The old Antiquary is remanded back to jail-to wait the coming day. Maria, almost breathless with anxiety, runs to him as he comes tottering out of Court in advance of the official, lays her trembling hand upon his arm, and looks inquiringly in his face. “Oh! my father, my father!—released? released?” she inquires, with quivering lips and throbbing heart. A forced smile plays over his time-worn face, he looks upward, shakes his head in sorrow, and having patted her affectionately on the shoulder, throws his arms about her neck and kisses her. That mute appeal, that melancholy voucher of his sorrows, knells the painful answer in her ears, “Then you are not free to come with me? Oh, father, father!” and she wrings her hands and gives vent to her tears. “The time will come, my daughter, when my Judge will hear me-will judge me right. My time will come soon—” And here the old man pauses, and chokes with his emotions. Maria returns the old man’s kiss, and being satisfied that he is yet in the hands of his oppressors, sets about cheering up his drooping spirits. “Don’t think of me, father,” she says—“don’t think of me! Let us put our trust in Him who can shorten the days of our tribulation.” She takes the old man’s arm, and like one who would forget her own troubles in her anxiety to relieve another, supports him on his way back to prison. It is high noon. She stands before the prison gate, now glancing at the serene sky, then at the cold, frowning walls, and again at the old pile, as if contemplating the wearying hours he must pass within it. “Don’t repine-nerve yourself with resolution, and all will be well!” Having said this with an air of confidence in herself, she throws her arms about the old man’s neck, presses him to her bosom, kisses and kisses his wrinkled cheek, then grasps his hand warmly in her own. “Forget those who persecute you, for it is good. Look above, father-to Him who tempers the winds, who watches over the weak, and gives the victory to the right!” She pauses, as the old man holds her hand in silence. “This life is but a transient sojourn at best; full of hopes and fears, that, like a soldier’s dream, pass away when the battle is ended.” Again she fondly shakes his hand, lisps a sorrowing “good-bye,” watches him, in silence, out of sight, then turns away in tears, and seeks her home. There is something so pure, so earnest in her solicitude for the old man, that it seems more of heaven than earth. CHAPTER XXXVIII. A STORY WITHOUT WHICH THIS HISTORY WOULD BE FOUND WANTING.