the long pent-up emotion which now demanded
to have its way. From mouth to mouth the
good news passed, and the words of the verdict
echoed through the hall so quickly that there
was hardly any appreciable lapse of time before
the cheers of the people without the court
proclaimed to those within that the happy tidings
had reached them also.

That day on which the trial of Gabrielle
Penmore came to an end had been one of those
which, beginning in great splendour, had become
clouded over to some extent as the afternoon
advanced. But now, when the short daylight
was near its end, there was another change; the
sun broke out once more before setting, and
all things within its reach were in a moment
turned to gold. It is not easy for the sunlight
to find its way into that grim court-house in the
Old Bailey, but there were crevices even here
through which certain of these golden rays
managed to penetrate; and still more, there was
a sudden increase of the volume of light which
filled the building, and a change in the colour of
that light, which conveyed to the senses of all
who were there assembled the knowledge that
the mist-clouds had cleared away, and that once
again the sun was shining down upon the world.
There was no one present in the place at that
time who failed to notice the change, and few
who did not receive from it a distinct gratification.
Those earth-born vapours which had
been spread between mankind and that which
typifies to us the very glory of God had passed
away, and once again there was nothing but the
blessed air of heaven between the World and
the Sun which shone upon it.

Say what we may, we are all affected by such
a change as this. Reason about it as you will,
there is a special happiness which the sunshine
brings with it wherever it appears. The sun
shines, it is true, on the wicked as well as on
the good. Vice, and crime, and pain, and
sorrow, cease not from off the world when the
sun's rays are on it. There are felons working
out their life-long sentences, there are criminals
plotting fresh deeds of infamy, and there are
sick people writhing on their beds in agony
when the sun shines, just as there are when it is
hidden from view. All this we know with that
cold knowledge which is of the intellect alone.
The heart will have nothing to say to those
highly reasonable convictions, but cleaves, in
spite of them, to a creed of its own—a creed in
which there are more articles than we are most
of us aware of, and one of the most prominent
of which is this—that sunshine and happiness are
closely allied, and that the clouds which darken
the earth have some unexplained connexion with
the sorrows to which man is born.

At all events, there were not wanting those
who, on this particular day of which we are
speaking, felt that it was a good thing that the
sun should have come out just at the moment
when Gabrielle's innocence was proclaimed
aloud.

Just as the trial which has occupied so many
pages of this narrative was virtually over, before
those last words which brought it formally to an
end were uttered, so now this story may be fairly
stated to have reached its termination, although
some few last words remain yet to be spoken
before Reader and Author part company.

That verdict which, once pronounced, made
Gabrielle a free woman, which threw open her
prison doors and left her at liberty once more,
was hardly heard or understood by her whom it
chiefly affected. As she stood to receive it, all
things swam before her eyes, and the tumult in
the court was to her a dim unreal thing which
she could not understand. She knew that all
was well, but it was a joy that frightened her in
its excess. The extremes had met, and she felt
some such sickness coming over her as might
have attended a different verdict. She could
only look across to where she knew her husband
was, with a strange half smile, and she knew
that he too was looking at her, and signing to
her how happy they were. She knew, too, that
all eyes were fixed upon her, and that there were
even some of those quite near her who made as
if they would have taken her by the hand. By-and-by
she came also to know that there was a
sudden silence in the place, and that the old
judge was speaking again.

She heard faintly, incompletely, as she saw.
But still she knew that what the judge was saying
was mingled with some distant sound of
many voices cheering in the street without.
Those about her told her that his lordship was
addressing her herself, and she tried hard to
listen, but could only do so very imperfectly.
There were ladies crying as the judge spoke, and
some, as Gabrielle thought, were even carried
out of court.

She listened, she strained her worn-out attention,
and wondered within herself that she heard
so little, or understood so ill. She did, however,
understand something of what was said. She
knew that the old man addressed her in words
full of sympathy and respect. He told her that
the verdict which had just been given, and in
which he entirely concurred, not only set her
free and exonerated her from the charge which
had been brought against her, but that it
reinstated her character, which had been so
unhappily and unjustly assailed, leaving her without
stain and without reproach. She had passed
through a martyrdom, he could call it nothing
else, and come out of the ordeal victorious. He
said something, too, about not wishing to detain
her longer from the rest of which she must stand
in such earnest need, and then—then—he ceased
to speak, or she to hear, which was it?

They bore her away, for she had fainted, to a
room where there was fresher air, and where it
was very quiet. Gilbert was there, too, and was
bending over her when she came to herself.
"Am I to go home?" she asked. For she was
still hardly herself, and could not yet believe
that she was free. That strange horrible nightmare
which had lasted so long, was it possible
that she had really awakened from it?

And now there came a messenger in search of
Gilbert. The old judge had sent for him. If
he could spare a few moments, the justice would