Drifting along the stream of testimony that rolled in front of the jury-box, an eager and excited public had with scarcely a dissenting voice arrived at the conclusion, that the verdict was narrowed to the limits of only two possibilities.  It was confidently expected that the jury would either acquit unconditionally, or fail to agree; thus prolonging suspense, by a mistrial.  It was six o’clock when, the jurors, bearing the andiron, handkerchief, pipe, and a diagram of the bedroom at “Elm Bluff”, were led away to their final deliberation; yet so well assured was the mass of spectators, that they would promptly return to render a favorable verdict, that despite the inclemency of the weather, there was no perceptible diminution of the anxious crowd of men and women.

The night had settled prematurely down, black and stormy; and though the fury of the gale seemed at one time to have spent itself, the wind veered to the implacable east, and instead of fitful gusts, a steady roaring blast freighted with rain smote the darkness.  The officer conducted his prisoner across the dim corridor, and opened the door of the small anteroom, which frequent occupancy had rendered gloomily familiar.

“I wish I could make you more comfortable, and it is a shame to shut you up in such an ice-box.  I will throw my overcoat on the floor, and you can wrap your feet up in it.  Yes, you must take it.  I shall keep warm at the stove in the Sheriff’s room.  The Judge will not wait later than ten o’clock, then I’ll take you back to Mrs. Singleton.  It seems you prefer to remain here alone.”

“Yes, entirely alone.”

“You are positive, you won’t try a little hot punch, or a glass of wine?”

“Thank you, but I wish only to be alone.”

“Don’t be too down-hearted.  You will never be convicted under that indictment, at least not by this jury, for I have a suspicion that there is one man among them, who will stand out until the stars fall, and I will tell you why.  I happened to be looking at him, when your Christmas card was shown by Mr. Dunbar.  The moment he saw it, he started, stretched out his hand, and as he looked at it, I saw him choke up, and pass his hand over his eyes.  Soon after Christmas, that man lost his only child, a girl five years old, who had scarlet fever.  To divert her mind, they gave her a Christmas card to play with, that some friend had sent to her mother.  She had it in her hand when she died, in convulsions, and it was put in her coffin and buried with her.  My wife helped to nurse and shroud her, and she told me it was the card shown in court; it was your card.  The law can’t cut out the heartstrings of the jury, and I don’t believe that man would lift his hand against your life, any sooner than he would strike the face of his dead child.”

He locked the door, and Beryl found herself at last alone, in the dreary little den where a single gas burner served only to show the surrounding cheerlessness.  The furniture comprised a wooden bench along the wall, two chairs, and a table in the middle of the floor; and on the dusty panes of the grated window, a ray of ruddy light from a lamp post in the street beneath, broke through the leaden lances of the rain, and struggled for admission.