“Dear Uncle Richard! I believe he _is_ one of the best men that ever lived,” Editha said, as her eyes sought a noble-looking man who was talking in an earnest and somewhat excited manner to a group gathered about him, and who had been Earle’s lawyer. “I shall ever have cause to remember him gratefully. He did not give me much encouragement regarding the issue of the case—the evidence was so strong against me—and as we could get no clew to the real culprit, he feared the worst. But he promised to help me in my studies, should the case go against me, so that I may be ready for the bar when the term expires. So you see that things are not quite so dark as they might be,” Earle said, trying to speak hopefully. Editha sighed. The future looked dark enough at the best, she thought. “If we could but have had more time—if you might only have another trial. Could you not have appealed, Earle?” she asked. He shook his head sadly. “It could have done no good. The really guilty ones have covered their tracks, and hidden their booty so effectually, that we could get no clue. But do not grieve for me, my little friend. Other innocent men have suffered for the guilty, and it can be no harder for me than it was for them. And,” lowering his voice, and speaking reverently, “I do not forget that there was once a Man who suffered for the sins of a _whole world_. For thirty-four years He meekly bore His cross, praying at the end that His enemies might be forgiven; and since He sees fit to send this one upon me, I must not murmur, though I own ’tis hard.” Editha was weeping quietly now. The tears would come in spite of her, though she marveled at his words. “Come, Editha, I have an engagement at four, and it lacks only fifteen minutes of that hour now.” The words were spoken in cold, measured tones at her side. The fair girl started, flushed, and glanced around at the speaker in surprise, as if unaccustomed to being addressed in that manner. “Yes, papa, I will come; but I wanted to say good-by to Earle.” “Ah, yes—ahem! I’m truly sorry for poor Earle,” Mr. Dalton said, addressing him with a good deal of coldness and a very poor show of sympathy, while he glanced impatiently at his daughter. “Very unfortunate complication of circumstances,” he went on, his gold repeater in his hand, and his eyes watching attentively the minute hand as it crept toward the hour of his engagement. “The evidence was strangely conclusive, and I wish for _your_ sake it could have been refuted; but really, Editha, we must not delay longer.” Earle Wayne bowed coldly to the would-be comforter, and stepped back as if to end the interview. He knew Mr. Dalton was no friend to him, and his words, which contained no sincerity, were intolerable to him. “Good-by, Miss Dalton,” he said, holding out his hand to Editha, and which she had dropped upon hearing Mr. Dalton’s stern tones. That gentleman frowned darkly at the act.