eaven, dark and dismal as they are. The Saviour will
come and dwell with you, if you only look up to him in penitence and
faith; and he will make them blissful with his presence. He went into
the den of lions. He walked through the fiery furnace. He can rend these
iron doors and give you the glorious liberty of the children of God. If
I could only speak as I feel, if I only knew how to convince and
persuade;--but alas! my tongue is weak, my words are cold. Richard will
you not help me?"

"If he will not listen to you, Gabriella, he would not be persuaded
though an angel spoke."

"Why do you care about my soul?" asked the prisoner, lifting his head
from his knees, and rolling his bloodshot eyes upon me.

"Because you are my father," I answered,--overcoming my trepidation, and
speaking with fervor and energy,--"because my mother prayed for you, and
my Saviour died for you."

"Your mother!" he exclaimed; "who was she, that she should pray for me?"

"My mother!" I repeated, fearing his mind was becoming unsettled; "if
you have forgotten her, I do not wish to recall her."

"I remember now,--her name was Rosalie," he said, and a strange
expression passed over his countenance. "I was thinking of my poor
Theresa."

He looked at Richard as he spoke, and something like parental tenderness
softened his features. Degraded as he was, unworthy as it seemed he must
ever have been of woman's love, I could not help a pang of exquisite
pain at the thought of my mother's being forgotten, while Theresa was
remembered with apparent tenderness. When I met him in the Park, he
expressed exceeding love for me for her sake,--he spoke of her as the
beloved of his youth, as the being whose loss had driven him to
desperation and made him the wretch and outcast he was. And now, no
chord of remembrance vibrated at her name, no ray of fondness for her
child played upon the sacrifice I was offering. It was a sordid
deception then,--his pretended tenderness,--to gain access to my
husband's gold; and I turned, heart-sick and loathing away. As I did so,
I caught a glimpse of a book that looked like the Bible on a little
table, between the bed and the wall. With an involuntary motion I
reached forward and opened it.

"I am so glad," I cried, looking at Richard. "I wanted to bring one; but
I thought I would ask permission."

"Yes," exclaimed St. James, with a ghastly smile, "we all have Bibles, I
believe. Like the priest's blessing, they cost not