hours of the night if she made the attempt.  She went up to the porter’s lodge, and asked the little girl sweeping out the place if she might see Abraham Dixon.  The child stared at her, and ran into the house, bringing out her father, a great burly man, who had not yet donned either coat or waistcoat, and who, consequently, felt the morning air as rather nipping.  To him Ellinor repeated her question.

“Him as is to be hung come Saturday se’nnight?  Why, ma’am, I’ve nought to do with it.  You may go to the governor’s house and try; but, if you’ll excuse me, you’ll have your walk for your pains.  Them in the condemned cells is never seen by nobody without the sheriff’s order.  You may go up to the governor’s house and welcome; but they’ll only tell you the same.  Yon’s the governor’s house.”

Ellinor fully believed the man, and yet she went on to the house indicated, as if she still hoped that in her case there might be some exception to the rule, which she now remembered to have heard of before, in days when such a possible desire as to see a condemned prisoner was treated by her as a wish that some people might have, did have—­people as far removed from her circle of circumstances as the inhabitants of the moon.  Of course she met with the same reply, a little more abruptly given, as if every man was from his birth bound to know such an obvious regulation.

She went out past the porter, now fully clothed.  He was sorry for her disappointment, but could not help saying, with a slight tone of exultation:  “Well, you see I was right, ma’am!”

She walked as nearly round the castle as ever she could, looking up at the few high-barred windows she could see, and wondering in what part of the building Dixon was confined.  Then she went into the adjoining churchyard, and sitting down upon a tombstone, she gazed idly at the view spread below her—­a view which was considered as the lion of the place, to be shown to all strangers by the inhabitants of Hellingford.  Ellinor did not see it, however; she only saw the blackness of that fatal night, the hurried work—­the lanterns glancing to and fro.  She only heard the hard breathing of those who are engaged upon unwonted labour; the few hoarse muttered words; the swaying of the branches to and fro.  All at once the church clock above her struck eight, and then pealed out for distant labourers to cease their work for a time.  Such was the old custom of the place.  Ellinor rose up, and made her way back to Mr. Johnson’s house in High Street.  The room felt close and confined in which she awaited her interview with Mr. Johnson, who had sent down an apology for having overslept himself, and at last made his appearance in a hurried half-awakened state, in consequence of his late hospitality of the night before.

“I am so sorry I gave you all so much trouble last night,” said Ellinor, apologetically.  “I was overtired, and much shocked by the news I heard.”