“You are sad,” said Faustina.  “It is not for me—­what is it?”

“No.  It is not for you, dear child.”

Corona looked at the young girl for a moment and tried to smile.  Then she rose from the chair and turned away, pretending to trim the brass oil-lamp with the little metal snuffers that hung from it by a chain.  The tears blinded her.  She rested her hands upon the table and bent her head.  Faustina watched her in surprise, then slipped from her place on the bed and stood beside her, looking up tenderly into the sad dark eyes from which the crystal drops welled up and trickled down, falling upon the rough deal boards.

“What is it, dear?” asked the young girl.  “Will you not tell me!”

Corona turned and threw her arms round her, pressing her to her breast, almost passionately.  Faustina did not understand what was happening.

“I never saw you cry before!” she exclaimed in innocent astonishment, as she tried to brush away the tears from her friend’s face.

“Ah Faustina!  There are worse things in the world than you are suffering, child!”

Then she made a great effort and overcame the emotion that had taken possession of her.  She was ashamed to have played such a part when she had come to the place to give comfort to another.

“It is nothing,” she said, after a moment’s pause.  “I think I am nervous—­at least, I am very foolish to let myself cry when I ought to be taking care of you.”

A long silence followed, which was broken at last by the nun, who entered the room, bringing such poor food as the place afforded.  She repeated her assurance that Faustina’s arrest was the result of a mistake, and that she would be certainly liberated in the morning.  Then, seeing that the two friends appeared to be preoccupied, she bade them good-night and went away.

It was the longest night Corona remembered to have ever passed.  For a long time they talked a little, and at length Faustina fell asleep, exhausted by all she had suffered, while Corona sat beside her, watching her regular breathing and envying her ability to rest.  She herself could not close her eyes, though she could not explain her wakefulness.  At last she lay down upon the other bed and tried to forget herself.  After many hours she lost consciousness for a time, and then awoke suddenly, half stifled by the sickening smell of the lamp which had gone out, filling the narrow room with the odour of burning oil.  It was quite dark, and the profound silence was broken only by the sound of Faustina’s evenly-drawn breath.  The poor child was too weary to be roused by the fumes that had disturbed Corona’s rest.  But Corona rose and groped her way to the window, which she opened as noiselessly as she could.  Heavy iron bars were built into the wall upon the outside, and she grasped the cold iron with a sense of relief as she looked out at the quiet stars, and tried to distinguish the trees which, as she knew,