It was the last of October when they left Newport, and the twenty-third of December was the day set for Earle Wayne’s release from prison. He had entered the tenth of April, but, according to the State law, a prisoner was allowed two days of mercy in every month for prompt obedience to the rules of the institution and the faithful performance of all duties; consequently he had gained during the three years, three months and eighteen days. Editha knew of this through Mr. Forrester, and Earle Wayne himself did not keep a more accurate account of his time than did the fair, brave girl who, despite everything, was so true and firm a friend to him. The first duty upon returning to her home was to write him a little note. “MR. WAYNE,” it ran, a little formal, perhaps, on account of Mr. Dalton’s sneers and insinuations, “in about two months I shall expect to shake hands with you once more. Will you come directly to my home at that time, as I have an important message for you, also a package belonging to you and left in my care by Uncle Richard, just before he died? Ever your friend, “EDITHA DALTON.” When this note was handed to Earle, and he instantly recognized the handwriting, every particle of color forsook his face, his hand trembled, and a mist gathered before his eyes. He had not seen that writing since his lovely flowers had ceased to come, and its familiar characters aroused so many emotions that for the moment he was nearly unmanned. He thrust it hastily into his bosom, for he could not open it with so many eyes upon him, and there it lay all day long against his beating heart, waiting to be opened when he could be alone and unobserved. When at last he did break the seal and read it, it was sadly disappointing. It seemed cold and distant—a mere formal request to come and get what belonged to him and receive the message (doubtless something regarding his studies) which Richard Forrester had left for him. His heart was full of bitterness, for since Mr. Forrester’s death he had not seen a single friendly face or received one word of kindly remembrance from any one. He could not forget Editha’s long neglect of him—the long, weary months, during which she had promised to send him some token, and none had come. She had other cares and pleasures; her time was probably occupied by her fashionable friends and acquaintances, and it could not be expected that she would give much thought to a miserable convict; doubtless she would not have remembered him now had it not been a duty she owed to the wishes of her uncle, he reasoned, with a dreary pain in his heart.