ended.

"What her object could have been in putting these questions, it seems to
be impossible to guess. Having accurately reported all that took place,
the Chaplain declares, with heartfelt regret, that he can exert no
religious influence over this obdurate woman. He leaves it to the
Governor to decide whether the Minister of the Congregational Church may
not succeed, where the Chaplain of the Jail has failed. Herein is the
one last hope of saving the soul of the Prisoner, now under sentence of
death!"

In those serious words the Memorandum ended. Although not personally
acquainted with the Minister I had heard of him, on all sides, as an
excellent man. In the emergency that confronted us he had, as it seemed
to me, his own sacred right to enter the prison; assuming that he
was willing to accept, what I myself felt to be, a very serious
responsibility. The first necessity was to discover whether we might
hope to obtain his services. With my full approval the Chaplain left me,
to state the circumstances to his reverend colleague.

CHAPTER III. THE CHILD APPEARS.

During my friend's absence, my attention was claimed by a sad
incident--not unforeseen.

It is, I suppose, generally known that near relatives are admitted to
take their leave of criminals condemned to death. In the case of the
Prisoner now waiting for execution, no person applied to the authorities
for permission to see her. I myself inquired if she had any relations
living, and if she would like to see them. She answered: "None that
I care to see, or that care to see me--except the nearest relation of
all."

In those last words the miserable creature alluded to her only child, a
little girl (an infant, I should say), who had passed her first year's
birthday by a few months. The farewell interview was to take place on
the mother's last evening on earth; and the child was now brought into
my rooms, in charge of her nurse.

I had seldom seen a brighter or prettier little girl. She was just able
to walk alone, and to enjoy the first delight of moving from one place
to another. Quite of her own accord she came to me, attracted I daresay
by the glitter of my watch-chain. Helping her to climb on my knee, I
showed the wonders of the watch, and held it to her ear. At that past
time, death had taken my good wife from me; my two boys were away at
Harrow School; my domestic life was the life of a lonely man. Whether
I was reminded of the bygone days when my