"Very nice--very neat--very clean." She praised all in the simplest and most direct words. The governor again addressed himself to Edward. It was a tale of poaching that he told--the theft of two hares and a pheasant--a desperate crime duly punished. He and Edward left the kitchen, talking. She followed, but first she laid her hand on a table near the door and looked full at the nearest prisoner. Then she smiled. The three smiled back at her. Then she opened her hand, showing plainly the knotted handkerchief. "Good luck!" she said, low, but so that they all heard her. Then she followed the governor and Edward, but at the door she turned and kissed her hand to the three prisoners. The faces they turned to her will stay with her as long as she lives. Wonder, delight, incredulity--that any one--that _she_ should have cared to say "good luck," should have smiled at them, should have left them her handkerchief, though they did not yet know what was in it. The wonder and worship in their eyes brought tears to her own. They were still there when the governor turned. "A cup of tea, now, Mrs. Basingstoke," he said, "it's all ready." She answered hurriedly, "It's very kind of you, but, do you know, if you don't mind, I think we ought to be going. We've got to pack and all that." Colonel Bertram, who was no fool, heard the quivering voice and saw the swimming eyes. "So sorry," he said, "but charmed to have met you--charmed," and stood back for her to pass the door of the corridor. "_I_ understand," he said; "your wife's a bit upset. Ladies often are; they don't understand the law, you know, the great principles of property and the law. Don't mention it; I like them soft-hearted. You're a fortunate man, my boy--deuced fortunate. Good-by. So very, very pleased we happened to meet. Good-by." The well-oiled locks clicked to let them out. In the street she caught his arm and clung to it. "There, there!" he spoke as one speaks to a frightened child. "It's all over; don't distress yourself." "It's not all over for them," she said. "Prisons have to be," said Edward. "Have they?" said she. "I suppose they do, but such little things. To take a pair of boots because your feet are cold and you have no money, and to pay for what you've done--with _that_. Horrible! horrible!" Neither of them spoke again till they were nearly at the hotel. Then he said, "What did you give them?" "What do you mean?" "I saw you knotting something in that little scented handkerchief of yours. What was it you gave them." "Every penny I had. And I said, 'Good luck to you,' and I kissed my hand to them. There!" she said, defiantly. "It was like you," he said, and took her arm. "But I wish I hadn't let you go inside the place. I didn't realize how it would be to you. I didn't realize what it would be to me." "It was silly of me, I suppose," she said.