of lassitude and hunger possessed him; he
would have given five shillings for a hard
biscuit. We remembered his asking if any
chap happened to have any eatables under
his pillow—but nobody had. At last, towards
morning, he dozed off, and had a dream.

He thought that his little true love, Eleanor
Wilton, came and stood at his bedside. She
was dressed in white, and carried a basket
filled with curious and beautiful white
flowers just budding. Although she did not
speak, the idea seemed to be conveyed to
him that she had brought them as her
last—her parting present, and that he must
take them.

Madonna strove to obey the intimation,
but found he could not stir. Paralysed,
somehow, he could neither move nor utter a
sound. This quiescence seemed to grieve his
little lady. She gazed at him for a moment
with sad, reproachful eyes, then faded into
nothing. Madonna awoke.

Presently he slept again. A second time
came the little ghostly visitant, with her
basket of flowers now fully blown. In the
centre of each was a ruby heart encircled
with diamonds. Eleanor looked very wan
and pale, but she smiled as she offered the
flowers, and though, as before, he was
powerless to reply, he understood that she was to
come once again, and if he did not then
answer, he would never—never—never——
Before the meaning was complete she was
gone, and once more he awoke, and once more
he slept again.

For the third time the fairy figure stood
at his side; but now so attenuated and
indistinct, that he could only faintly trace her
outline; and the flowers in her basket were
broken, drooping, and dead. He thought she
stooped over him as though bestowing a
shadowy kiss, then began to disappear.

Madonna struggled fiercely to move in
vain, and uttered the cry that woke us all.

He was now perfectly convinced that
Eleanor was ill—was dying—perhaps dead.
He would not mention his fears, but hastily
resolved upon his course of action.

No sooner had we settled off to sleep
again—which must have been in some five
minutes—than he got up, threw on some
clothes, softly opened the window, and slid
down safely into the garden. It was early
twilight—not a soul astir. Scaling the
garden wall, he hurried round outside that of
the playground till he arrived in front of
Pallas-House. Something drew his attention
to the window of the penitentiary—doubtless
because it was the only one that had neither
curtain nor shutter. Nothing indeed was
visible; but Madonna felt as certain she was
there, as though she had beckoned him with
her hand from the window. Yet, how to
reach the room? Suddenly he remembered
the gardener's fruit-ladder, which lay in an
empty cow-shed. Back he flew—found the
ladder—dragged, pitched, and slung it across
the wall, and, in three minutes, had reached
the window. He could make out nothing in
the darkness within, so tried the sash—it
was not secured. He pushed it up softly,
and looked in. A chair, a small table with a
book and a mug of water, a low couch, and
upon it, sitting up, as though in expectation—
Eleanor!

She exhibited not the least surprise.

"I knew you would come, dear boy," said
the little thing, faintly, "but you were very
long. I want to speak to you."

Madonna was in the room in an instant.
In a few words, uttered with difficulty, she
told him that the arrival of the ruby heart
had been notified to Miss Billiter, who taxed
Augusta with receiving it. That young lady
having, it would appear, a desire to retain
the ornament, though she discarded the
donor, at first denied its possession; but,
after two hours' confinement in the penitentiary,
resolved to endure no more for the
sake of either lover or offering, and gave in.
She asserted, however, that it was not
intended for her, but for Eleanor Wilton, with
whose affection for Madonna she was well
acquainted, and who, she knew, would
unhesitatingly take all responsibility. Miss
Billiter at once turned all her fury upon the
latter; and, on her refusing to reveal the
name of the sender, committed her to the
usual prison, directing that she should have
nothing but water—not even a crust of
bread—until she had discarded her sullens,
and accepted her mistress's terms.

Poor Eleanor, however, had been for some
time very ailing, and the confinement and
privation, not to mention the excitement of
her mind, told more heavily upon her delicate
frame than might have been apprehended.
Still nothing could justify the keeping of the
poor innocent nineteen hours without notice,
solace, or refreshment of any kind.

As she came to this climax of her story,
Madonna's rage mastered his grief. He
started to his feet, intending to seek assistance;
but Eleanor exerted all her strength, and
held him fast.

"It is no use, Harry," she said, "I'm
going to my mother; you know, I said, I
would rather. Don't leave me again—oh,
don't—don't! Oh, I am so glad you came!
I asked God if you might, because you were
my only friend. Let me lean my head on
your shoulder," said the little thing. "Wait!"
she added, and gently parting the long hair
from Madonna's scarred forehead—white and
smooth as ever to her loving eyes—she gave
it one long kiss, then sunk lower, and hung
upon his bosom as he knelt.

He thought she was sinking to sleep, and,
almost afraid to breathe, remained perfectly
motionless for nearly half an hour. Then a
feeling of anxiety and dread stole over him.
He looked closely at her—one tiny finger had
hooked in his button-hole. He would not
move it; but tenderly lifted back the small