eyes sustained the general gaze without flinching.
To the surprise of the women present, she had brought her two young
children with her to the trial. The eldest was a pretty little girl of
ten years old; the second child (a boy) sat on his mother's knee. It was
generally observed that Mrs. Westerfield took no notice of her eldest
child. When she whispered a word from time to time, it was always
addressed to her son. She fondled him when he grew restless; but she
never looked round to see if the girl at her side was as weary of the
proceedings as the boy.

The judge took his seat, and the order was given to bring the prisoner
up for judgment.

There was a long pause. The audience--remembering his ghastly face when
he first appeared before them--whispered to each other, "He's taken
ill"; and the audience proved to be right.

The surgeon of the prison entered the witness-box, and, being duly
sworn, made his medical statement.

The prisoner's heart had been diseased for some time past, and the
malady had been neglected. He had fainted under the prolonged suspense
of waiting for the verdict. The swoon had proved to be of such a serious
nature that the witness refused to answer for consequences if a second
fainting-fit was produced by the excitement of facing the court and the
jury.

Under these circumstances, the verdict was formally recorded, and
sentence was deferred. Once more, the spectators looked at the
prisoner's wife.

She had risen to leave the court. In the event of an adverse verdict,
her husband had asked for a farewell interview; and the governor of the
prison, after consultation with the surgeon, had granted the request. It
was observed, when she retired, that she held her boy by the hand, and
left the girl to follow. A compassionate lady near her offered to take
care of the children while she was absent. Mrs. Westerfield answered
quietly and coldly: "Thank you--their father wishes to see them."

The prisoner was dying; nobody could look at him and doubt it.

His eyes opened wearily, when his wife and children approached the bed
on which he lay helpless--the wreck of a grandly-made man. He struggled
for breath, but he could still speak a word or two at a time. "I don't
ask you what the verdict is," he said to his wife; "I see it in your
face."

Tearless and silent, she waited by her husband's side. He had only
noticed her for a moment. All his interest seemed to be centered in his
children. The gi