one—a turnkey, or some one—would have to
be present at the interview; that such was
always the rule in the case of condemned
prisoners; but that if this third person was
"obliging," he would keep out of earshot. Mr.
Johnson quietly took care to see that the turnkey
who accompanied Ellinor was "obliging."

The man took her across high-walled courts,
along stone corridors, and through many locked
doors, before they came to the condemned
cells.

"I've had three at a time in here," said he,
unlocking the final door, "after Judge Morton
had been here. We always called him the
'Hanging Judge.' But it's five years since he
died, and now there's never more than one
in at a time; though once it was a woman for
poisoning her husband. Mary Jones was her
name."

The stone passage out of which the cells
opened was light, and bare, and scrupulously
clean. Over each door was a small barred
window, and an outer window of the same
description was placed high up in the cell, which
the turnkey now opened.

Old Abraham Dixon was sitting on the side
of his bed, doing nothing. His head was bent,
his frame sunk, and he did not seem to care to
turn round and see who it was that entered.

Ellinor tried to keep down her sobs while the
man went up to him, and laying his hand on
his shoulder, and lightly shaking him, he
said:

"Here's a friend come to see you, Dixon."
Then, turning to Ellinor, he added, "There's
some as takes it in this kind o' stunned way,
while others are as restless as a wild beast in a
cage, after they're sentenced." And then he
withdrew into the passage, leaving the door
open, so that he could see all that passed if
he chose to look, but ostentatiously keeping
his eyes averted, and whistling to himself, so
that he could not hear what they said to each
other.

Dixon looked up at Ellinor, but then let his
eyes fall on the ground again; the increased
trembling of his shrunk frame was the only sign
he gave that he had recognised her.

She sat down by him, and took his large
horny hand in hers. She wanted to overcome
her inclination to sob hysterically before she
spoke. She stroked the bony shrivelled fingers,
on which her hot scalding tears kept dropping.

"Dunnot do that," said he, at length, in a
hollow voice. "Dunnot take on about it; it's
best as it is, missy."

"No, Dixon, it is not best. It shall not be.
You know it shall not—cannot be."

"I'm rather tired of living. It's been a great
strain and labour for me. I think I'd as lief be
with God as with men. And you see, I were
fond on him ever sin' he were a little lad, and
told me what hard times he had at school, he
did, just as if I were his brother! I loved him
next to Molly Greaves. Dear! and I shall see
her again, I reckon, come next Saturday week!
They'll think well on me, up there, I'll be
bound; though I cannot say as I've done all as
I should do here below."

"But, Dixon," said Ellinor, "you know who
did this—this——"

"Guilty o' murder," said he. " That's what
they called it. Murder, And that it never
were, choose who did it."

"My poor, poor father did it. I am going
up to London this afternoon—I am going to see
the judge, and tell him all."

"Don't you demean yourself to that fellow,
missy. It's him as left you in the lurch as soon
as sorrow and shame came nigh you."

He looked up at her now, for the first time;
but she went on as if she had not noticed those
wistful weary eyes.

"Yes! I shall go to him. I know who it is;
and I am resolved. After all, he may be better
than a stranger, for real help; and I shall never
remember any—anything else, when I think of
you, good faithful friend."

"He looks but a wizened old fellow in his
grey wig. I should hardly ha' known him. I
gave him a look, as much as to say, 'I could tell
tales o' you, my lord judge, if I chose.' I don't
know if he heeded me, though. I suppose it
were for a sign of old acquaintance that he said
he'd recommend me to mercy. But I'd sooner
have death nor mercy, by long odds. Yon man
out there says mercy means Botany Bay. It
would be like killing me by inches, that would.
It would. I'd liefer go straight to Heaven
than live on, among the black folk."

He began to shake again; this idea of
transportation, from its very mysteriousness, was
more terrifying to him than death. He kept on
saying plaintively, "Missy, you'll never let them
send me to Botany Bay—I could not stand
that."

"No, no!" said she. " You shall come out
of this prison, and go home with me to East
Chester—I promise you, you shall. I promise
you. I don't yet quite know how, but trust in my
promise. Don't fret about Botany Bay. If you go
there, I go too—I am so sure you will not go.
And you know if you have done anything against
the law in concealing that fatal night's work, I
did too, and if you are to be punished, I will
be punished too. But I feel sure it will be right
—I mean, as right as anything can be, with the
recollection of that time present to us, as it
must always be." She almost spoke these last
words to herself. They sat on, hand in hand,
for a few minutes more in silence.

"I thought you'd come to me. I knowed
you were far away in foreign parts. But I used
to pray to God. 'Dear Lord God!' I used to
say, 'let me see her again.' I told the chaplain
as I'd begin to pray for repentance—at after I'd
done praying that I might see you once again:
for it just seemed to take all my strength to say
those words as I have named. And I thought
as how God knew what was in my heart better
than I could tell Him. How I was main and
sorry for all as I'd ever done wrong; I allays
were, at after it was done; but I thought as no