thoughts of late and she wanted so much to help him—and she could do nothing.
Her eyes still followed him. It was a homely task upon which he was engaged, but it riveted her attention and her interest. There was something fascinating in the grace of movement, in the upright, virile figure, in the firm, steady, athletic stride, in the swing of the shoulders, the poise of the head—the face, the splendid, well-proportioned frame that seemed to stand out dominant, to rise above and be apart from the stigma of the black-and-grey striped suit that clothed him, to give almost a dignity to the hideous prison dress itself.
Oh, if she could only help him—in spite of himself! In the hours she had spent with him over the shrubs and trees and flowers, talking to him while he worked, she had come to know and understand him so well—in all but this one thing. How strong, how wonderfully strong he was—and yet his touch upon the tenderest shoot or most delicate flower was all care and gentleness. What was to be the end of it all? Would he go on, and the years go on; would young manhood pass and middle age come—and still find him there? Would the silver creep into the close-cropped hair—and still find him there—a convict? It was too bad, too wrong, too pitiful—the blue eyes filled suddenly—oh, if she could only do something, if he would only speak!
She watched him, troubled, a little longer, and then mechanically picked up her book—Stevenson's "St. Ives"—and, finding her place, began to read again.
Overhead, a gregarious community of sparrows angrily disputed the invasion of a blackbird into the branches of the elm, and flew hither and thither with
