Mr. Byerley returned somewhat fatigued with his journey, but in high spirits. He said but little respecting his doings and the persons he had seen in Paris, but was very communicative about all that happened on the road. He had been much entertained by one man in particular, who had sat beside him all the way from Paris, and been very anxious to make acquaintance with the Englishman. He appeared to have very strange, erroneous notions of England, its government, and political parties.

“I hope he did not lead you to talk too freely,” interrupted Mr. Fletcher.

“O, no!” replied Mr. Byerley; “and if I had talked treason it would hardly have signified. You have no idea of the man’s simplicity.”

“Not so good a one as he has of yours, perhaps. But what are this simple man’s politics?”

“Just what one might expect from such a person. He is not very well contented with the state of things in this country, but does not see how it is to be improved. He seems one of the grumblers, who set other people to work, but do nothing themselves.”

“What sort of looking man is he?”

“A very common looking person, with a black coat and ugly brown wig.”

“Well, Byerley, simple as he may be, you are quite as much so, depend upon it, to talk politics in a diligence.”

“Oh! it all depends upon who listens. This was a good-natured creature as could be. He was very civil about my accommodation, and enquired what luggage I had, that he might have an eye to its being stowed away in the right place.”

“Is your portmanteau safe?” enquired Mr. Fletcher. Mr. Byerley only answered by pointing to it as it lay in the hall.

“Your civil friend examined it, I dare say.”

“Yes, such people are always curious. I saw him spelling out my name and feeling the weight of the trunk; and he remarked the roll of paper (music for Mary) peeping out of my coat-pocket. He began fishing to discover what it was.”

“And did you show it him?”

“No: I thought it was time to check his curiosity, so I put it out of sight.”

“Well, you had better have had your girls with you. I will answer for it they would know better how to conduct themselves in a diligence than their father. But come, I have made an appointment for you at Béranger’s. He is to show us the plan of the new Institute; and it is time we were gone.”

When the gentlemen returned from the house of M. Béranger, (the magistrate to whom Mr. Byerley had before been introduced,) Mr. Fletcher looked very grave, while his friend was laughing.

“Whom do you think we met, just now?” said he.

“The man in the brown wig?”

“Yes; a perilous looking personage, is he not, Fletcher?”

“How oddly Béranger behaved to you!” was Mr. Fletcher’s only reply.

“Yes, he was as stiff and formal as an Englishman; but I suppose that is his magisterial air.”

“M. Béranger stiff and formal!” exclaimed Mrs. Fletcher: “I never saw him so.”

“Nor I till to-day,” replied her husband. “Did you see where your brown-wigged friend came from, Byerley?”

“I saw him come out of a house, but I did not observe the house particularly.”

“He came out of Béranger’s office-door.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Mr. Byerley, starting: “and yet he told me that he knew no one in this place, and should proceed on his journey south in a few hours.”

While this conversation passed, the girls were dressing to go out. Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher were glad of this, as they did not wish to communicate to Mary and Anna the vague uneasiness they began to feel respecting the consequences of this journey.

Mrs. Fletcher walked out with the young people. They were tempted to prolong their ramble till past the hour of dinner; yet when they came in, the cloth was not laid, no servant was visible, and no one answered the bell. Mrs. Fletcher caught a glimpse of her husband in the garden behind the house. He was pacing backwards and forwards with hurried steps. She went to him, trying in vain to prevent Mary from following her. The truth was soon out. Mr. Byerley had been arrested during their absence, and conveyed first to a magistrate and then to prison, without being able to learn the nature of the accusation against him.

Mary strengthened herself for a few moments with the belief that this proceeding originated in a mistake, which would be presently rectified; but when Mr. Fletcher made no reply to her expression of hope, she remembered the packet of letters, the mystery of the journey to Paris, the strange behaviour of the fellow-traveller, and his egress from the magistrate’s office, and, finally, the deportment of M. Béranger himself; and no doubt remained that some political offence was imputed to her father.

Her first desire was to go to him; and she ran into the house that she might communicate to Anna what had happened, and lose no time in proceeding to the prison with her sister, who, she could not doubt, would be eager to accompany her. Anna was, however, in no condition for such an exertion. Though Rose had communicated the fact as gently as possible, the feebleminded girl was frightfully agitated. She had sunk shivering on the ground, and clung so convulsively to the sofa, that it was impossible to raise her.

“Anna,” said her sister calmly, “have you not always said that on great occasions you could command yourself? This is a great occasion.”

“O, my father! my father!” cried the trembling girl; and the voice of her wailing thrilled every nerve in Mary’s frame.

“Listen, Anna! My father is, no doubt, looking for us, expecting us every moment. Will you not go to him?”

“Go to him!” cried Anna, springing up. “Let us go instantly, and never leave him. Yet—Oh! to see him in a dungeon, among the wretches there, shut up, perhaps, for life—I cannot, no, I cannot——” and she sank down on the sofa, utterly exhausted.

Mary looked at her sister, and then at the door: her feelings were harrowed by what she saw and heard. She longed to restore her sister, and yet was impatient to be gone.

“Leave your sister to us,” said Mrs. Fletcher: “you see she cannot go.”

“But what shall I say to my father, Anna?” said her sister in a broken voice, as she bent over her. “Look up, and speak to me, or how shall I comfort my father?” But still Anna did not unclose her eyes.

“She will soon be better,” said Mrs. Fletcher, trying to smile: “leave her to me, and go where your heart bids you.”

Mr. Fletcher drew Mary’s arm within his, and hastened with her to the prison, preparing her by the way for the probable disappointment she would meet with in being refused admittance. Mary declared that she would get in, by some means or other; and in answer to the objection that it might be impossible, she declared that, in such cases, women had been known to conquer what are often called impossibilities.

As Mr. Fletcher expected, the jailer had received strict orders to admit no person whatever to Mr. Byerley’s presence. There was no use in entreaty, or in any mode of representing the case. He must obey orders. He did not refuse, however, to answer questions. The gentleman seemed in good spirits, he said, except that he was vexed at not having an apartment to himself.

“Not an apartment to himself! Where was he then?”

“In the same room with some debtors.”

“Any body else?”

“Yes; two or three felons, for whom there was not room elsewhere.”

Mary’s heart sickened as she turned away.

“I will go to M. Béranger’s,” said she: “he will not, he shall not deny me.”

“This is the way,” said Mr. Fletcher; “you are turning homewards.”

“Perhaps Anna is able to go now,” replied Mary. “She shall have her choice, at least; and she will help me to plead with M. Béranger.”

Anna was better. She lay quietly weeping on the sofa, and scarcely looked up as her sister entered.

“I have not seen him: they will not let us in, without leave, Anna. Will you go with me to obtain leave from M. Béranger? It will do you good, if you can exert yourself so far.”

Anna looked bewildered. Mrs. Fletcher, unwisely, as Mary thought, objected that she was unequal to the exertion. This observation, however, had the effect of rousing Anna.

“Why should not I as well as Mary?” demanded she, starting up. “He is my father as well as Mary’s. Who shall prevent my discharging a daughter’s duty to him? It is very unjust: it is very unkind——.” While thus exclaiming, Mary tied her bonnet for her: her own hands trembled too much.

Mr. Fletcher’s stronger voice now prevailed. He declared decidedly that Anna’s appearance would, without doubt, injure her father’s interests. To a cool and wary magistrate, who did not understand the vehemence of her feelings, her agitated appearance would give the idea that there was reason for apprehension that the result of an examination was dreaded. “We believe your father to be innocent,” said he; “and the calmness of our manner ought to testify the confidence of our belief. Look at your sister, Mary, and say if any stranger would believe that she had any present confidence whatever to repose upon.”

Anna’s face, flushed with anger and convulsed with fear, was indeed ill-fitted to enforce any plea founded on a consciousness of innocence. She was left behind, exclaiming against the injustice, but, in reality, relieved at being spared the necessity of exertion.

M. Béranger, guessing the nature of Mary’s errand, declined seeing her, on the plea of business; but Mary, who felt that the part she now had to take was that of decision, or what would be called obstinacy by the persons she had to deal with, replied that she would wait till M. Béranger was at liberty. She took her seat in the office, and remained two long hours; at the end of which time, the magistrate, having no hope of getting quit of her, admitted her and Mr. Fletcher to his presence. Again and again he answered, that his directions were positive, to allow no access to persons imprisoned for political offences. Mary reasoned on the impossibility of her affording any advantage to her father’s cause by being with him, or of her opposing any hindrance to the course of justice: she only wanted to be let in alone; she would submit to be searched; she would carry in nothing but linen; she would not ask to come out again till her father should be also released. The magistrate gently represented, that she seemed to consider the last circumstance as far more probable than the facts warranted, and that she did not know what she was engaging for, in offering to stay in prison as long as her father. Mary smiled as she observed, that where there was in reality no offence, there could be no doubt of the issue, if justice were done, of which she entertained no fear; but that, if she knew her father’s imprisonment to be for life, she should be no less earnest than now to be with him on the terms she proposed. When she pleaded her father’s delicate health, and the ease and careful attendance to which he was accustomed, the magistrate was evidently touched and disturbed; and as she went on, (the more urgently as she began to see hope of success,) he stopped her with a promise to consider what could be done, and to send to her in the morning. No, she replied; she could not wait; she wished to join her father this night. M. Béranger’s next resource was to pace the apartment; and a glance from Mr. Fletcher, (who wisely forbore to interfere,) told Mary that her cause was prospering.

It was late, and quite dusk, before the anxious family learned what had detained the absent members so long. Anna had consented to go to bed, and it was hoped she was asleep, that she might be spared the struggle of parting with her sister, who only returned for the necessaries she was to convey to her father. Mrs. Fletcher made her sit down and eat, while Rose and the maid Susan went to put up her parcel for her. It was necessary that they should enter Anna’s room with a candle: she started up, and poured out questions so fast, that Rose was obliged to tell her the state of the case, and to promise that her sister should come up to bid her farewell.

“Just one kiss and then leave her,” said Mrs. Fletcher, as Mary took the candle to go to Anna: “do not let her agitate you or herself.”

This, however, it was in the power of no one to prevent. It will scarcely be believed—Anna herself could scarcely credit it afterwards—that her last words to her own sister on such an occasion as this, were words of jealous reproach.

“Do not dwell on any thing unpleasant, my love,” said Mrs. Fletcher, as she saw, by Mary’s quivering lips, that something had been said to wound her: “your sister is not herself to-day; she will soon be better.”

“How shall I know that she is?”

“M. Béranger will convey a message to you, I am sure. I will call and ask him; or perhaps he will allow Anna to come and tell you herself that she is better.”

“Madame Mesnil,” said Mary——.

“She shall see Anna to-morrow, my love; and never fear but that, among us, we shall be able to comfort her.” And after a mournful farewell, Mary again set forth, with Mr. Fletcher and Susan.

M. Béranger’s order procured them immediate admission to the jailer’s apartment, where Mary’s bundle having been tossed over by the jailer’s wife, and found to contain nothing suspicious, she took leave of her friend and of the weeping Susan, and followed her conductor to the apartment which contained her father. Hers was not the soul to recoil at the sights and sounds which met her every where in this dismal abode. The passages were empty and cold, and echoed back their footsteps. They met one or two turnkeys, who stared at the unusual sight of a lady, out of visiting hours, and looked back to see which of the cells she was about to visit. At length they stopped, and the jailer gave her the light to hold while he unbarred and unlocked the door. He observed that her hand was steady.

“One would think that Mam’selle had been used to the inside of a prison,” he observed.

Mary replied, that she had never before entered one.

“Nor Monsieur?”

“Yes; my father has been accustomed to visit the prisoner.”

“Ha! what a strange amusement! We do not allow of such curiosity here.”

Mary was sorry to hear this: she thought it promised ill for the comfort of the prisoners; and it was evident that the man had no idea that any one would voluntarily enter a prison from any motive but curiosity.

He opened the door cautiously, and made her enter first. The room, which was very large, was so dark that she could not see either end of it; she discerned many moving figures, but not distinctly enough to recognize her father.

“Mais où est il?” said the jailer, holding the dim light above his head: “call him yourself, Mam’selle; I know not these English names.”

Mary pronounced the name, but the low sound was not heard. There was no need, for her father, mistrusting his own eyes, came forward to see whether or not it were indeed his daughter.

Mary seized his arm, and was, for the present, happy. The jailer favoured them with the use of the light for a short time, saying that he would return for it himself.

Before she would indulge in any conversation, she examined into the nature of the accommodations which had been provided for her father. They were wretched enough. A screen was placed across one corner of the dreary apartment, and behind it was placed the mattress on which he was to sleep. A bench was the only piece of furniture allowed him besides. The other corners were partitioned off in a similar manner for other unhappy inmates of this place; and during the day, her father told her, many more were admitted, so that there was no hope of peace and quiet. Some effort must be made to obtain a separate apartment; if this could not be done, Mary must make up her mind to leave him the next day. Mary smiled, in a firm resolution to do no such thing: she had, however, a strong hope that a separate cell might be obtained.

She observed that her father’s supper stood untasted: she urged him to eat while she arranged his bed comfortably; observing that she had supped before she came. She judged rightly, that example would be better than entreaty: her father ate because she had eaten.

By the time she had laid on the sheets she had brought, and made herself somewhat at home in what she called their own apartment, the jailer came for the light; and in return for a handsome fee, promised Mary the comfort of an occasional retreat to his wife’s apartment, if her father should be obliged to remain where he was. He further favoured them by drawing up a huge table outside the screen, by which fortification they felt themselves secure from interruption; but no intreaties could prevail on him to leave the light.

Mr. Byerley refused to sleep while Mary watched beside him, but consented at last to lie down, though declaring that he was not so weary as she said he appeared. She sat down beside him, and they talked long in whispers, interrupted only by the slight noises which told them that there were sleepers within hearing. At length, Mr. Byerley, overcome by the fatigues of his journey, and of all that he had since gone through, fell asleep with his daughter’s hand clasped within his own. During the succeeding hours, a world of ideas passed through Mary’s wakeful mind. Seated as she was, in solitary watchfulness beside her suffering parent, amidst strangers, in the very room with criminals, with whom she was shut up for she knew not how long, she was easy and happy in comparison with her sister, who, in her comfortable apartment, carefully tended by servant and friends, was restlessly miserable, not only on her father’s account, but through jealousy of her sister, and the reproaches of her own conscience.

In a few hours Mr. Byerley awoke; and his daughter, perceiving that he was really refreshed, and that he would not sleep again, consented to repose in her turn. She felt safe in the guardianship of her parent, and slept till it was broad daylight.

This day was spent by the friends of the prisoner in active exertion to learn the nature of the accusation against him, and the probable issue of the affair, and to secure for him such temporary comfort as might by any means be obtained. Mr. Byerley employed Mary in drawing up memorials to be presented in every quarter where there was any hope of their being of use. This exertion, and the hope which it excited, were cheering to them both. At one sentence, which strongly expressed the prisoner’s consciousness of innocence, Mary staid her pen, and looked up in her father’s face.

“Speak, my dear,” said he; “tell me what you are thinking of: if you have any doubt of my innocence, say so.”

“I do not, of course, suspect you of any moral guilt—of any act which you would not pronounce to be virtuous; but, excuse me, because I know nothing of the purpose of your going to Paris;—has nothing been done which the laws or the government of this country would declare to be wrong?”

“Nothing, my love, which the laws do not sanction; something, perhaps, which the government may not like, and for which it may choose to punish me; but nothing for which it can bring me to trial, or which any lawyer in the kingdom can declare to be unconstitutional.”

The full explanation into which Mr. Byerley now entered, satisfied Mary that she might with a safe conscience speak and write of her father’s entire innocence, though it left considerable apprehensions of the consequences of these strange events. She was glad to divert her thoughts from the dark future, by busying herself as much as possible; but her attention was perpetually recalled to her present situation by the disagreeable sounds which reached her from the wretched inmates of their apartment. She was hidden from their observation by the screen; but their coarse jests, their oaths, and vehement complaints, offended her ears perpetually, though she gave no outward sign to her father of having heard them. It was not many hours before one change for the better took place in their situation. When the turnkey brought their dinner, he informed them of the magistrate having ordered that they should be allowed a separate apartment, which would be ready for them before night.

This cell was found to contain a smaller one within; and Mary had no doubt that the jailer had had her accommodation in view in conducting her father hither in preference to other cells. This symptom of humanity raised her spirits, and she spread her little mattress with almost as much satisfaction as if it had been in a better place. Here she and her father passed a week—a long week, unvaried by any circumstance but an occasional message, transmitted through M. Béranger and the jailer, that all their friends were well, and were employing their energies on Mr. Byerley’s behalf. They could comfort themselves on Anna’s account only by hoping that she was included among the friends who were well; for it was impossible to obtain a more particular report of her.

About noon, on the eighth day of their confinement, the door was unbarred and thrown open, and Mr. Fletcher and Anna entered. The surprise of this meeting was almost too much for the prisoners. When they could enquire what turn their affairs had taken, they heard joyful news. The worst charges against Mr. Byerley, those of sedition and conspiracy against the government, were relinquished through inability to substantiate them; and it was now hoped, though with no degree of certainty, that the accusation would amount to nothing worse than carrying sealed letters, an act forbidden by the Post-office laws, and punishable by a short imprisonment only.

Mary’s heart felt suddenly lightened of the weight of a calamity; but she could control herself in joy as well as in grief; and the calm of her manner and countenance showed whither she referred her feelings of gratitude and joy.

“Come, come,” said Mr. Fletcher, when the first burst of intelligence had been received and discussed, “we must lose no time in making our arrangements, for our lawyer friend will be here presently, and I shall take my departure to-morrow.”

“What arrangements?”

“Anna will remain with her father; and you, Mary, must go with me. Make no objection, my dear: on all accounts it is desirable that the exchange should be made, and my wife and daughters are looking anxiously for you.”

Mary was so far from making any objection, that she was rejoiced at the opportunity thus afforded to Anna of taking her share of the duty in which she felt so much pleasure. She withdrew with Anna into her own little cell, to prepare for her departure, and to introduce her sister to the scanty accommodations the place afforded. Anna shuddered as she looked round, and seemed more than half inclined to draw back; but of this her sister took no notice, though she inwardly compassionated her fears.

“Can you sleep here?” enquired Anna.

“O yes! very well. It is a very good mattress, and the room quite undisturbed by noise. There is no access to it, you see, but by my father’s room. I never slept better, though I had not such an easy mind as we may all have now.”

“You will come to-morrow, will not you?”

“Certainly, as soon as visitors are admitted. Our best way will be to take our place here by turns, day and day about. This will amuse my father most, and be best for us.”

Anna made no reply but by another timid look round.

Mary smiled as she continued: “You will find that my father has much to relate as well as you: I will leave it to him to tell you what we have been doing all this week. I shall think of you this evening talking so busily and comfortably together. It will do my father more good than any thing else could do, to hear all you have to tell him; for we know scarcely any thing yet of what our friends have been doing for us.”

“Oh! what is that?” cried Anna, at the sound of the unbarring of the outer door.

“I suppose it is the lawyer who was to come. Yes, it is,” continued Mary, after a peep into her father’s room; “so we must be gone. Farewell, till to-morrow morning.”

Anna’s eyes were swimming in tears when her sister left her. If the smallest choice had been allowed her, she would have gone home with Mr. Fletcher. As it was, she said, in her perverse heart, that Mary was so wonderfully ready to depart, that it was clear she did not like the prison; so she made up her mind to dislike it too, and to think it hard that she, delicate as she was, should be left there.

As soon as the lawyer was gone, she joined her father. He did not wonder at the visible constraint of her manner; but the greater the cause for it, the deeper was his compassion for her. Never, perhaps, even to Mary, had his words and manner been so tender as now to his conscious and unhappy daughter. He succeeded, at length, in raising her spirits; and there was so much to relate on each side, and now so great cause for hope, that this evening proved nearly as cheerful as Mary hoped it might be.

To her, this day afforded much enjoyment. The air, sunshine, and verdure were delicious after a week’s seclusion within stone walls. She passed the afternoon in the garden with her friends, listening and relating by turns, and enjoying the delights of their affection, and of vivid hopes for her father; these delights being, unconsciously to herself, enhanced by the satisfaction of her own reflections on past duties.

M. and Mde. Mesnil came to see and congratulate her, and to offer to go and visit her father. It was settled that the pastor should accompany her the next day. Madame Mesnil, whose influence had done more to tranquillize Anna than any which the Fletchers could exert, declared her intention of taking her young friend home to dinner with her to-morrow, that she might hear what sort of a heroine she had made in prison.

No one was ever, in truth, less like a heroine. Anna started at every sound, and appeared in perpetual terror, even while her hand was clasped in her father’s. In vain he smiled, and assured her that no persons were ever more secure from interruption than they were till supper time; in vain he urged her then to eat, and conversed with the turnkey, to prove to her that the man was civil, and that there was nothing to fear. She was somewhat relieved when they were locked in for the night, but more nervous than ever when she found herself alone in her dismal little cell. She crept shivering into bed, and cried almost the whole night. Of course she looked, in the morning, little fitted to cheer a prison; and breakfast passed almost in silence. As soon as it was removed, her father took her hand, saying:—

“My child! you are very unhappy.”

At the first word, Anna laid down her head on his knee and wept bitterly. All attempts to soothe her being vain, her father continued:—

“Surely all this grief is not for me; there is now no cause for it, for my safety is certain. You must have some secret trouble, which you conceal from me. Why will you not give me your confidence?”

“You know——you know,” said she, in a broken voice, “that I am miserable: you know why I am miserable.”

“I see that you are unhappy; but, unless there be something that I am ignorant of, I see no reason why you should not be as happy as other people if you choose it.”

“No, never; nobody loves me; people pity me, and look down upon me, and do what they can to help me; but they do not love me, and I cannot live without being loved.”

“Supposing all this to be true, which I think it is not, how happens it?”

“Ah! that is the misery of it. I know you think I deserve it; and I do in part; but indeed, indeed I am not understood.”

“If so, I ask again, how happens it?”

Anna was silent.

“Think and speak honestly,” continued her father, after a pause: “this is too serious a matter to be trifled with. If you are indeed misunderstood by all the world, where does the fault lie? is all the world to blame, or are you?”

“I am partly, I own; I have made some great mistakes about myself, which I can never repair, and——”

“Stop, my love; I never sanction the belief that any mistakes are quite beyond reparation. You have committed errors in your management of yourself; but, while you live, you have the power of retracing your steps. Go back to the point where your errors began, and then you can proceed in the safe and right way in which it has ever been my wish to guide you.”

“I cannot, I cannot,” cried the unhappy girl: “I am altogether disappointed in myself; every thing has turned out differently from what I expected; I thought I should have been——” She could not command her voice.

“You thought you should have been something unlike—something far beyond what women generally are. I saw what your ambition was, and, as you well remember, warned you from the first that you mistook the way to gratify it. While you should have been exercising yourself in the virtues you wished to attain, you spent your energies in dreaming about them, and the consequence is——”

“Oh! do not reproach me with it; I know too well what it is. I am fit for nothing—equal to neither great occasions nor small. I am always in the way of other people when they do not want me; and when they do, I fail them utterly. Oh! do not reproach me with all this.”

“Not for the world, my love! What heart could that father have who would reproach you as you reproach yourself? I will allow some truth in what you have said; but I must add, that with so clear an apprehension of the evil as you have shown, and so noble a candour in acknowledging it, there is strong reason for hoping that you may get the better of your troubles entirely.”

“No; I shall never have strength now; you do not know how often I have resolved and failed. I will make no more resolutions, and then I shall not incur the sin of breaking them.”

“Anna, I am now convinced of what I have long feared. What you have just said is more painful to me than all that has passed: it proves to me that you depend on the strength of your unassisted will—that you have ceased to seek help where you know you may ever find it. I see, by your silent shame, that it is so. And have you really made no further use of your religion than to feast your imagination, while you were daily experiencing the weakness of your own will?”

Anna turned away in agony.

“Tell me, my child, if I do you injustice. Give me but one sign that I too have misunderstood you. If you have indeed continued to study the Scriptures with intentness of heart, if you have, to this day, sought relief and strength in prayer, turn to me, and I will entreat your pardon for my harshness.”

Anna turned not, and her emotion was fearful: her father’s was scarcely less.

“It is not too late, be the case what it may: while the stray sheep lives, it may be brought back. But is it possible, that while we have read and prayed together, your heart was far from your lips? Was your fancy busy even then, with the applause of the world?”

“Yes; it is that which has ruined me,” said Anna at length. “For years my chief motive has been praise, human praise; and now I cannot act against my inclinations from any other. And I have lost all power over my thoughts: they wander away at all times: the attempt to restrain them made me miserable; and now that I have given it up, I am more miserable still.”

“No doubt, my child; and the only way to recover your peace is to resume your efforts—not with a vague wish merely, or an unassisted resolution to govern yourself better. You must gather motives from a renewed study of your Bible; you must obtain strength from prayer; and you must also exercise yourself perpetually in action. Circumstances occur every hour which may afford you an opportunity of breaking in upon your reveries, and doing something which your inclination would prompt you to leave undone. There is more efficacy in attempts to act, in a case like yours, than you have any idea of.”

Anna knew this, but doubted her own power. Her father suggested various helps to her own feeble resolution, of which she might make use; the chief of which was an increased confidence in her sister. From this, her father saw with anguish that she recoiled: there was no use in arguing against so unnatural a feeling; he could only pray that it might be changed into a more kindly and generous emotion, by the discipline to which he hoped his unhappy child would henceforth subject herself.

He perceived that, painful as this conversation was, it had been a relief to Anna, who had not for many long months opened her griefs to any one. Her emotions had, however, so totally enfeebled her, that her father found it necessary to assist her to her room, where he laid her on her bed, and saw her fall asleep almost instantly, thus proving that the exhaustion of her body was greater than the disturbance of her mind.

When Mary and M. Mesnil entered the cell, they found Mr. Byerley leaning over the table, his face covered with his hands. They made no very close enquiries respecting the cause of his grief; but as, at the end of an hour, Anna was still asleep, Mary proposed that she should not be disturbed, and that they should both remain through the day and night. In answer to all objections about want of accommodation, she declared, that if there was not room for both to rest, she would watch, as she had done before. Any thing, she said, for the sake of their passing a day together once more.

This arranged, Mary told her father how she had enjoyed the preceding day and this morning.

“It is a fine morning, I see,” said he, looking up to the high grated window which admitted—not sunshine—but such light as told that there was sunshine abroad.

“A fine, fragrant, summer morning,” said Mary, taking from her bosom some field-flowers which she had gathered in the meadows: “I have brought you these; I wish I could bring you the sunshine which painted them.”

As her father looked fondly at her, he thought within himself, that to him she had ever brought sunshine.

Anna awoke refreshed, and, to her sister’s relief, appeared to have no objection to remain another day and night where she was. They spent the day in greater comfort and confidence than had been their wont of late, and at night slept and watched in turn; Anna managing to control her fears while her sister was beside her, though asleep.

To their astonishment, this proved the last day of Mr. Byerley’s imprisonment. The strenuous exertions of his friends, the interference of the English ambassador, and especially, the important fact that there was no evidence against him beyond the suspicions of a spy, availed to release him from his jail; but not altogether from injustice. He was ordered to quit Tours in twenty-four hours, and to embark immediately from the nearest port, whither he was to be escorted by two gens d’arme.