At every sound she started up, nervous and morbidly apprehensive.  The grating of the key in the iron door had given her a sense of relief and refuge.  The massive bars that shut her in also shut out the brutal and criminal, who were associated with a prison in her mind; the thoughts of whom had filled her very soul with terror, when she was first arrested.  As it was early in the evening she happened to be the first prisoner, and she prayed that there might be no others, for the possibility that some foul, drunken man might be thrust into an adjoining cell made her flesh creep.  How many long, sleepless hours must pass before morning could bring any hope of release!  And yet she dreaded the coming day unspeakably, for her path to freedom lay through a police court, with all its horrible publicity.  Her name might get into the papers, and proud Mrs. Arnold treasure up every scrap of such intelligence about her.  The tidings of her shame might be sent to her who as Miss Wetheridge had been her friend, and even she would shrink from one around whom clung such disgraceful associations.  Again and again she asked herself, How could the charge against her be met?  How could the family live without her?  What would become of them?  Belle, alas, would be rendered utterly reckless, because hopeless.  The unhappy prisoner was far beyond tears.  Even her faith in God failed her, for, seemingly, He had left her the victim of cruel wrong and unredeemed misfortune.  With her hot, dry eyes buried in her hands she sat motionless and despairing, and the moments passed like hours.

At this crisis in her despair Roger’s note was handed to her, and it was like the north star suddenly shining out on one who is benighted and lost.  It again kindled hope, without which mind and body give way in fatal dejection.  She kissed the missive passionately, murmuring, with eyes heavenward, “If he can clear my name from dishonor, if he will rescue my loved ones from the poverty and shame which are now threatening such terrible evils, I will make any sacrifice that he can ask.  I will crush out my old vain love, if I die in the effort.  My heart shall not prove a traitor to those who are true and loyal at such a time.  He can save mamma, Belle, and the children from hopeless poverty, and perhaps destruction.  If he will, and it is his wish, I’ll give all there is left of my unhappy self.  I will be his loyal wife—­would to God I could be his loving wife!  Oh, would to God he had loved Belle instead of me!  I could be devotion itself as his sister.  But surely I can banish my old fond dream—­which was never more than a dream—­when one so deserving, so faithful, is willing to give me his strong, helpful hand.  We are both very young; it will be years before—­before—­and, surely, in so long a time, I can conquer my infatuation for one who has left me all these dreary months without a word.  A woman’s heart cannot be proof against reason, gratitude, and the sacred duty owed