It seemed as if it were only here that Leonard perceived the real gist of the evidence. His brow grew hotter, his eyes indignant, his hands clenched, as if he with difficulty restrained himself from breaking in on the coroner's speech; and when at length the question was put to the jury, he stood, the colour fading from his cheek, his eyes set and glassy, his lip fallen, the dew breaking out on his brow, every limb as it were petrified by the shock of what was thus first fully revealed to him. So he stood, while the jury deliberated in low gruff sorrowful murmurs, and after a few minutes, turned round to announce with much sadness that they could do no otherwise than return a verdict of wilful murder against Leonard Ward. 'Mr. Leonard Ward,' said the coroner, a gentleman who had well known his father, and who spoke with scarcely concealed emotion, 'it becomes my painful duty to commit you to Whitford Gaol for trial at the next assizes.' Dr. May eagerly offered bail, rather as the readiest form of kindness than in the hope of its acceptance, and it was of course refused; but he made his way to the prisoner, and wrung his chill hand with all his might. The pressure seemed to waken the poor lad from his frozen rigidity; the warmth came flowing back into his fingers as his friend held them; he raised his head, shut and re-opened his eyes, and pushed back his hair, as though trying to shake himself loose from a too horrible dream. His face softened and quivered as he met the Doctor's kind eyes; but bracing himself again, he looked up, answered the coroner's question--that his Christian name was Leonard Axworthy, his age within a few weeks of eighteen; and asked permission to fetch what he should want from his room. The policeman, in whose charge he was, consented both to this, and to Dr. May being there alone with him for a short time. Then it was that the boy relaxed the strain on his features, and said in a low and strangled voice, 'O, Dr. May, if you had only let me die with them last year!' 'It was not I who saved you. He who sent that ordeal, will bring you through--this,' said Dr. May, with a great sob in his throat that belied his words of cheer. 'I thank Him at least for having taken her,' said Leonard, resting his head on the mantel-shelf beneath his mother's picture, while his little dog sat at his foot, looking up at him, cowed and wistful. Dr. May strove for words of comfort, but broke utterly down; and could only cover his face with his hands, and struggle with his emotion, unable to utter a word. Yet perhaps none would have been so comforting as his genuine sympathy, although it was in a voice of extreme distress that Leonard exclaimed, 'Dr. May, Dr. May, pray don't! you ought not to grieve for me!' 'I'm a fool,' said Dr. May, after some space, fighting hard with himself. 'Nonsense! we shall see you out of this! We have only to keep up a good heart, and we shall see it explained.'