In the intensity of her dread, she fell upon her knees, and lifted her hands imploringly; and the anguish in her white quivering face was so piteous that the man turned his head away.

“I would oblige you if I could, but it is impossible.  The law is cruel, as you say, but it is intended as a terror to evil-doers.  Things look awfully black for you, but all the same I am sorry for you, if your mother is to suffer for your deeds.  If you wish to write to her, I will see that she receives your note; but you have very little time left.”

“O God! how hard!  What a foul, horrible wrong inflicted upon the innocent!”

She cowered on the floor, unconscious that she still knelt; seeing only the suffering woman in that dreary attic across the river, where sunken feverish eyes watched for her return.

Accidentally Beryl’s gaze fell on the bunch of faded chrysanthemums which had dropped unnoticed on the floor, and snatching them she buried her face in their petals.  Their perfume was the potent spell that now melted her to tears, and the tension of her overtaxed nerves gave way in a passionate burst of sobs.  When she rose a few moments later, the storm had passed; the face regained its stony rigidity, and henceforth she fronted fate with an unnatural calmness.

“Will you give me some paper and a pen?”

“You can write here at the desk.”

Mrs. Foster approached her, and said hesitatingly: 

“Would it comfort you at all, for me to go and see your mother and explain why you could not return to her?  I am very sorry for you, poor thing.”

“Thank you, but—­you could not explain, and the sight of a stranger would startle her.  In one way you can help me; do you know Dr. Grantlin of New York?”

“Only by reputation; but I can find him.”

“Will you deliver into his hand the note I am writing?”

“I certainly will.”

“How soon?”

“Before nine o’clock to-night.”

“Thank you—­a thousand times.”

After a while she folded a sheet containing these words: 

“Dear Dr. Grantlin: 

“In the extremity of my distress, I appeal to you as a Christian gentleman, as a true physician, a healer of the suffering, and under God, the guardian of my mother’s life.  You know why I went to my grandfather.  He gave me the money, one hundred dollars, and some valuable jewels.  When in sight of home, I have been arrested on the charge of having murdered my grandfather, and stolen his will.  Need I tell you that I am as innocent as you are?  The thought of my mother is the bitterest drop in my cup of shame and sorrow.  You can judge best, how much it may be expedient to tell her, and you can devise the kindest method of breaking the truth, if she must know it.  Have her removed to the hospital, and do not postpone the operation.  O Doctor! be pitiful, be tender to her, and do not let her need any little comforts.  Some day I will pay you for all expenses incurred in her behalf, but at present I have not a dollar, as the money has been seized.  I am sure you will not deny my prayer, and may God reward and bless you, for your mercy to my precious mother.