Shotbolt, who had in some degree recovered from the effects of his previous mortification, was thrown into an ecstacy of delight, and could not sufficiently exult over the prisoner. “You must not think of me as one. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. Only she was conscious of an unfamiliar and wonderful emotion. Where can we sit down and talk?” He led her across the room towards a window recess, in which a tall, fair young man was seated with an evening paper in his hand. How could she tell him of the evil that drew her and drew her, as a needle to the magnet?—the fascinating evil that even now, escaped as it was, went on distilling its poison in her mind? "Yes, yes!" said the doctor. I should say that having a doubt was enough to condemn it. She drew in a deep breath of the sweet mountain air.
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