“Undoubtedly, Dorcas. It is a sad sight--a sad sight; but there is no room to doubt that punishment awaits them hereafter as well as here.” “I do not believe it,” she said sternly; “that is, dear father, I do not think our Heavenly Parent will afflict them always, because they have done wrong once. Would not thee take one of them to thy home and heart after his release just as eagerly as thee would have done before he was put in prison?” “No, I would not. Are we not told that the way of the transgressor is hard, and are we to set our judgment in defiance of that of the Lord our God? It is our duty to enforce punishment for sin, to make the sinner feel his peril, his exclusion, in order that he may repent.” “But suppose he has repented?” “Then let him come before his Maker and confess.” “I think it would be awfully hard, dear father, for me to go before thee and mother and say I was sorry, after you had so severely shown your displeasure with me. Now if we held out our hands and welcomed the sinner home, would he not be more likely to come? Was it not so in the parable of the Prodigal Son?” “There be those,” Daniel answered, as if in protest, “who thus construe the passage, but I believe it not. No man may even turn to his father’s house until he has been fed on husks.” The midsummer heat was upon the land. The red sun set in splendor, and the blood-dyed moon rose as in wrath. The simple little chamber which was Dorcas’ own, had a broad window opening upon the upper veranda. The small white cot was close at its side, and the sweet night wind that bore the breath of the wild rose and the clustering honeysuckle, softly stirred the dark curls that strayed beneath the border of the muslin cap which the sleeper wore. The heat was so great that she had suffered the strings to remain untied, and the collar of her plain gown was turned away from the white throat. She stirred. Was the breath from the garden too free upon her cheek? Consciousness of some invasion made her restless. Presently her eyelids quivered and lifted; surely Dorcas was dreaming! and yet, no; there was a manly figure resting on the sill of the open window. She sat up, making a quick motion to close the neck of her gown, and tie the cap strings, but as quickly a voice broke upon her ear. “Do not be afraid. I have been here several minutes wanting to tear off one of those strings, but I knew it would disturb you.” Dorcas was never a coward, and her astonishment at this matter-of-fact statement forbade any outcry. “Who is thee, and what does thee want?” was her commonplace exclamation. “I am Henri Beauclaire. I have escaped from the jail. You saw me there. I found out who you were after I was certain that it was not an angel who smiled on me last Sunday, and--do not stop me. I only want to tell you this: when I made up my mind to get out of that mad house, I made up my mind, too, that I would see you and talk to you before I went away.”