Later on would come Hoskyns, and Edith, and Tom. It was impossible for Edith to visit the prison alone, and the lawyer would often make a pretence of having business with his client when he had none in reality, rather than withstand the piteous, pleading look which would spring to Edith’s eyes the moment he told her that there would be no occasion for him to visit the gaol that day. While he lives Hoskyns will never forget those pretty pictures of the lover-husband and his bride, as they sat together, hand in hand, in the grim old cell, comforting each other, strengthening each other, and drawing pictures of the happy future in store for them; deceiving each other with a make-believe gaiety; and hiding, with desperate earnestness, the terrible dread which lay lurking, like a foul witch in a cavern, low down in the heart of each—that, for them, the coming months might bring, not sunshine, flowers, and the joys of mutual love, but life-long separation and the unspeakable darkness that broods beneath the awful wings of Death. On these occasions, Hoskyns never neglected to provide himself with a newspaper, and, buried behind the huge broadsheet of “The Times,” with spectacles poised on nose, he would go calmly on with his reading, leaving Lionel and Edith almost as much to themselves as though he had not been there. The sterling qualities of the old lawyer, and the thorough sincerity of his character, gradually forced themselves on the notice of Lionel and his wife, both of whom came, after a time, to regard him almost in the light of a second father, and to treat him with an affectionate familiarity which he was not slow to appreciate. As Tom Bristow was turning the corner of Duxley High Street, one afternoon about three days after his arrival from London, he was met, face to face, by Squire Culpepper. The squire stopped and stared at Tom, but failed for the moment to recognize him. “Good-morning, sir,” said Tom, heartily. “Glad to see you looking so well.” “Why—eh?—surely I must know that face,” said the squire. “It’s young Tom Bristow, if I’m not mistaken.” “You are not mistaken, sir,” answered Tom. “Then I’m very glad to see you, Tom—very,” said the squire, as he shook Tom warmly by the hand. “Your father was a man whom I liked and respected immensely. I can never forget his kindness and attention to my poor dear wife during her last illness—never. He did all that man could do to preserve her to me—but it was not to be. For your father’s sake, Tom, you will always find Titus Culpepper stand your friend.” “It is very kind of you to say so, sir.” “Not at all—not at all. So you’re back again at the old place, eh? Going to stop with us this time, I hope. You ought never to have left us, young sir, but have settled down quietly in your father’s shoes. Vagabondizing’s a bad thing for any young man.” “I quite agree with you, sir,” said Tom, in a tone of assumed simplicity.