A little maiden had for eight years walked beside her. A faithful representative of the Chester household. Truly, if Daniel had regretted his own daughter’s alien features, he was content now in the miniature Lucretia whose demure air was a marked contrast to the flashing wit of her dark-eyed mother. The village, too, was changed. Through George Townsend’s exertions manufacturing interests flourished, and although wealth was pouring into his coffers, the comfort of a thousand lesser households told of just dealing between man and man. But the old jail still stood on the highway, and its barred windows were lengthened to a half score. The same fiery brick walls, the same foul atmosphere, the same class of inhabitants were closed behind the multitudinous bolts and bars. The passer-by winced as he heard the loud laugh or the fearful curse; and the faces that pressed against the iron casement were faces of the young and the old, of women as well as men, and gathered from the ranks of first offenders as well as those of the hardened criminals. One morning, while yet Dorcas sat at the head of the breakfast table, dispensing as much of cheer by her sunny face as from the viands, a message was brought requesting her presence at the county jail. It was no unusual occurrence for the mother to be thus summoned from her peaceful home to smooth the path of the unrighteous, and very shortly she stepped from her carriage into the door of the plague spot of the neat village. She was met by the jailer’s wife, a coarse woman, but not untouched with good intentions. “I was sorry to send for you,” she said, “but a queer-looking man was let in last night, who has been bleeding at the lungs, and all I could do and say was nothing till I promised to fetch you early this morning. He hadn’t ought to been here, I ’spose, but Thomas found him sitting on the doorstep, and rattling the latch, and when he asked to be let in and Thomas said as it was a jail, he up and told a queer story about once having broke out; and anyways it wasn’t right to leave him out there a-bleedin’, so I put him in one of my rooms; he seemed decent-like.” An unaccustomed horror crept over Dorcas. She had to steady herself against the door-post for a moment before following the woman into the cramped little chamber. Half-sitting upon the bed, surrounded with pillows and cloths stained with blood, was Henri Beauclaire. His eyes flashed with the old intensity, but from amid the pallor of a countenance wasted with disease. “Stand there,” he whispered hoarsely; and motioning to the jailer’s wife to go out, he fastened his gaze on Dorcas’ half-frightened face. “Look at me, woman; do you know me?” She bowed her head. “Do you know what this is?” he said again, as he drew from his breast a bit of soiled and yellow muslin. “This is a betrothal ring. Yes, I tell you, by this you plighted your troth to me, and by the heavens above, you have broken your faith.” Dorcas made motion as if to answer.