It was as if she had suddenly turned a new page within her heart, and read thereon something which was to make her life in the future more beautiful and sacred, and yet which brought with the knowledge something of regret for the bright and careless days now gone forever. She remembered that this was Earle’s first day in prison—the first of those long, long three years—and the tears sprang to her eyes, a sob trembled on her lips. It was only a few hours since she had seen him, but it seemed as if weeks had passed; and, if they had been so long to her, what must they have been to him? Could he ever endure it? Could she ever wait with patience so long? She could not go to him—he had said he could not bear to have her see him there—and so she had nothing to do but wait. “But I will not forget him,” she murmured; “let papa say what he may, I have promised to be a friend to him, and I shall keep my promise. He has no one in all the world, or seems to have no one, save Uncle Richard and me. Every week I will send him something, just to let him know that there is one, at least, who cares a little and is sorry for him.” CHAPTER IV THE GREAT UNKNOWN A year went by. To Editha Dalton it seemed to fly as if with magic wings, for she was yet a school-girl, and this last year was filled with study and practice, and with all the bustle and excitement attendant upon preparing for graduating. To Earle Wayne it passed in a slow, tedious, monotonous manner, with its changeless daily routine to and from the workshops and simple meals; its never-varying sights and sounds, bolts and bars. But notwithstanding he grew intensely wearied with all this, and oftentimes even heart-sick, yet his courage and his purpose never wavered. Every day was filled to the last moment with usefulness. Every day, when his task was completed, he drew forth his book and spent the remaining hours in study, storing his mind, increasing his knowledge of his chosen profession and preparing to carve out for himself a future which, in spite of his present misfortune, he fondly hoped would command the respect of all who knew or should ever know him. He was cheerful and patient, performed his tasks with alacrity, and without the grumbling so usual among convicts; and, by his never-varying courtesy and good behavior, he won for himself the commendation of the officers, the good-will of his companions, and, better than all, the days of grace allotted to those who are not reprimanded. Every week on Saturday—the day on which any one may receive remembrances from their friends in the way of fruit, flowers, and other delicacies—there came to him some little token, that made his heart beat and thrill with pleasure. Sometimes it was a simple bunch of rosebuds, which, expanding day by day, blossomed at length into full glory, cheering and filling his gloomy cell with their beauty and fragrance.