which the doctor had insisted on for Michael.

"He is twenty-seven."

"And how long has he been in prison?"

"Nearly two years."

"And he has thirteen more," said Fay, looking at Wentworth with wide
eyes blank with horror.

"No," said Wentworth, his voice shaking a little. "No, Michael will not
live long in that swamp, not many years, I think."

"But they will move him to a better climate."

"He does not want to be moved. I should not, either, in his case."

Fay's hands fell to her sides.

"When my mother died," said Wentworth, "I promised her to be good to
Michael. There was no need for me to promise to be good to him. I always
liked him better than anyone else. I taught him to ride and to shoot. He
got his gun up sharp from the first. It's easy to do things for anyone
you like. But what is hard is when the time comes"--Wentworth stopped,
and then went on--"when the time comes that you can't do anything more
for the person you care for most."

Silence.

The yellow butterfly was still feebly trying to open and shut his wings.
The low sun had abandoned him to the encroaching frost, and was touching
the bare overarching branches to palest gold, "so subtly fair, so
gorgeous dim"; so far beyond the reach of tiny wings.

"I don't think," said Wentworth, "I would stick at anything. I don't
know of anything I would not do, anything I would not give up, to get
him back his freedom. But it's no use, I can do nothing for him."

"Oh! Why does not the real murderer confess?" said Fay with a sob,
wringing her hands. "How can he go on, year after year, letting an
innocent man wear out his life in prison, bearing the punishment of his
horrible crime?"

That mysterious murderer occupied a large place in Fay's thoughts. She
hated him with a deadly hatred. He was responsible for everything. That
one crooked channel of thought that persistently turned aside all blame
onto an unknown offender, had at last given a certain crookedness, a
sort of twist, to the whole subject in Fay's mind.

"I begged Michael again for the twentieth time to tell me anything that
could act as a clue to discovering the real criminal," said Wentworth.
"I told him I would spend my last shilling in bringing him to justice,
but he only shook his head. I told him that some of his friends felt
certain that he knew who the murderer was, and was shielding him. He
shook his head again. He would not tell me anything the first day I went
to him after he w