“But--good Heaven, my dear girl, does your father know?--surely he doesn’t know that you have come on this--forgive me--mad errand?” “No, he doesn’t know,” said Olivia, steadily. “But if he had known, he would have let me. Colonel Summerford, you know I have been very ill?” she purred, bending toward him with a piteous entreaty in her lovely eyes. “You don’t want to send me away to be as bad again?” “God forbid!” responded the colonel, anxiously. “Well, then, do as I ask you. Ah, you and I are such old friends--you won’t refuse me what I have so set my heart on.” “Well, well, well!” he exclaimed, pacing up and down, and tugging at his mustache furiously. “I----Confound it, how can I refuse you? You would coax the heart out of a stone dog. But I’m doing the maddest, wickedest thing, and I’ll have to answer for it to the squire, and Lord knows whom else! There--don’t cry!” “I am not crying!” she said, biting her lip. “I’ll send up and ask him----” “No!” she said, quickly, and she put her hand on his arm. “You must not do that; you must take me to him unannounced; you must not give him time or the chance to refuse to see me. Take me to him now!” Colonel Summerford pursed his lips. “I don’t know who could resist you; I can’t!” he said in despair, and he held out his arm. “Mind, you are to stay a few minutes only, and the warder----” “There must be no one with us,” she said, firmly. “No one. I must be alone.” The colonel groaned. “In for a penny, in for a pound! My dear, if I am sacked for this, you will have to keep me in my old age.” And he tried to smile. He led her along the corridor, and, dismissing the warder with a nod, himself opened the cell door. “A visitor for you, Mr. Faradeane,” he said. Olivia drew her arm from his, paused a moment to draw a long breath, then entered the cell. Faradeane was lying on the hard pallet, his face resting on his arm. He raised his head, and opened his lips as if about to speak; then he rose and stared, his eyes dilating, his arms stretched out. He had not been asleep, but had been dreaming awake, and it is possible that he thought her a vision conjured up by his infinite longing and despair. “Olivia!” he murmured, unconsciously. “Olivia!” She glided across the narrow cell, and held out both her hands. “Yes, it is I!” she said, and at the sound of her voice he trembled, and his pale, worn face grew crimson. “You here!” he said, almost inaudibly. “Why have you come? This is no place for you--a prison!” “It is no place for you!” she retorted, and as she spoke her lovely eyes flashed into his, and her fingers closed tightly on his thin hands. CHAPTER XXIX. A TERRIBLE SELF-SACRIFICE. He looked at her for a moment, then turned away slightly, as if he could not meet the direct gaze of her lovely eyes, which said so plainly: “Let others think what they may, I know you are innocent!”