The girl was fascinated by the picture. A handsome youth with his soul blazing in his eyes, sitting upright in the brilliant moonlight that fell across her bed. There was no evil in his face. She kept silent and let him speak on. “Your name is Dorcas Chester, and I want you to know that I never stole the money I was put in jail for stealing; but they proved I did, and so I had two whole years to serve if I did not get away from them. Would not you have tried to get out? That is hell over there.” “Yes,” she half whispered. “I knew you would. Nothing I can ever do or say will make me anything in this world but a jail-bird unless I hide. So I am going to France for a while. My _grandpère_ is there. By and by I will come back, and you must give me something that I can show you then so that you will know me, for I shall not look like this.” He glanced disdainfully at the poor clothes he wore and reached out a hand as if to receive an offering. “What shall I give thee? I have nothing.” A thought of a lock of her hair was in Dorcas’ mind, but she knew it would be missed, cut as cleverly as she might. Then came the doubt, too, whether it were right to thus encourage a culprit! “Give me,” Henri said, and his voice was melodious, “give me that cap string.” She shrank back into the shadow. It seemed indelicate to let him touch her nightgarb. “Would it, would it make thee think of leading a better life, of God and forgiveness and----” “It would make me think of you, and that is of God. Forgiveness I need not, for I never did the deed. No better life ask I than such one as my _grandpère_ lives.” He reached for the cap string. Mechanically Dorcas tore it off and lifted it to his height. The boy looked out at the sweet stars paling under the tropical moon, then he bent his eyes upon the beautiful girl, and slowly said: “I am going now. Remember, I never did it, and keep yourself just as you are until that day when the white cap string shall come home again.” He was gone, and Dorcas sat silent for a moment; then the painful consciousness forced itself upon her that her father’s voice was calling. She dropped her head upon the pillow, wrapped the sheet about her throat, and closed her eyes. The voice came nearer. “Dorcas, Dorcas,” it said; but she did not stir. Her heart was wildly beating with fear lest the youth of her dream should be pursued, but her parent went calmly away, and only at breakfast was there any allusion to the circumstance. “Dorcas, thee talked strangely, last night, in thy sleep.” The girl’s face crimsoned as she felt the untruthfulness of her reply: “How funny that is!” but the motherly eye was not long without discovering the loss of the nightcap string. “Daughter,” she said, “how was it possible for thee to tear thy cap in this way? It is as though thee had willed to do it and done it with all thy might.”