“What can I do?” he asked wonderingly. “I have tried all I could, but in vain, as you know. I have left no stone unturned, and the only good result I can see is a probability that the sentence will not be executed to the utmost, and that in time something may happen to bring his innocence to light.” “In time!” she repeated. “Have you seen the man? Why, I did not know him till he spoke. He will not live. No, there must be no delay. What you must do is this: You must go to the authorities, and say that you know who the true criminal is, but cannot tell, at least not now, and that Mr. Schöninger is innocent.” The priest looked in her face with a gaze of calm surprise. “You mistake,” he said. “I do not know who the criminal is. If I did know, I should immediately go to the authorities, and denounce him.” She looked him steadfastly in the face, but his calmness baffled her. He showed only a cool and dignified surprise. “Oh! these men,” she muttered. “I feel as if I were being ground between stones.” She stood, and the shining folds of her dress, that had been gathered up in her arms, dropped about her, and lay on the floor. “Have you been walking through the snow in a ball‐dress?” the priest asked. “Have you anything to protect your feet?” “Oh! I have fur shoes, and my carriage is near by,” she said absently, and seemed to be considering what to do next. “Go home now, my child, and try to put all this wild work out of your mind,” F. Chevreuse said with emotion. “Perform your own duty simply and in the fear of God, and do not try to take the burden of others on those shoulders of yours. Go home and warm yourself well, or you will be sick.” “Oh! I am not going home,” she said, her glance caught by the sparkling of a bracelet on her arm. “To‐night is a dinner and ball given to the President, you know; and since he is going away to‐morrow it couldn’t be put off. It must be time I was there, and I have to go home after Lawrence.” “What! you will go to a dinner and ball to‐night?” exclaimed the priest. “You feel yourself fit for company?” She smiled faintly. “I shall doubtless be the gayest of the gay. There is not much danger of my feeling sleepy.” “Well, women are wonderful beings,” remarked F. Chevreuse to himself. The young woman drew her wrappings about her, and gathered up again her flowing skirts, looking to see that no stain had fallen on them; and, in arranging her toilet for a new scene, she appeared to arrange her mind also. A gentle tranquillity settled upon her face, and her head was slightly lifted, as though she were already the centre of observation to a brilliant throng. “But you are looking very pale,” the priest objected. “That always mends itself,” she answered carelessly. “When I have need of color, it usually comes.”