Dixon, the old fellow who was sentenced to be
hung for that murder, you know. I can't stop
here, I must go back to those men. You bring
her round, and see her to bed. The blue room
is empty since Horner left. She must stop here,
and I'll see her in the morning. Take care of
her, and keep her mind as easy as you can, will
you, for she can do no good by fidgeting."

And, knowing that he left Ellinor in good
hands, and with plenty of assistance about her,
he returned to his friends.

Ellinor came to herself before long.

"It was very foolish of me, but I could not
help it," said she, apologetically.

"No; to be sure not, dear. Here, drink
this; it is some of Mr. Johnson's best port
wine that he has sent out on purpose for you.
Or would you rather have some white soup—or
what? We have had everything you could think
of at dinner, and you've only to ask and have.
And then you must go to bed, my dear—Mr.
Johnson says you must; and there's a well-
aired room, for Mr. Horner only left us this
morning."

''I must see Mr. Johnson again, please."

"But indeed you must not. You must not
worry your poor head with business now; and
Johnson would only talk to you on business.
No; go to bed, and sleep soundly, and then
you'll get up quite bright and strong, and fit to
talk about business."

"I cannot sleep—I cannot rest till I have
asked Mr. Johnson one or two more questions;
indeed I cannot," pleaded Ellinor.

Mrs. Johnson knew that her husband's orders
on such occasions were peremptory, and that she
should come in for a good conjugal scolding if,
after what he had said, she ventured to send
for him again. Yet Ellinor looked so entreating
and wistful that she could hardly find in
her heart to refuse her. A bright thought
struck her.

"Here is pen and paper, my dear. Could
you not write down the questions you wanted to
ask? and he'll just jot down the answers upon
the same piece of paper. I'll send it in by Jerry.
He has got friends to dinner with him, you
see."

Ellinor yielded. She sat, resting her weary
head on her hand, and wondering what were the
questions which would have come so readily to
her tongue could she have been face to face
with him. As it was, she only wrote this:

"How early can I see you to-rnorrow morning?
Will you take all the necessary steps for
my going to Dixon as soon as possible? Could
I be admitted to him to-night?"

The pencilled answers were:

"Eight o'clock. Yes. No."

"I suppose he knows best," said Ellinor,
sighing as she read the last word. "But it
seems wicked in me to be going to bed—and he
so near, in prison."

When she rose up and stood she felt the
former dizziness return, and that reconciled her
to seeking rest before she entered upon the duties
which were becoming clearer before her, now that
she knew all, and was on the scene of action.
Mrs. Johnson brought her white-wine whey
instead of the tea she had asked for; and perhaps
it was owing to this that she slept so soundly.

CHAPTER XV.

WHEN Ellinor awoke, the clear light of
dawn was fully in the room. She could not
remember where she was; for so many mornings
she had wakened up in strange places that it
took her several minutes before she could make
out the geographical whereabouts of the heavy
blue moreen curtains, the print of the lord-
lieutenant of the county on the wall, and all the
handsome ponderous mahogany furniture that
stuffed up the room. As soon as full memory
came into her mind, she started up; nor did
she go to bed again, although she saw by her
watch on the dressing-table that it was not yet
six o'clock. She dressed herself with the dainty
completeness so habitual to her that it had
become an unconscious habit, and then—the
instinct was irrepressible—she put on her
bonnet and shawl, and went down, past the
servant on her knees cleaning the door-step, out
into the fresh open air; and so she found her
way down the High-street to Hellingford
Castle, the building in which the courts of
assize were held—the prison in which Dixon
lay condemned to die. She almost knew she
could not see him; yet it seemed like some
amends to her conscience for having slept
through so many hours of the night if she made
the attempt. She went up to the porter's
lodge, and asked the little girl sweeping out the
place if she might see Abraham Dixon. The
child stared at her, and ran into the house,
bringing out her father, a great burly man, who
had not yet donned either coat or waistcoat, and
who, consequently, felt the morning air as rather
nipping. To him Ellinor repeated her
question.

"Him as is to be hung come Saturday
se'nnight? Why, ma'am, I've nought to do with
it. You may go to the governor's house and
try; but, if you'll excuse me, you'll have your
walk for your pains. Them in the condemned
cells is never seen by nobody without the
sheriff's order. You may go up to the governor's
house, and welcome; but they'll only tell you
the same. Yon's the governor's house."

Ellinor fully believed the man, and yet she
went on to the house indicated as if she still
hoped that in her case there might be some
exception to the rule, which she now remembered
to have heard of before, in days when such a
possible desire as to see a condemned prisoner
was treated by her as a wish that some people
might have, did have—people as far removed
from her circle of circumstances as the
inhabitants of the moon. Of course she met with
the same reply, a little more abruptly given, as
if every man was from his birth bound to know
such an obvious regulation.

She went out past the porter, now fully
clothed. He was sorry for her disappointment,
but could not help saying, with a slight tone