ship on shipboard. "But, dear friend,' she added, "I don't want him with me. Don't you think I should really do better alone? I believe I could plead more effectively if I had the realisation that I was fighting for Jack's life single-handed; and then we women must be diplomatic, and surely the Governor, being a man, would feel more sympathy for a lone girl in trouble than for a young lady escorted by the strong and forceful Dr. Strowbridge."

"You are quite right as far as most men are concerned," her friend responded, "but my heart sinks when I think of our present Governor. I know him slightly, and frankly I don't like him. To use my boys' slang, I am afraid he has 'no heart, only a gizzard.' He is one of those hard, dry lawyers who look as if they had been fed on musty old books and had printers' ink instead of human blood in their veins. He is tall, solemn, and thin-lipped. I cannot imagine him having a good time or understanding fun even in his boyhood, but I can picture him collecting butterflies and pinning out the poor little things in torture for the satisfaction of scientific research. I don't want to discourage you, but it is best to know, that you may be prepared. If you fail, I will go and tackle him myself. He'll have to receive me

on account of my husband's influence, and he shall listen to all I have to say, once I get into his austere and exalted presence.

The challenge in Mrs. McDonald's voice boded ill for the Governor's peace of mind and comfort if he were unfortunate enough to differ with her opinions.

"Now, dear friend, for I may call you such, may I not?" said Muriel, slipping her hand into the warm grasp that welcomed it; "there is a question on which I want your advice. Should I have more influence if I pleaded this case as Jack Morris's wife, and would not my presence at the prison and my whole position in the case be better and less sensational in the eyes of the world, if I took the step which might also mean a deep well of comfort to the poor boy in his dreadful hour of need?"

There was a long silence. Both women were thinking and perhaps unconsciously their thoughts influenced one the other. Then, very tenderly, the girl's head was drawn down on to the woman's protecting shoulder and she said gently: "Muriel, you have told your story. Have you shown me quite all your heart? Do you love this man absolutely, supremely? Are you quite sure of yourself?"

The answer was slow in coming, and when it did come it was difficult to word. "No, I have not told you all. When the news came to me of his trouble, I had written a letter which, thank God! was never mailed, breaking our engagement. I do love him dearly, better than any man I know, but not up to the capacity of my nature as I have come to womanhood. I found I could love infinitely more, but perhaps had we been together, had he had the chance to woo me that should have been his, he could have called that love into being. Under ordinary circumstances, I should have withdrawn from my engagement, but now all is different, and the very thought that I nearly failed him fills me with remorse. There is nothing I would not do to help him, and as to his lovemasterful and absorbing in its depth—I have no doubt about that."

Another long silence on the piazza. Muriel followed unconsciously the rhythm of the melody from the distant music-room, watched the twinkling stars, drew in the fragrance of the night, and then again with a shock of revulsion realised the contrast so near to her in that barred cell, glaring with electric light, the death-watch sitting close at hand, and the strong man with his face bowed down on his arms, longing, longing unutterably for her presence.

ΙΟ

"Ah, dear friend," she said, "I think my mind is made up. I'll marry him, as soon as it can be arranged, and then I'll have the right to fight for him and to comfort him whatever comes.'

So, though she had asked for advice, she made up her mind without it, and the elder woman, who sat by watching her, had the wisdom to say nothing, for she knew that on some questions each soul must come to its own choice for good or ill and no other human voice dared say behind them, "This is the path; walk ye in it."

WHEN

CHAPTER XI

THE DOCTOR'S POINT OF VIEW

WHEN she reached her hotel next day, Muriel wrote a short note to Gerald Strowbridge, making an appointment, and then went out shopping. That a girl on the eve of a tragic wedding and under the shadow of a dread suspense should care to shop might seem unnatural, and yet, having planned this step for her lover's sake, she intended to make it as hopeful and glad an occasion as circumstances would permit. A dark-robed, weeping bride might fit in with the gloom of the death cells, but it was not her idea of gladdening her lover's dreary days, so she would see to it that her marriage was as wedding-like as she could make it. There was no time for elaborate dressmaking, and she certainly had no heart for it, but she quickly selected what she deemed appropriate, a white cloth suit, and white hat with soft plumes, and gloves and shoes to match. Rather sadly, she thought that the