The judge passed sentence of death upon the prisoner in the usual form, and Gregson, who did not display the slightest emotion, was taken back to Broxwill gaol. Jane Ryan, who had borne up with wonderful firmness and fortitude throughout the trial, now gave way. When the sentence was passed she swooned, and was carried out of court in a state of insensibility. “Poor gal,” said Richard Ashbrook; “we none of us know what it has cost her to get through this day’s business. Poor lass! it’s the recollection of her sweetheart that’s done this. It can’t be any sympathy she feels for that miscreant.” “Ah! no――for it aint that as does it,” said a female attendant. “The poor dear soul has nerved herself up to go through a trying part, and she’s broken down now it’s over. It’s a chance if she ever overgets this day’s business.” “She’s none of your weak sort of bodies,” observed the farmer. “Jane’ got a brave heart.” “May be she has, sir; but the bravest of us are a little overcome at times,” returned the woman. With care and attention Jane Ryan was soon sufficiently restored to be taken by the good-hearted farmer and his relatives to Oakfield House. She was with good kind friends, who strove in every possible way to restore her to her wonted health and spirits. But a canker worm was at her heart. And those about her acknowledged to themselves that she was no longer the same Jane whom they had known in an earlier day. * * * * * * * There were but a few grains of sand remaining in Time’s hour-glass for the hardened criminal, Gregson. The morning of his execution was at hand. Let us visit the street before Broxwill gaol before the fatal day. It was Sunday night, at eleven o’clock; the public-houses had closed and forced the people into the air, which was rain――into the street which was mud. A vast crowd was already collected before the gaol, and were watching the ominous preparations for to-morrow. The new act for carrying out the last dread penalty of the law within the precincts of the gaol had not as yet passed, and the public were permitted to see the last throes of the doomed. Now, even the representatives of the press are denied that privilege. There were lanterns placed at intervals of several yards down the whole length of the street. Dark shadows might be seen flitting round these lights. The harsh sound of iron striking stone rose in the air. They were digging holes in the ground with picks and iron crowbars. At the end of the street, at the farther extremity of the prison, there was a yard surrounded with iron spikes. The door of this yard was open, lights trembled in its mysterious depths. A group of men and women stood near it; a policeman was stationed at each side of the door. Occasionally men carrying large iron bars and wooden posts passed out. These, planted in the ground, were formed into a barrier that the mob might be kept at a certain distance from the scene of execution.