"What you are to do?" he said sadly. "Trust in heaven, my child: we cannot shape our own paths in life, and when we do try the end is wreck." "Father," she cried impetuously, "do you think I was speaking of myself? I want you to tell me whom to ask for help." "Help, my child?" "Yes: for money. May I ask the Barclays? They have always been so kind. Surely they will help us now." "Help us--money?" he said vacantly. "Yes, for your defence. We must have counsel, father. You shall be saved--saved that we may go far from here. Father, I cannot bear it. You must be saved." He was startled by the wildness of her manner and the fierce energy she threw into her words. "You do not speak," she cried imperiously, and she laid her hands upon his shoulders and gazed into his eyes. "You must not, you shall not give up and let yourself drift to destruction. Why do you not tell me? I am only a woman. Father, what shall I do?" "What shall you do?" he said mournfully. "Yes, yes. Forgive me for what I say--I, your child, who love you most dearly now that you are in this terrible trouble. Father, we must go away together to some distant place where, in a life of contrition and prayer, we may appeal daily for the forgiveness that is given to those who seek." He gazed in her eyes with his lip quivering, and a terrible look of despair in his face. "Forgiveness for those who seek?" "Yes, from a merciful God. Oh, father, if I wring your heart in what I say it is because I love you as your child." "Ah!" A piteous sigh escaped his lips, and his head sank down upon his breast. "You are silent," she cried reproachfully, "silent, when the time is so short. I shall be dragged from your side directly, and you have not advised me what to do. I must have money. I must get counsel for you and advice." He drew a long breath and raised his head, his lips parting but uttering no sound. "Yes!" she cried, "yes! Speak, father. Shall I go to Mr Barclay?" "No." "Then tell me what I shall do, dear. Pray rouse yourself from this despair. Speak--tell me. What shall I do first?" "Nothing." "Nothing? Oh, father!" "They say I committed this murder--that I crushed out the life of that miserable old woman. So be it." "Father!" "I say--so be it," he repeated firmly. "The law says one life must answer for another. Well--I am ready." Claire wrung her hands, as he rose from where he had knelt, and gazed at him in pitying wonder and awe. "God is merciful," said the old man mournfully. "He readeth all our hearts. Claire, my child, I am not afraid to die. I am sick for the rest that is to come." "But, father!" wailed Claire. "My child, I know. I have thought of all. I have seen everything in the silence and darkness of this cell; but it is only a passing away from this weary life to one that is full of rest and peace. There is no injustice there."