The little pucker deepened into a quite serious frown. How nonsensical it all was! She was perfectly happy and contented where she was, and she had never felt the "narrowing influence of prison environment," as he had called it. Of course, that was all subterfuge—no; that was hardly fair. It was not subterfuge, for he evidently believed—though why she could not understand—that a change in her surroundings would effect a change in her feelings toward him. He was certainly sincere at least, and she could hardly be angry with him—for sincerity!
Her thoughts ran on.
How strange the circumstances of Harold Merton's coming had been—and how strange the after events and the present! The frown was gone, the pucker back again. Unconsciously her eyes had been following the grey-and-black striped convict form pushing the lawn-mower to and fro across the grass—Varge. She opened her eyes wider now to watch him thoughtfully.
How tragically these two men—Harold Merton and Varge—were associated! One, the son of the murdered doctor; the other, convicted of that murder, serving out a life sentence for the crime. It seemed unnatural, unreal, imaginative, that both should have come almost into her daily life. Often she had been tempted to speak to Harold Merton about Varge; but, from a sense of delicacy that forbade the awakening of thoughts and scenes that must be painful to him, she had refrained. Once or twice he had spoken voluntarily of Varge—his attitude always the same—one of pity for the other's lot, forgiveness for the deed, and without bit-
