of a business man, uninfluenced by any
considerations of friendship or affection. It was
perhaps the correct view.

So, at four o'clock that afternoon I was
arrested on a charge of fraud and embezzlement,
and I beheld the sunset through the
grated window of a cell.

Now that my fortunes were reduced to
such a point, I felt to care but little for what
might be yet in store for me. I had philosophy
enough in my composition to take
everything quietly, and my first night in
gaol was not altogether a cheerless one. It
was such happiness to be relieved of the
presence of that terrible man; and now I had
leisure to think of Salome, and, to a
daydreamer like me, that was no mean
enjoyment. I could not have borne her to think
that I was guilty of what was laid to my
charge, and I determined to write to her once
more when I knew my sentence, and bid her
farewell for ever.

The following morning I was examined
before the magistrates, and remanded for a
week, owing to certain information received
by the police.

CHAPTER THE SIXTH.

I HAD passed five uneventful days in
prison. On the morning of the sixth day a
turnkey came to inform me that some one
had called to see me, and that the governor
had courteously granted me the use of his
parlour for the interview, if I chose to accept
it. A lady, attired in deep mourning, was
standing with her back to the door, gazing
out of the window, as I entered. She turned
on hearing the noise of my footsteps. It was
Salome. Her face was very pale, and her
eyes looked large and sunken.

We shook hands without a word, and sat
down near each other.

"I should have come to see you before,
Ralph," she said, the tears starting to her
eyes at the first word; "but I did not know
that you were here till yesterday, when I
accidentally read the particulars in a
newspaper. But I know that you are innocent—
that you have never wronged any man as
they say you have."

"Thank you—thank you, dear Salome!
Those are the first comforting words I have
heard for a long time. I care not what the
world may think, if you but believe me to be
innocent."

"I know that you are innocent. I never
doubted you for a moment. They can never
convict you. When they hear your explanation
they must believe in your innocence,
and set you free at once."

"I shall have no explanation to give," I
replied gloomily. "There are circumstances
connected with the case that I can never
reveal to anyone. I shall go forth to the
world branded as a felon. But oh, Salome!
however much circumstances may seem
against me, however black my case may look
—and that it will look black be certain—do
not you, you above all others, lose faith in
me, or believe that I am guilty."

"Fear me not," she soothingly replied.
"Though all the world should be against you,
I will stand your friend. But, tell me, are
there no means left for delivering you from
this strait? If I understand the affair aright,
you have failed to make good a certain
amount entrusted to you. But suppose your
friends were to come forward, and pay this
sum, would not your prosecutors be glad to
accept the amount, in lieu of obtaining a
profitless verdict against you?"

"Perhaps they might," I replied.

"Tell me the amount."

"Three hundred pounds; and I am not
worth as many farthings."

"Dear friend, listen to me; " she said,
earnestly, laying her hand on mine. "I am
not without money. I have five hundred
pounds in the bank: a legacy left me a few
years ago by a distant relative. Take whatever
of it is necessary—all of it if you will—
repay these men, and be again free."

I felt the calmness I had hitherto
maintained deserting me; and it was some
moments before I could trust myself to reply.

"Salome! from my heart I thank you.
But I cannot accept your proffered aid."

"And why not?" she hastily asked.

"Because it would only be transferring
the debt. I should owe you the money then,
and that without a prospect of repaying you;
for, were I free this minute, I should go
forth a ruined man, and have to seek a
new home where, like Ulysses, the days
would——

          '——darken round me, and the years
       Among new men, strange faces, other minds.' "

"Ralph, Ralph, you have ever been to me
a very dear friend; and what is friendship
worth that is never put to the test? Take
this money. It is yours. It shall be
yours!"

"It must not be, indeed, Salome! And,
now, while you are yet with me, for we may
perhaps never meet again; let me ask your
pardon for writing to you that foolish letter.
Forget that it was written—forget that I
am in prison; and during the short time
we can yet spend together, let us talk of old
times, and fancy ourselves children again,
going to gather lilies round Langley Farm."

"A letter, Ralph!—what letter?"

"That letter I wrote you one evening last
midsummer, to which you returned such a
cruel reply."

"I never received a letter from you in my
life, nor ever addressed a line to you, except
the few brief sentences I wrote you one
autumn, to inform you that we should not
return from Scotland by way of Howthwaite.
There is some mystery about it. Relate the
circumstance to me."

I told her in a few words the substance of