“Mr. Swartz has been among us long enough to imbibe the spirit and sentiments of our people, but from his action towards this lady, he does not seem to have profited by their example.  A foreigner by birth, he has cast a stigma on his nation, for, with all their faults, I do not believe there is a more charitable people than the German.  I have found it so, in many years of familiar intercourse with them.  But his last act is the one deserving unqualified condemnation.  To tear a mother from the bedside of her dead child—­to incarcerate her in a prison, while the hands of strangers were performing the last sad rites over the dead, is an act that Christianity could never believe, were the evidence not before us, too forcible for denial, too truthful for contradiction.  It is an act that calls for withering rebuke, but we dismiss him with the belief that on the coming of that inevitable Hereafter, he will receive the punishment he so well merits.

“My remarks are now concluded, and the prisoner is discharged from custody.”

There was deep silence for several minutes, during which Harry looked anxiously in the crowd for his friend; but Alfred was nowhere to be seen.  Mrs. Wentworth retained her passive look of indifference, and took no further notice of the curious crowd, which gazed upon her with hearts full of pity and commiseration.  Once or twice she slowly raised her hand and pressed her forehead with it, as if it ached.  But she spoke no word of complaint, nor did she give any other indication of suffering.

Harry was about to remove her from the court, when there was a bustle in the crowd, and the voice of Alfred was heard calling on those around him to give way.  He was followed by Awtry, perfectly unconscious of the cause of his companions agitation.

“Make room there, for God’s sake,” asked Alfred, pressing through the dense mass of men and women.  “Follow me,” he continued, speaking to Awtry.

The men nearest to him, perceiving his excitement, generally surmised the truth, and a low murmur ran through the room that it was the prisoner’s husband, and a passage was quickly made to where Mrs. Wentworth was sitting.

Awtry heard the words, “it is her husband,” and turned back with the intention of leaving, but his arm was quickly seized by Alfred, who, still concealing his intention, simply said, “Come on; I will find a passage for us.”  He hesitated an instant, but, believing his appearance sufficiently disguised to prevent Mrs. Wentworth from recognizing him, he determined to risk proceeding, in the hope of escaping discovery.

At last Alfred was by the side of his wife—­the soldier had met her he loved for the first time in nearly two years.  Silently and sadly he gazed at her changed appearance, and the briny tears slowly trickled down the soldier’s cheeks as he noted her sunken features.  At last he spoke.

“Eva!” he said, in a voice that trembled with emotion, “my wife! my darling wife! do you not know me?”