ock up the prison for the night.

"Is it not possible that I remain with my wife to-night? You see her
condition," said Lyon Berners, appealing to the sheriff and the warden,
and pointing to poor Sybil, whose wildly dilated eyes were fixed upon
vacancy, while her fingers idly played with the gray curls of the little
Skye terrier on her lap.

"Mr. Berners, my heart bleeds at refusing you anything in this hour of
bitter sorrow; but--" began the sheriff.

"I see! I see! You cannot grant my request! I should have known it and
refrained from asking," interrupted Lyon Berners.

At this point Beatrix Pendleton, who had been sitting beside Sybil,
deliberately took off her gloves, bonnet, and lace shawl, and laid them
on a table near, saying quietly,

"I shall stay with my friend. Mr. Martin, I don't think you will turn
me out in the storm to-night. And, Mr. Sheriff, I _know_ that
women-friends are often permitted to be in the cell with women
prisoners."

"Miss Pendleton," said the sheriff, before the warden could speak,
"there is not the slightest objection to your remaining with your
friend, if you please to do so. Women in her sad position are always
allowed a female companion in the cell. It is usually, however, a female
warder."

"Thank you, Mr. Fortescue! I will be Sybil's warder, or her
fellow-prisoner, as you please, that is, with Mr. Martin's consent. He
has not spoken yet," said Beatrix, appealing to the warden.

"My dear young lady, I would no more turn you out in the storm, as you
call it, then I would turn my own daughter out. Of course you will stay
if you please, though, bless my heart, the trouble is usually to keep
people here, not to send them away. They come unwillingly enough. They
go away gladly," said the old man.

"My dear Beatrix, you do well! you do nobly!" whispered her brother,
pressing her hand.

"Miss Pendleton, how shall I thank you? May the Lord, who makes up all
our shortcomings, reward you infinitely!" said Lyon Berners, fervently
pressing her hand.

"I think we had better end this interview now," whispered the sheriff.

Lyon Berners turned to look at his wife. She was still sitting in the
same dreamy, abstracted, unconscious manner.

"Sybil, my darling, good-night," he said, stooping and kissing her.

"Why," she exclaimed, with a nervous start, "where are you going?"

"Listen, dear," said Lyon, gently. "Mr. Martin has got but one spare
room, and that must be appropriated to yo