’MY DEAR BROTHER,—­I intend leaving Glanyravon, and all my dear relations, to go in search of Howel, who, you know, is my husband; and therefore to be loved and obeyed before any one else.  If I die before I find him, as perhaps I may—­my heart being so bad—­I wish you to see him when he comes back, and to give him the accompanying sealed packet yourself.  Nobody knows how I have loved him all my life, and perhaps if I had been better tempered and less jealous, he might have stayed at home, and not been obliged to go away for debt.  But when I have found him, I will be very loving and patient, and then we shall be happy together again.  If I don’t find him, however—­if I die first—­will you, dear brother, talk to him as you have talked and written to me, and then I may meet him again in a happier world, where I am praying and striving to go, through the atonement of Him who died for sinners—­even for me and Howel, who are both great sinners—­yet not too great to be saved.  Thank you, my dear, dear brother, for showing me the way to heaven, and for all your goodness to me and Minette—­(my poor Minette, I must leave her, but you will all take care of her better than I have done).  Thank you, I am very sorry that I was such a wilful, perverse sister, when you tried to do me good.

     ’God bless you for ever and ever—­you and all—­Your loving but
     afflicted sister, NETTA JENKINS.’

Rowland sat down at one end of the cell, on the iron bedstead and that he might not seem to be watching Howel, took a small Testament from his pocket and began to read.  This, too, he had brought for Howel.  It was the one Netta had used, as long as she lived, and in it she had written, ‘To be given to my dear husband, if I die.—­Netta.’  She had marked many passages, and appended her initials to each of the marks.

Rowland could not read long.  It was impossible not to see the trembling of that iron man who sat before him; the heaving breast and the convulsed hands.  And yet Howel did not read the letter.  He saw the familiar handwriting once more of the only thing he had ever loved—­loved and murdered—­and he sat transfixed before it.

At last Rowland rose, and going to him, put his hand on his shoulder.  He started as if Netta’s spirit had appeared, and looked up wildly.  Seeing Rowland, he struggled for self-possession and again shrouding his face, began to read.

Rowland kept his hand on his shoulder, gently pressing it, as if to assure him of sympathy.  He felt him trembling beneath his touch.

As he stood thus his eye fell on the paper that Howel had had before him when he entered the cell.  He could not help seeing the words, ’From my cell in Newgate—­my judge and jury.’  Underneath this heading appeared to be the commencement of a poem, and beneath that were caricatures of a man in a large wig, and of others, with every variety of nose and chin.

This had been Howel’s occupation within four-and-twenty hours of his conviction!