Isaac Masters had now been locked up six weeks.  He had not yet heard from home, and had only written once.  About noon, one day, the keeper came to tell him that a woman wished to see him.  Isaac thought that it was his mother, and the shame of meeting her in the guard-room surrounded by tiers upon tiers of murderers and thieves and petty criminals overcame him.  The man of strength sat down on his cot, and putting his hands over his white face, trembled violently.  The guard, who knew that Isaac was an innocent man, spoke to him kindly.

“Go! go!” said the prisoner in a voice of agony, “and tell my mother that I will be right there.”

“Mother!” ejaculated the guard.  “She’s the youngest mother for a man of your size I ever see.”  He winked at the sailor, and went.

Then Isaac knew that it was Abbie, who had come alone, and he tightened his teeth and lips together, and went down.

Isaac slowly came down the perforated iron stairs that were attached to his prison wing like an inside fire-escape.  On the bench in the middle of the guard-room sat Abbie—­a little, helpless thing she seemed to him—­facing the entrance, as if she feared to remove her eyes from the door that led to freedom.

Abbie was greatly changed.  She was dressed in black.  If Isaac had been a free man, this fact would have startled him.  As it was, he was so spent with suffering that his dulled mind could not understand it.  At first Abbie did not recognize her hearty lover.  His huge frame was gaunt and wasted.  His ruddy face was white, and his cheeks hung in folds like moulded putty.  His country clothes dropped about him aimlessly.  From crown to foot he had been devastated by unmerited disgrace.  Grief may glorify; but the other ravages.

This meeting between the lovers was singularly undramatic.  Each shrank a little from the other.  They shook hands quietly.  His was burning; her’s like a swamp in October dew.  He sat down beside her on the bench awkwardly, while the deputy looked at them with careless curiosity.  He was used to nothing but tragedy and crime, and to his experienced mind the two had become long ago confused.

“Mother?” asked Isaac, nervously moving his feet.  “Didn’t she get my letter?”

The girl nodded gravely, tried to meet his eyes, and then looked away.  Tears fell unresisted down her cheeks.  She made no attempt to wipe them off.  It was as if she were too well acquainted with them to check their flow.

Then the truth began to filter through Isaac’s bewebbed intellect.  He spread his knees apart, rested his arms upon them, and bent his head to his hands.  His great figure shook.

“Oh, my God!” he sobbed.  “My God!  My God!”

“Oh, don’t, Isaac, don’t!” Abbie put her hand upon his head as if he had been her boy.  “Your mother was as happy as could be.  She was happy to die.  We buried her yesterday!”

How could she tell him that his mother had died of grief—­too sorely smitten to bear it—­for his sake?