ought my friendship, or
manifested for me the least regard. When I was but a child, and you
first visited our family, I was attracted towards you, less by your
gentle manners than your strong, controlling will. Had you shown as much
interest in me as you did in Helen, you might have had a wondrous
influence on my character. You might have saved me from that which is
destroying me. But it is all past. You slighted me, and lavished all
your care on Helen. Every one cared for Helen more than me, and my heart
grew colder and colder to her and all who loved her. What I have since
felt, and why I have felt it for others, God only knows. Others! Why
should I say others? There never was but one--and that one, the false
felon, whom I once believed an angel of light. And he, even he has
thrown my heart back bleeding at my feet, for the love he bears to
Helen."

"Which Helen values not," said the young doctor, half in assertion and
half in interrogation.

"No, no," she replied, "a counter influence has saved her from the
misery and shame."

Mittie paused, clasped her hands together, and pressed them tightly on
her bosom.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "it is no metaphor, when they talk of arrows
piercing the breast. I feel them here."

Her countenance expressed physical suffering as well as mental agony.
She shivered with cold one moment, the next glowed with feverish heat.

Arthur took off his cloak, and folded it round her, and she offered no
resistance. She was sinking into that passive state, which often
succeeds too high-wrought emotion.

"You are very kind," said she, "but _you_ will suffer."

"No--I am accustomed to brave the elements. But if you think I suffer,
let us hasten to a warmer region. Give me your hand."

Firmly grasping it, he extinguished the lamp, and in total darkness they
left the cell, groped through the long, narrow passage, down the winding
stairs, at the foot of which was the jailer's room. Arthur was familiar
with this gloomy dwelling, so often had he visited it on errands of
mercy and compassion. It was not the first time he had been entrusted
with the key of the cells, though he suspected that it would be the
last. The keeper, only half awakened, received the key, locked his own
door, and went back to his bed, muttering that "there were not many men
to be trusted, but the young doctor was one."

When Arthur and Mittie emerged from the dark prison-house into the
clear, still moonlight, (for the moo