“Woman, go back into the house, take off them white things and ask God to forgive you. This man is my own lawfully wedded husband.” The deep, honest feeling of the wife gave dignity to her speech. Ellen Post stepped back and stood gazing on her, pale and breathless. “Who are you? What does this mean?” she faltered at last. “I am this man’s wife, that’s what I am, and we have one child, which you can see any day if you will come to my place, Ellen Post.” “I don’t believe it. Mahone, Mahone, come here and tell this woman she lies.” “Oh Robert, Robert, run for your life. Jared is in prison; they will be after you,” pleaded the poor wronged wife. “Don’t wait for anything, but go.” “Why don’t you speak? Why don’t you deny this?” demanded Ellen Post, stamping her whitely-clad foot on the side-walk. “The gentleman has something else to do,” answered the strange voice of a man who had quietly drawn near and laid his hand on Mahone’s shoulder. “Robert Boyce, you must go with me.” “A policeman!” faltered the bride, “what does this mean?” “A policeman,” moaned the wife; “oh Robert, Robert, say you forgive me!” Boyce turned his wild eyes from his wife to the officer, and stared a moment in the man’s face. Then he made a sudden twist, wrenched himself free, and made a bound forward—one bound and the heavy hand grasped his shoulder again. Before either of the women could speak, Robert Boyce was led off into the darkness. CHAPTER LXI. WAITING FOR NEWS. There is not, upon the face of the earth, more harassing trouble than that which springs out of ignorance and suspense. Eva and Ruth Laurence had but a wild and vague idea of the evil that had fallen on the two most beloved members of their little household. They knew nothing of the law, and imprisonment to them was an awful blending of suffering and disgrace, to which the unchecked imagination lent unknown horrors. They sat together for a time in dead silence, each afraid to speak, lest she should add something to the distress of the other. But, as time wore on, this stillness became intolerable. Eva sprang to her feet and began to walk the room, with the wild restless tread of a panther in its cage; while Ruth clasped both slender hands over her bosom, and let the tears run unchecked, from under her closed eyelids. “Oh, Ruth, Ruth! what must we do!” cried out Eva, wringing her hands and wrenching them apart with impetuous force. “I cannot stay here waiting in this way; _he_ ought not to ask it.” “But what can we do? Ah, me! how helpless we poor girls are!” said Ruth, opening her eyes, and wiping away the tears with her trembling hand. “Even your strength would be wasted, and I am so weak.” “Oh, if I had something to lift—some great load to carry—sister, sister, I can believe now how ready persecuted women were to walk, unshod, among hot ploughshares. I could do it to save them and bring them back to us safe. I could! I could!”