s she looked on him. Surely it was a face that
never, in any excess of passion, could have looked malignance. Ah! and
at such a price he purchased his sunshine, the fresh air, and a near
vision of this flower-garden!--in chains!

When she looked at him, his gaze was on her,--not upon the roses. She
smiled, for pity's sake; but the smile met no return. His countenance
had not the habit of responding to such glances. Sombre as death was
that face. Then Elizabeth turned hastily away; but as the keeper also
moved on a step, she detained him with a hurried "Wait a minute," and
went on plucking the finest flowers in bloom. Like an iron statue stood
the prisoner while she plucked the roses,--it was but a minute's
work,--then she tied the flowers together and laid them on his fettered
hands; whether he would refuse them, whether the gift pained or pleased
him, whether the keeper approved, she seemed afraid to know,--for,
having given the flowers, she went away in haste.

It was not long after this first act of friendly courtesy, which had
many a repetition,--for the keeper was at bottom a humane man, and not
disposed to persecute his charge, while he was equally far from any
carelessness in guarding or leniency of treatment that would have
excited suspicion as to his purpose, in the minds of the authorities of
the island,--not long after this day, when the fine sympathy betrayed
for him by Elizabeth fell on Manuel's heart like dew, that the wife of
the jailer died.

Her death was sudden and unlooked-for, though neither Nature nor the
woman could have been blamed for the shock poor Laval experienced.
Death had fairly surrounded her, disarming her at every point, so that
when he called her there was no resistance.

Jailer Laval took the bereavement in a remorseful mood. The first thing
to be done now was the very last he would have owned to purposing
during her life-time. Release from that prison had been the woman's
prayer, year in and year out, these ten years, and Death was the bearer
of the answer to that prayer,--not her husband.

But now, from the day of her sudden decease, the prison had become to
him dreary beyond endurance. The mantle of her discontent fell on him,
and, having no other confidant beside honest, stupid Sandy, he talked
to him like a man who seriously thought of abandoning his labor, and
retiring to that land across the sea for which his wife had pined
during ten homesick years.

Sandy, who might hav