olent weeping, and swayed to and fro in her
chair. For some time she could not speak, Kellson sat and looked at
her, a vague feeling of uneasiness stirring in him. At length she
became calmer, and sat still--her hands pressed to her face. She stood
up, looked fixedly at Kellson for a moment, and then fell un her knees
before him.

"Save him, save him from the flogging," she said hoarsely, "he is your
son."

Kellson sprang to his feet and looked down at the kneeling woman; his
eyes stony with horror, and his face white and rigid. He knew in a
flash that what she said was true. The face that the prisoner's
reminded him of, and that he could not localise, was his own. Several
peculiarities in the prisoner's appearance now struck him. It was quite
clear--as sure as death and as obvious as his sin. He had sentenced
his own son.

For a. while there was no change in the position of either the man or
the woman. Then the woman swayed forward, and laid her face on the
man's feet.

"Save him, save him," she gasped.

Kellson stooped, lifted her from the ground, and placed her in the
chair. He was struck by her extreme lightness.

"Rachel," he said, "I never knew of this. What can I say to you now
but, 'God help us both--or all three of us.' I can give you no hope,
but come and see me to-morrow morning at the Office."

This seemed to comfort her. She stood up, faltered a "Good night," and
went out of the house with feeble steps.

Kellson sat down in his chair and thought. His brain was quite calm,
and his mind was clear, He heard the rumble of the waggon, and the
voice of the boy shouting to the bullocks as he drove the team. He
stood up, and mechanically seized his hat and stick. He wondered where
the keys of the Office were kept. He would go down to the Office, find
the record, and strike the lashes out of the sentence. No--the sentence
must stand. The one stainless record which his conscience held up to
him, was that of his public life. He had never yet done a deed in his
official capacity of which he was ashamed. He must not, at the close of
his career, be guilty of a dishonourable action. The prisoner richly
deserved his sentence. Let him undergo it.

"At the close of his career." Yes, for Kellson felt that he could no
longer live. His limit of endurance had been reached. Life had for some
years past been a sore burthen, and now he could carry it no longer.
Had he not longed for a child--for a son? Did he not know