As these thoughts thronged thickly on James Woodruff's mind, he extended himself on his back along the couch of straw; and put up his hands, which were commonly loosed when in his cell, in an attitude of prayer upon his breast. But the contemplated words were momentarily arrested by the light tread of feet along the passage outside. A ray of moonlight from the high-up little window streamed almost perpendicularly down, and fell partly on his bed and partly on the floor, making an oblong figure of white thereon, distinct and sharp-edged, as though light and darkness had been severed as with a knife. A strong reflection from this spot was thrown upon the door, by the aid of which he beheld through the grating that looked into the dark passage a white hand clutching the little bars, and higher up the dim shadow of a face, that looked like that of a spirit. Woodruff rose up, and sat upon the cold edge of his iron bedstead. “James!” whispered a voice through the grating, which he instantly recognised as that of the doctor's wife, “are you awake?” “Would that I were not!” he replied; “for the oblivion of sleep is the only welcome thing to me here.” “My husband has written a paper for you,--will you sign it?” “To set me free?” demanded Woodruff, as he started eagerly up at the very thought, and seemed to show by his signs how gladly he caught at the remotest possibility of deliverance, and how fearful he felt lest it should escape him. “Yes, yes!” exclaimed the lady, hurriedly; “that is the object.” And on receiving, on the part of Woodruff, a passionate assurance of compliance with the proposal, she hastened back as though for the purpose of fetching the paper alluded to.