“Equanimity!” repeated Mary with emphasis, and a slight display of intense feeling, powerfully controlled; “if it be so, Mr. Wilmeter, it must be from the sense of security that I feel. Yes; for the first time in months, I do feel myself safe—secure.” “Safe!—Secure!—What, in a gaol?” “Certainly; gaols are intended for places of security, are they not?” answered Mary, smiling, but faintly and with a gleam of sadness on her face. “This may appear wonderful to you, but I do tell no more than sober truth, in repeating that, for the first time in months, I have now a sense of security. I am what you call in the hands of the law, and one there must be safe from everything but what the law can do to her. Of that I have no serious apprehensions, and I feel happy.” “Happy!” “Yes; by comparison, happy. I tell you this the more willingly, for I plainly see you feel a generous interest in my welfare—an interest which exceeds that of the counsel in his client——” “A thousand times exceeds it, Miss Monson!—Nay—is not to be named with it!” “I thank you, Mr. Wilmeter—from my heart I thank you,” returned the prisoner, a slight flush passing over her features, while her eyes were cast towards the floor. “I believe you are one of strong feelings and quick impulses, and am grateful that these have been in my favour, under circumstances that might well have excused you for thinking the worst. From the hints of this kind woman, Mrs. Gott, I am afraid that the opinion of Biberry is less consoling?” “You must know how it is in country villages, Miss Monson,—every one has something to say, and every one brings all things down to the level of his own knowledge and understanding.” Mary Monson smiled, again; this time more naturally, and without any painful expression to lessen the bright influence that lighting up of her features gave to a countenance so remarkable for its appearance of illumination from within. “Is not such the case in towns, as well as in villages, Mr. Wilmeter?” she asked. “Perhaps it is—but I mean that the circle of knowledge is more confined in a place like this, than in a large town, and that the people here could not well go beyond it.” “Biberry is so near New York, that I should think, taking class against class, no great difference can be found in their inhabitants. That which the good folk of Biberry think of my case, I am afraid will be thought of it by those of your own town.” “_My_ own town?—and are you not really from New York, Miss Monson?” “In no manner,” answered Mary, once more smiling; this time, however, because she understood how modestly and readily her companion was opening a door by which she might let a secret she had declined to reveal to his uncle, escape. “I am not what you call a Manhattanese, in either descent, birth, or residence; in no sense, whatever.” “But, surely, you have never been educated in the country?—You must belong to some large town—your manners show that—I mean that you——”