!  How I long to know how I can help our Richard!”

As she left the room Mrs. Gilbert’s face grew dark.  “A fool! a dolt!” she muttered, angrily.  “How could he risk so much for such a stake!  Oh, Richard!  Richard!”—­her voice began to falter at that well-loved name—­“was this to have been the end of all my hopes?  What fatal issue, then, may not my fears have end in! my beautiful, bright boy!  The only light my lonely life possessed! to think of you as like yourself, and then to think of you as you are now!” She looked around her on the sordid walls, the vulgar ornaments