red in the all but desperate effort of
getting her out of prison.

But there was no one to try and save Lois. Grace Hickson would fain
have ignored her altogether. Such a taint did witchcraft bring upon a
whole family, that generations of blameless life were not at that day
esteemed sufficient to wash it out. Besides, you must remember that
Grace, along with most people of her time, believed most firmly in the
reality of the crime of witchcraft. Poor, forsaken Lois, believed in it
herself, and it added to her terror, for the gaoler, in an unusually
communicative mood, told her that nearly every cell was now full of
witches; and it was possible he might have to put one, if more came, in
with her. Lois knew that she was no witch herself; but not the less did
she believe that the crime was abroad, and largely shared in by
evil-minded persons who had chosen to give up their souls to Satan; and
she shuddered with terror at what the gaoler said, and would have asked
him to spare her this companionship if it were possible. But, somehow,
her senses were leaving her, and she could not remember the right words
in which to form her request, until he had left the place.

The only person who yearned after Lois--who would have befriended her
if he could--was Manasseh: poor, mad Manasseh. But he was so wild and
outrageous in his talk, that it was all his mother could do to keep his
state concealed from public observation. She had for this purpose given
him a sleeping potion; and, while he lay heavy and inert under the
influence of the poppy-tea, his mother bound him with cords to the
ponderous, antique bed in which he slept. She looked broken-hearted
while she did this office, and thus acknowledged the degradation of her
first-born--him of whom she had ever been so proud.

Late that evening, Grace Hickson stood in Lois's cell, hooded and
cloaked up to her eyes. Lois was sitting quite still, playing idly with
a bit of string which one of the magistrates had dropped out of his
pocket that morning. Her aunt was standing by her for an instant or two
in silence, before Lois seemed aware of her presence. Suddenly she
looked up, and uttered a little cry, shrinking away from the dark
figure. Then, as if her cry had loosened Grace's tongue, she began:

'Lois Barclay, did I ever do you any harm?' Grace did not know how
often her want of loving-kindness had pierced the tender heart of the
stranger under her roof; nor did Lois remember it agai