“By the way, Miss Marlowe,” the postscript read, “a little maid servant of mother’s ran away a couple of weeks or so ago, and both mother and myself have worried considerably about her. The cause of our worry is simply that the child had been betrayed and we had hoped to help her in her hour of trouble. I mention this, knowing that such cases land frequently in ‘Charity,’ so please keep your eyes open for such a young lady. Her name is Kittie, and she is about sixteen, and very pretty.” Marion passed her hand thoughtfully across her brow. She was, if anything, more mystified and astounded than ever. “If he is guilty, then no words can describe him,” she said, finally, “for he must be a fiend incarnate if he could wrong the girl and then sit down calmly and write such a letter.” Marion was glad when the hour for duty came. She hurried back to her ward as to a haven of refuge. That night, after sunset, Marion went out for a walk about the Island. She went alone from preference, as she wished to do some hard thinking. Young Dr. Brookes had said that he would see her the next day, as he had found an excellent excuse for running over to the Island. “What shall I say to him?” Marion asked herself as she stood on the sea-wall and gazed out over the water. A squad of convicts passed near her as she stood there. They were marching with the prison “lockstep,” which was now becoming familiar to Marion. The young girl did not turn her eyes, for she dreaded to see them. A look at their rough faces always made her heart ache sadly. As she stood in her simple frock, with her big white apron, she made a picture of beauty such as had never been seen on the Island. Pretty faces and sweet faces had been seen there from time to time, but this willowy girl, with her mass of chestnut hair and her splendid head set on such graceful shoulders, would have attracted attention from any man in the land, then how much more the attention of these imprisoned unfortunates. Not one convict alone, but a dozen of them glanced at her. There was a sharp command from the guard, followed by a sullen answer. The next second, before Marion realized what was happening, there came a splash in the water. One of the convicts in desperation had leaped into the river. “Forward! March!” cried a guard, in almost furious tones. The squad moved on toward the penitentiary without so much as turning their heads, while one of the guards, rifle in hand, stepped quickly to the wall beside Marion. “Come back, or I’ll fire!” he called out, sternly, as a smooth shaven head appeared slowly above the surface. Marion reached up instinctively and grasped the guard’s arm. “Don’t! don’t!” she gasped, “He will come back: I am sure of it!” The man’s gaze never wavered from the bend above the water. “If I had a boat I could save him,” he said, very coolly, “but I haven’t, and I must get him. That’s all there is about it!” “You mean he must not escape?” said Marion, in agony.