At the hands of the jailer Royson received the best possible treatment. He was given the commodious front room and allowed every reasonable freedom. This officer was the sheriff's deputy, and both offices were political plums. The prisoner had largely shaped local politics and had procured for him the the sheriff's bondsmen. Officeholders are not ungrateful--when the office is elective. The front room meant much to a prisoner; it gave him glimpses into the free, busy world outside, with its seemingly happy men and women, with its voices of school children and musical cries of street vendors. This spot, the window of his room, became Royson's life. He stood there hour after hour, only withdrawing in shame when he saw a familiar face upon the street. And standing there one afternoon, just before dark, he beheld Annie's little vehicle stop in front of the jail. She descended, and as she came doubtfully forward she caught sight of his face. She was dressed in deep black and wore a heavy crepe veil. There was a few minutes' delay, then the room door opened and Annie was coming slowly toward him, her veil thrown back, her face pale and her hand doubtfully extended. He looked upon her coldly without changing his position. "Are you satisfied?" he said, at length, when she stood silent before him. Whatever had been the emotion of the woman, it, too, passed with the sound of his sentence. "I would not quarrel with you, Amos, and I might do so if I answered that question as it deserves. I have but a few minutes to stop here and will not waste them upon the past. The question is now as to the future. Have you any plan?" "None," he replied, with a sneer. "I am beyond plans. Life is not worth living if I were out, and the game is now not worth the candle." The woman stood silent. "What are your chances for acquittal?" she asked, after a long silence. "Acquittal! Absolutely none! Life itself may by a hard struggle be saved. After that, it is the asylum or the mines." "And then?" "And then? Well, then I shall again ask my loving cousin to bring me a powder. I will remind her once more that no Royson ever wore chains or a halter, however much they may have deserved them. And for the sake of her children she will consent." She walked to the corridor door and listened and then came back to him. He smiled and stretched out his hand. "Amos," she whispered, hurriedly; "God forgive me, but I have brought it. I am going to New York to-morrow, and the chance may not come again. Remember, it is at your request." She was fumbling nervously at the bosom of her dress. "The morphine I could not get without attracting attention, but the chloroform I had. I give it to you for use only when life--" He had taken the bottle and was quietly looking upon the white liquid.