It was now cold. The wind cut through Graves’s clothing like a saw; he skulked and hid for two days; then, intolerably hungry, he went to the Organized Charities. He sat there for two hours that afternoon, glad of the delay because the room was warm. He thought much during those two hours, though his thoughts were no longer clear. He was able, however, to recall a belief he had held before coming out of the penitentiary,--a belief that he had paid the penalty for his crime, that, having served the sentence society had imposed on him, his punishment was at an end. This view had seemed to be confirmed by the certificate that had been issued to him, under the Great Seal of State and signed by the governor, restoring him to citizenship. But now he realized that this belief had been erroneous, that he had not at all paid the penalty, that he had not served his sentence, that his punishment was not at an end, and that he had not been restored to citizenship. The Great Seal of State had attested an hypocrisy and a lie, and the governor had signed his name to this lie with a conceited flourish at the end of his pen. Graves formulated this conclusion with an effort, but he grasped it finally, and his mind clung to it and revolved about it, finding something it could hold to. And then, suddenly, Elizabeth Ward entered the room. He knew her instantly, and his heart leaped with a wild desperate hope. He watched her; she was beautiful in the seal-skin jacket that fitted her slender figure so well; her hat with its touch of green became her dark hair. He noted the flush of her cheek, the sparkle of her eyes behind the veil. He remembered her as he had seen her that last day she came into her father’s office; he remembered how heavy his own heart had been under its load of guilty fears. He recalled the affection her father had shown, how his tired face had smiled when he saw her. Graves remembered that the smile had filled him with a pity for Ward; he seemed once more to see Ward fondly take her little gloved hand and hold it while he looked up at her, and how he had laughed and evidently joked her as he swung about to his desk and wrote out a check. And then, as she went out, she had smiled at the clerks and spoken to them; she had smiled on him and spoken to him; would she smile now, this day? The hope leaped wild in his heart. If she did! She was the apple of her father’s eye--he would do anything for her; if she would but see and recognize him now, give him the least hint of encouragement or permission, he would tell her, she would speak to her father and he would help him. His whole being seemed to melt within him--he half started from his chair--his eyes were wide with the excitement of this hope. He never once took them from her; he must not permit an instant to escape him, lest she look his way. He watched her as she sat by the window; she made a picture he never could forget. Once she turned. Ah!