“Do you say he takes no food?”

“Next to none.  It is not to say that he can’t take the regular meals, but we have tried everything we could think of, and it is all much the same.”

“I should like to see him again.  Can I do so?”

“Oh yes, ma’am.  There need be no difficulty about that; but he knows nobody.”

Elton got up to leave.

“I will write to Mr. Strafford,” Mrs. Costello said, “and meantime I will come myself to-morrow, if you can admit me then.”

“Certainly, ma’am, and I am much obliged to you.”

Mrs. Costello sank back into her chair when he was gone, and covered her face with her hands.  Disease and death then would not wait for that trial, to which she had looked as the inevitable first step towards the prisoner’s release.  He was about perhaps to be emancipated in a speedier way than by man’s justice.  But if so, would not he be always supposed guilty?  Would not the blot upon her and her child be ineffaceable?  Whether or not, he must not die alone, untended by those who were nearest to him, and dependent on the charity and kindness of strangers.  She called Lucia, and told her what she had just heard.

“I shall write to Mr. Strafford,” she said, “and if there seems no special reason for doing otherwise, I will wait for his coming before I make any change; but if he cannot come just now, or if I should find it needful for—­for your father’s sake, Lucia, our secret must be told at once.”

At that word “your father” a sudden flush had risen to the cheeks of both mother and child.  They had both been learning lately to think of the father and husband by his rightful titles, but this was perhaps the first time he had been so spoken of; each felt it as the first step towards his full recognition.

Lucia was silent for a moment, and Mrs. Costello asked, “Do you think that is being too hasty?”

“Oh! no, mamma.  I think it should be done at once.  But you will let me go with you?”

“Not to-morrow, darling; perhaps afterwards.”

“Mamma, I ought to go.”

Mrs. Costello in her turn was silent, thinking whether this new emergency ought not to hasten the execution of her plans for Lucia.  Finally, she decided that it ought; but it was with some trepidation that she began the subject.

“I see plainly enough,” she said, with an effort to smile, “that I ought to go, and that my strongest duty at present will be at the jail, but I am not so sure about you.”

“But you do not suppose that I shall let you wear yourself out while I stay at home doing nothing?”

“I wish you to go away for a time.”

“Me!  Away from you?”

“Would it be so hard?”

“Impossible.  I would not leave you for anything.”

“Not even to obey me, Lucia?”

“Mamma, what do you mean?”

“I wish you to go for a little while to England, where you have so often wished to go.”