But her sorrow was so sincere and apparent to all, that the turnkeys, individuals apparently constituted partly of iron, and partly of stone, looked on with much compassion, and always remarked as she departed— “If that there old lady was his own mother, she couldn’t hang around that young man more tenderly and lovingly than she does.” Mistress Haylark and daughter were also frequent visitors to the unhappy youth, and brought him many little trifles which might comfort and console him in his solitude. Miss Clara, in truth, was rather romantic in her behaviour, for she often passed herself off to the prison authorities as “his sister,” and gained ingress thus very frequently. Charles had already explained to her the true nature of his offence, and the unsophisticated young lady firmly believed every word he uttered. She forgot all about her curls and curl-papers, and was ever intent upon devising some scheme for his relief or comfort. In her increasing love for the young man, she even suggested various methods for his “escape,” and proposed the exchange of garments for that purpose. “Speak the word, Charles dear,” she would say; “and _I_ will stay in your stead, if there is any prospect of escape.” She related to him all manner of devices for getting out of the dismal walls, and in her enthusiasm spoke of Claude Duval, &c., but Charley listened to her interesting prattle with a smile, and kissed her tenderly for the affection which had prompted her to suggest so many and such romantic schemes. Clara was “in love,” but could not realize it! Charles was no better, yet smiled philosophically at the gradual, but positive growth of his attachment for the whimsical, romantic girl, with her luxuriant growth of curls, and mentally ejaculated— “‘A friend in need is a friend indeed.’ I can’t help but _like_ her! There’s something about her which _makes_ me love her! I _do_ love her, but, alas, I am not worthy of her!” Several weeks passed away, and trials at the Criminal Court had not yet commenced. Old Sir Richard was sick from over anxiety for his protegé, and his consultation-visits with good old Dame Worthington were long and frequent. “If all the money I possess in the world could rescue the boy, I would freely give it,” was his constant expression. And, as he sat on the sofa, beside good Dame Worthington, frequently without more light than that of the fire, he would press her hand affectionately, and the old lady would shed tears—yes, tears of bitterness. “My poor, poor Charles!” the old lady would say. “The poor lad!” was always the rejoinder. And thus they sat before the fire, hour after hour, communing with their own thoughts, and recalling again from the vista of the past sunny hours of youth, when love had warmed their hearts, and made them oblivious of consequences.