“The poor child had on a mourning dress, but I was not aware you sent it.  Losing her mother seems almost to have broken her heart.  Poor Ellice Darrington!  Petted and fostered like a hot-house flower, and then to die a pauper in a hospital!  What an awful retribution for her disobedience to her parents?  There is the bell.”

“Yes, Auntie, and I must ask you to excuse me.  Some of my Sunday-school class are coming to practise their carols, and conclude a little holiday preparation, and I hear them now on the steps.”

“Did Mitchell show you Leighton’s telegram?”

“He told me the good news, that at the last moment Leighton had filled his pulpit for the holidays, and would preach for us on Christmas.  How delightfully it will revive the dear old days to have him back?  Fancy our hanging up our stockings once more at the foot of Uncle Mitchell’s bed!  Your letter must have been eloquent, indeed, to entice him from the splendors of the metropolis, to the yule log at our quiet ‘Lilacs’; and his coming is a tribute of gratitude to you, for all your loving care of him.  I know you are so happy at the thought of taking the Holy Communion from the hand of your dear boy, that it will consecrate this Christmas above all others; and I congratulate you heartily, dear Aunt Patty.”

It was late in the afternoon of Saturday, Christmas Eve, when Leo knocked at the door of Mrs. Singleton’s room.  A dispirited expression characterized the countenance usually serene and happy, and between her brows a perpendicular line marked the advent of anxious foreboding.  Her hopeful scheme had dissolved, vanished like a puff of steam on icy air, leaving only a teazing memory of mocking failure.  Judge Dent’s conference with the District Solicitor, had convinced him of the futility of any attempt to secure bail; moreover, a message from the prisoner earnestly exhorted them to abandon all intercessory designs in her behalf, as she would not accept release on bail, and preferred to await her trial.

“Good evening, Miss Gordon.  If you want to see her, Ned will show you the way to the chapel, where I left her a while ago.  Since her mother’s death, the only comfort she gets, is from the organ; so we let her go there very often.  I would go with you, but I want to finish a black shawl I am crocheting for her.”

The warden escorted his visitor through the chill dim corridors that had formerly so appalled Beryl’s soul, and upon the steps of the chapel, both paused to listen.  On the small cabinet organ, a skilful hand was playing a grand and solemn aria, which Leo had heard once before in the cool depths of Freiburg Cathedral.  It had impressed her then most powerfully, as the despairing invocation of some doomed Titan; to-day it thrilled her with keen and intolerable pain.  Waving the warden back, she softly entered the chapel, closed the door, and sat down.