With that direct appeal, all poor Clara’s heroism went to the winds; she could only cover her face with her hands, and weep, and shake her head, and declare how helpless she was. She could have met defiance with defiance—pride with pride; but the sudden tenderness of the other woman was too much for her, and broke down at once whatever barrier she had determined to build up between them. “Indeed—I don’t know—I can’t think. I want to help him, if I can; I want to be near him—oh—you needn’t think,” added Clara, tearfully—“that I am anything to him; I might have thought so once—but I know better now. This trouble has cleared my mind somehow, so that I can see things as they are. If he has been—kind—and nice—to me—it’s only as he might be to any one whose face pleased him”—Clara tossed her head a little, despite her tears, and seemed to suggest that she knew the value of her own charms. “With you—well—it’s different.” Madge Barnshaw thought bitterly that it might not be so very different, after all; thought of the murdered girl, and bitterly blamed herself because she could not stand aside before all the world, and believe him innocent. Something of this must have been in the mind of the other girl; looking at Madge steadily, she asked, with some sternness—“You don’t believe he did that horrible thing—do you?” Madge Barnshaw covered her face with her hands, and shuddered. “I don’t know—I don’t know what to think,” she said, in a whisper. Clara turned swiftly, and began to walk away. She had almost reached the garden gate, when Madge, springing after her, caught her by the arm. “You’re right—and I am a coward, and unworthy of his or any one else’s love and confidence. I will believe in him—in his innocence. You make me believe. Tell me—what are you going to do?” “I am going to Chelmsford,” replied Clara, simply. “I want to be near him—I want to feel that I know all that is happening. For me—it will not matter; no one will take any notice of me. I can go where you could not.” “But what will you do at Chelmsford? How will you live?” asked Madge. Clara smiled bravely, and threw up her head a little higher. “I have a little money—no, thank you”—as the other made a gesture, as if to reach her purse—“I have more than I need—and I shall take a lodging near—near the prison. I came here, because I wanted to know—to know”—she hesitated, and her voice trailed off, and died away. “Wanted to know—what?” “To know if there was any—any message you would wish to send to him,” replied Clara at last, very stiffly, and with a face of scarlet. “I thought maybe that if I could carry—carry some message from you—you, who have the right to send one—it might cheer him, and lead him to think better of the world, when every one is against him. He may not—how should he?—may not think or care anything for what I may say—but you——”