There was a gentleness and kindness of manner shown by both the men towards Mary, for they were moved with her beauty and evident distress. Mary took a seat in the gaoler's room; the gaoler's wife was there, and she was more than kind. The turnkey came to show her to the cell; and when Mary rose, the gaoler's wife said to her, "After you have seen your brother, my dear child, you had better come back again, and sit down here a little while, and then, perhaps, I can be of some use to you, in letting you know what can be done, and what is not allowed." Mary could not speak, but she looked at the gaoler's wife, her eyes brimming over with tears. The kind woman understood her. "Go now," said she, "and mind you come back to me." The turnkey, without speaking, led her to the cell, fitted the key to the ponderous lock, pushed back the door, and remained outside. Mary entered, and in a second was in the arms of our hero, kissing him, and bedewing his cheeks with her tears. "I was sure that you would come, Mary," said Joey; "now sit down, and I will tell you how this has happened, while you compose yourself; you will be better able to talk to me after a while." They sat down on the stretchers upon which the bed had been laid during the night, their hands still clasped, and as Joey entered into a narrative of all that had passed, Mary's sobs gradually diminished, and she was restored to something like composure. "And what do you intend to do when you are brought to trial, my dear boy?" said Mary at last. "I shall say nothing, except `Not Guilty,' which is the truth, Mary; I shall make no defence whatever." "But why will you not confess the truth?" replied Mary. "I have often thought of this, and have long made up my mind, Joey, that no one could act as you do if a parent's life were not concerned; you, or anybody else, would be mad to sacrifice himself in this way, unless it were to save a father." Joey's eyes were cast down on the stone pavement; he made no reply. "Why, then, if I am right in my supposition," continued Mary--"I do not ask you to say yes or no on that point--why should you not tell the truth? Furness told me that your father and mother had left the village, and that he had attempted to trace them, but could not; and he expressed himself sure that they were gone to America. Why, then, supposing I am right, should you sacrifice yourself for nothing?" "Supposing you are right, Mary," replied Joey, with his eyes still cast down, "what proof is there that my parents have left the country? It was only the supposition of Furness, and it is my conviction that they have not. Where they may be, I know not; but I feel positive that my mother would not leave the country without having first found out where I was, and have taken me with her. No, Mary, my father and mother, if alive, are still in this country." "Recollect again, my dear boy, that your father may be dead."