Six months ago I lost my poor little son, and, much as I loved him, I cannot wish him back again. In a fortnight I shall be legally separated from my wretched husband--I shall be quite alone in the world! And then, Mr. Ibbetson--oh, _then_, dearest friend that child or woman ever had--every hour that I can steal from my waking existence shall henceforward be devoted to you as long as both of us live, and sleep the same hours out of the twenty-four. My one object and endeavor shall be to make up for the wreck of your sweet and valuable young life. 'Stone walls shall not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage!' [And here she laughed and cried together, so that her eyes, closing up, squeezed out her tears, and I thought, "Oh, that I might drink them!"] And now I will leave you. I am a weak and loving woman, and must not stay by your side till I can do so without too much self-reproach. And indeed I feel I shall soon fall awake from sheer exhaustion of joy. Oh, selfish and jealous wretch that I am, to talk of joy! "I cannot help rejoicing that no other woman can be to you what I hope to be. No other woman can ever come _near_ you! I am your tyrant and your slave--your calamity has made you mine forever; but all my life--all--all--shall be spent in trying to make you forget yours, and I think I shall succeed." "Oh, don't make such dreadful haste!" I exclaimed. "Am _I_ dreaming true? What is to prove all this to me when I wake? Either I am the most abject and wretched of men, or life will never have another unhappy moment. How am I to _know_?' "Listen. Do you remember 'Parva sed Apta, le petit pavilion,' as you used to call it? That is still my home when I am here. It shall be yours, if you like, when the time comes. You will find much to interest you there. Well, to-morrow early, in your cell, you will receive from me an envelope with a slip of paper in it, containing some violets, and the words 'Parva sed Apta--a bientot' written in violet ink. Will that convince you?" "Oh yes, yes!" "Well, then, give me your hands, dearest and best--both hands! I shall soon be here again, by this apple-tree; I shall count the hours. Good-bye!" and she was gone, and I woke. I woke to the gaslit darkness of my cell. It was just before dawn. One of the warders asked me civilly if I wanted anything, and gave me a drink of water. I thanked him quietly, and recalled what had just happened to me, with a wonder, an ecstasy, for which I can find no words. No, it had _not_ been a _dream_--of that I felt quite sure--not in any one single respect; there had been nothing of the dream about it except its transcendent, ineffable enchantment.