the piteous days which had followed Mr. Blake's
operation.

Rose had not allowed herself one word of fret or of
repining; but on three different nights during that first
week, she had got out of bed and wandered about the
house, till Anna, hearing the quiet, stuffless sounds of
bare feet, had come out, and leading the girl into the
still warm kitchen, had comforted her.

It was Anna who had spoken to Sir Jacques, and
suggested the sleeping draught which had finally
broken that evil waking spell -- Anna who, far more
than Rose's own mother, had sustained and heartened
the poor child during those dreadful days of reaction
which followed on the brave front she had shown at
the crisis of the operation.

And now Anna had to face the horrible fact that it
was she who had brought this dreadful suffering, this --
this lifelong misfortune, on the being she loved more
than she had ever loved anything in the world. If
this was true, and in her heart she knew it to be true,
then she did indeed deserve to hang. A shameful
death would be nothing in comparison to the agony of
fearing that her darling might come to learn the truth.

The door of the cell suddenly opened, and a man
came in, carrying a tray in his hands. On it were a
jug of coffee, some milk, sugar, bread and butter, and
a plateful of cold meat.

He put it down by the old woman's side. "Look
here!" he said. "Your lady, Mrs. Guthrie as she is
now, thought you'd rather have coffee than tea --
so we've managed to get some for you."

And, as Anna burst into loud sobs, "There, there!"

[[355]]

p354 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p355w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p356

v?