The prisoner was Lady Charlotte Templemore, who had been condemned to death for the murder of her husband. Extraordinary efforts were being made to have the sentence commuted, but so far without avail, although her interest was excellent; the truth being that Lady Charlotte, who was a proud and self-respecting woman, as well as a handsome one, had her enemies, and, numbered among them, was a most important person to one her position at the time, whom she had affronted by laughing him to scorn for having ventured to make love to her.

      People said that her trial had been conducted with indecent haste and an unfairly early date fixed for her execution, and there was strong feeling about it in the country, but the eve of the fatal day had arrived and all the concession that the most strenuous efforts of her friends had as yet been able to obtain for her was the granting of her one request, that she might not be importuned with kind attentions during her last hours, but left alone in peace in the condemned cell, to prepare herself to meet her fate with becoming dignity and resignation. The prison chaplain had spent some time with her during the afternoon.

      It had been his melancholy office to prepare her for the worst, and now, as the day was darkening down, at her express desire he had risen to go. She had risen, too, pale, but perfectly composed, and courteously responded to the grave salutation he had made her as he withdrew. A warder showed him out and locked the door, and, as she stood there, still in a dignified attitude, drawn up to her full height, with her white hands folded in front of her, she listened to the grind of the great lock in its rusty wards, the jangle and clank of the heavy keys as they swung from the warder's girdle, and the fall and echo of irregular footsteps on the flags souths corridor without, until the last faint of them had died in the distance.

      Then she sank into her chair slowly, like an automaton, and sat still a moment gazing before her blankly, all conscious life mercifully suspended, though not for long. It might have been instants or it might have been hours since the doors closed, when thought at last returned, and there came the inevitable "questioning of sense and outward things," a stammering train at first, but acquiring precision rapidly.

      "Executed to-morrow morning for the murder of my husband," was the first fragment of a sentence that took shape in her mind. "To be hanged by the neck till I die. Till I die," she slowly repeated to herself. "It is like a dream, and yet it is more certain than anything else in life I ever awaited. I have always known that I must die — been conscious of the fact — but now that I know the when and where and how, it does not seem a bit nearer or more likely than it did when I was a little child playing in the sunshine.

      "Executed to-morrow morning. To be hanged by the neck till I die. Ah! Heaven!" — she broke off, wringing her hands with a great, convulsive sob — "was I ever a little child? Born to be hanged! It is so unlikely an end for my father's daughter, for my husband's wife, I cannot believe it possible even now. I must be dreaming! But why is the awakening so long delayed?"

      Again her thoughts halted, but with an effort she roused herself a little and looked around the cell. "I used to wonder, when I read of the condemned cell and prisoners awaiting execution, how they felt. How do they feel?" she asked herself. "Dazed? No, I am not dazed. Afraid? N—no; I have felt more dread of the dentist! And I can bear pain. Pain, yes! But the surroundings? The surroundings will be horrible, the ceremony will be degrading. To think of it makes me turn cold and shiver, my cheeks blanch, my eyes feel sunken in my head, my heart contracts; but it is not fear. I could sacrifice myself without flinching; but to be executed like a common criminal."

      She started to her feet. "Oh, glad am I to be alone to-night! I shall be calm to-morrow, and no one will ever know. Know what? That I am afraid? But am I? No! It is the loneliness that overpresses me. See, when I move I am composed enough. I have always hated to be alone. It is the abomination of desolation that a affects me. But, see! My step is firm and light, my brain is clear. I could walk to the scaffold as coolly as I walk to that door now." She suited the action to the word, and then turned with a smile on her lips, and swept a royal courtesy of defiance to the world. "I am health and strength personified," she pursued. "Nothing disturbs me physically — nothing, at least, but this curious pain at my heart that comes and goes, and it is nothing. I am young — and beautiful, as some think. I may live for sixty years — I mean," she checked herself, then added bitterly. "I might have lived. It seems," she sighed, "almost a pity."

      She sauntered wearily back to her chair and sat sideways upon it, drumming on the back with her fingers, and looking up at the narrow window. A clock close at hand chimed the quarter, and others followed in the distance at perceptible intervals. "The winter's day is closing in rapidly," she thought. "It will be dark in another hour. Where the universe shall I be this time to to-morrow? This time to-morrow I shall know." She turned to the table beside her, and asked herself, "Shall I light my candle or shall I watch the darkness gather — for the last time? How strange it seems, the last of everything! My last day is done. My last night approaches. My last twilight is here. Oh, the twilghts in days gone by! the scented summer twilights — on the lawn — at home — beside the sea — brothers, sisters, father, mother — mother!" she repeated with a dry sob that shook her whole frame; and then she bowed her head upon her hands, which were clasped on the back of the chair, and remained motionless for a time.

      The silence about her seemed to deepen with the darkness, but presently it was broken by a faint sound of music, which ascended from the crowded city and aroused her. Languidly she raised her head to listen. "Music in the street," she thought. "The lamps are lighted by this time. People are crowding to places of amusement. I, the great lady who is to be executed to-morrow — the murderess — am doubtless an item of interest to many; but the world goes on as usual, nevertheless. Why should people care? Did I ever care when others were here? But, how that wretched music brings back the past! I should have been dressing for the evening now, or downstairs receiving my friends, or going with my husband to dine elsewhere — my husband, great heaven!" she exclaimed, "I had forgotten. Oh, but surely I may think of him? He was mine then, the kindest, tenderest, best. * * * How lonely it is," she broke off. "'Oh, for the touch of a vanished hand and the sound of a voice'" * * * The words ended in a whimper, but no tears came.

      A dull sound as of hammering muffled by distance began to be audible in the cell.

      "How curiously things recur to me," she commenced. "Scraps of verse, snatches of song. * * * I must light my candle. The darkness chills me. What is that hammering?" She listened a moment, and then proceeded to light the wax tapers that had been allowed her. This done, she folded her arms and leaned back in her chair.

      "Yes, let me think it out," she resumed, clasping her hands over her heart. "It will ease this terrible ache. It is, not remorse. No. I would not have killed him had I been cool. I did it in a moment of frenzy. But," passionately, "I would rather have him dead a thousand times than living to my dishonor with her. I loved him. Yes, and I love him still * * * my husband, but not my own. The sting is in that. I love him, but I cannot forgive him." She sprang up with a vehement exclamation: "How that hammering distracts me! They might have let me be at peace to-night." Again the city clocks began to strike. She had been restlessly pacing to and fro, but now she stopped to listen. "Another hour, and I have not forgiven him. I must, I must before I die. Oh, my husband! we shall meet to-morrow! Why is my heart so hard?"

      Once more she returned to the chair and sat down. Her face was more haggard already than it had been when the chaplain left her, but the momentary excitement soon subsided, leaving her listless. "How did it all happen? Let me think." She rested her elbow on the table and covered her eyes with her hands. "Let me go through it all again. We were married. No one could have been happier than I was, more devoted, more thoroughly confiding; and no one, apparently, truer than he. But that is why I cannot forgive him! I thought him true, and all the time his life was a lie. How do I know? An accident. A thing that can be told in a moment. Coming home alone from church one night, I saw him on in front of me. My heart gave a great glad leap, and I hurried after him. He was walking, not in his usual deliberate way, but as if he were agitated, and when I noticed that my mind misgave me — I don't know why — and I followed him without trying to overtake him. A woman met him. He was passing, but she stopped him. I saw her laugh. She turned back with him, and they walked on together, talking, excitedly, she laughing always. They entered a house, leaving the door ajar, and I followed them — followed them into a room, and there the woman faced me — an older woman than I am, and handsomer." "Who are you and what do you want?" she demanded. He turned pale as death. "I followed my husband," I answered. "Your husband!" she sneered. "Yes, mine," I cried passionately. She laughed. "Don't you know of my prior claims?" she said. "Prior claims?" I repeated. "Who are you?" "His wife," she answered coolly. I looked to him to deny it, but he only hung his head. "Then what am I?" I cried. He gave the ghost of a shrug. It was scarcely perceptible, but it was enough. The blood of generations of honored women boiled in my veins. There was a small knife on the table near me, a jeweled thing, an ornament, but sharp and sheathless — I seized it on the instant — I sprang — I struck" -

      She had risen to deliver the gesture with all the fury of ungovernable rage, and then she sank into the chair again, holding her hand to her heart and panting. Moments of oblivion followed, but eventually she aroused herself. She was in court this time, a common criminal standing in the dock, but cool and proud and self-contained, answering the Judge in an off-hand way: "Oh, yes! I him. Guilty, my lord; I offer no defense for that." The clocks struck once more, recalling her to the present. "Do I repent!" she asked herself. "Can I forgive him! No! no! a thousand times no! He deserved to die."

      When the reverberation of the bells had ceased, the sound of incessant hammering grew more distinct.

      "What is it?" she wondered, after an interval of listening. "What are they doing at this time of night? How terribly importunate the sound is? It wearies me to death. Is it real hammering, or is it the throb of a pulse in my brain? Ah, I know?" she cried aloud. "I have road it somewhere. There are prisons where you hear them. The scaffold! They are putting the scaffold up."

      A long pause followed upon this, during which she sat rocking herself to and fro in great mental distress, but this paroxysm passed in turn, and then her thoughts ran on again.

      "How the hours drag! I wish it was all over." She looked about her. "How many poor wretches have already tenanted this cell? I see something scratched on the wall there." She took the candle and went to examine a legend rudely cut. "John Smith, may God forgive me," she read, and then commented bitterly: "A very proper frame of mind, John Smith." "Mary Peters, for the murder of my child. I am innocent. May God forgive you, Henry Butler," was the next she discovered. "Ah, and thereby hangs a tale of the world's justice, doubtless," she said, as she passed on, still examining the wall. "Did she die, I wonder? Poor little Mary Peters! L. S. — M. B. — a cross — I can't make that out. Oh, I'm tired." She took the candle back to the table and sat down again. "I wonder why they carved their names on the wall! For the same reason, I suppose, that I have read them. There was a certain interest in the act. Strange how one's interest survives to the last. I shall be interested to-morrow in everything." She thought again of her predecessors. "Some of them slept, doubtless, the night before. I wish I could sleep. am so tired. She yawned and looked at the hard prison bed. "It is not inviting, and the moment I lie down such a rush of thought besets me! I suffer less sitting here."

      Her head sank forward on her bosom, her eyelids drooped and sleep was upon her all unawares; a period of darkness first, but from that she passed into the shining world of dreams, and there she met her husband, and all the past was blotted out. The pained expression of her face relaxed, and she smiled a happy welcome. "Oh, sweetheart! I am so glad you have come! I have been so anxious — I have had such frightful dreams. But now that I see you again all that vanishes. A foolish, nervous little wife, you say? Yes — but, darling, I dreamt that you were dead, and — and — there was something" — she grew troubled — "something horrible" — her agitation increased — "Robert! Robert! you don't look like yourself. Why do you groan! What have I done? Who are these men? What do they want with me? Tying me!" — she began to struggle frantically. "O Robert! O my husband! help me! save me! They're putting a rope round my neck — they're pulling it tight. Did you say hanging is too merciful? You are not going to drive nails into my heart?" With a wild shriek she sprang to her feet wide awake, and then crouched trembling upon the floor.

      "What an awful dream! My husband standing coolly by, watching the wretches strangle me. I was going to thank heaven it was only a dream, but to-morrow — to-morrow — oh, I can't die like that," she panted * * * "dragged out — one woman alone — a crowd of men — their coarse hands — pinioned — blindfolded — forced forward — body and soul wrenched asunder. No, no, no!" She sprang to her feet, and tore at the door, the window, the walls, shrieking in an agony. "Is there no way of escape? Help! help! help! Save me; don't let me be dragged forth, and tied and tortured." She threw herself down on her knees, and appealed to heaven in a frenzy of supplication. "O God! take me now — now — now."

      And then the wild burst was over, and she fell forward on the floor, face downward, and at the same moment the hammering suddenly ceased. It was some time, however, before she recovered herself, but at last she moved, and then she slowly rose to her feet. "What a strange illness. Something has happened. Something is missing — something familiar — some — sound? Ah, I know! The hammering. It wearied my brain while it lasted, but now that it has ceased there is a blank, and I am lonelier. Oh, for a kind word, for a loving look, for the touch of a hand! * * * No! I do not mean it. I chose to be alone because the word and look and touch I loved ——"

      She tried to rouse herself out of that vein.

      "How cold it is. Is there nothing I can do? Write! to whom? Read! what? Let me see what there is." She went over to a chest that stood in a corner, and opening it began to examine the contents. "Dresses and ornaments. The authorities have been extremely courteous. Criminals are not usually so indulged. Yet, now I think of it, their dress on the occasion is often described. Palmer, the poisoner, was faultlessly attired, and wore lavender kid gloves — the wretch! Oh, surely there is an immeasurable distance between him and me? But I will dress, too, as becomes me, whatever the decision. What is there here! Black velvet. Black is appropriate. Mary Queen of Scots wore black and crimson. And Mrs. Brownrigg was hanged in black satin. That put it out of fashion for years, and puts black out of the question now, too. There are criminals and criminals. But let me see. Here are crimson and green, and white besides. Red for the martyr's blood, green for the martyr's crown, white for mourning of God. * * * I'll wear the white."

      She proceeded to change her dress. "What a lovely gown! Fit for a bridal. When I was married my sisters dressed me and our old nurse. They wouldn't let a strange hand touch me. And my mother stood by, half glad, half sad, all smiles and tears together waiting to pin my veil and give the finishing touch — the hangman's task to-morrow. On, well is it that you died, mother!" She was shaken by another convulsive sob. "If only I could weep! Will nothing soften me? Let me try to think." She sat down on the side of the bed. "My young husband * * * how his face brightened when he came to me; how glad he was when I was happy, how sorry when I was sad * * * how fearful when I was suffering * * * how he — pretended to love me! He loves!" She jumped up, overcome by another burst of rage, and began to walk up and down excitedly. "False! false! false!" she cried, and then stopped, overtaken by a new perception; "and yet I could have sworn * * * when the child came, when it was first put into his arms and he raised the little face to his" — imitating the gesture — "that there were tears * * * But bad men weep * * * and yet I could have sworn he loved the child. And when it died * * * Oh, my God, will nothing soften me? My eyes are dry and burning; my heart is cold; I can neither weep nor pray. All feeling is at an end. Anything but that. Anything! An agony of remorse, rage, fierce rage, a rush of tenderness, grief, to rend my soul, and a passion of tears to relieve the hell that is in my heart, the horror of ice that is here." She clasped her hands over her heart. "God has forsaken me! A wicked God! I could curse him, curse nim, curse him and die!"

      Once more the bells began to chime the hour, and the soft, melancholy sound of one close by, reverberating through the cell, arrested her attention. She counted the slow strokes, each one of which was fraught with such solemn significance for herself, and in the brief interval, while she was so occupied, her mood entirely changed, her heart expanded, a flood of tenderer feeling suddenly overcame her, and the rage, and hate and bitterness passed from her soul. She did melt, but the burning sense of wrong forsook her, and, sinking into hard prison chair which stood beside the table, she found herself involuntarily exclaiming in gratitude, "Dear Lord, forgive me!"

      There were some letters on the table, and after this she began to turn them over mechanically, looking at them in an absent way at first; but all at once she noticed one in particular. "I wonder how I missed that! But no great wonder under the circumstances. I have been indifferent to everything since. * * * A strange hand; a woman's. I wonder who it can be! Posted in London on the 5th and this is the 25th, is it not? Time flies. What a gorgeous monogram! Too showy. Gold and silver, red and royal blue. My own initials, too; now that is singular. I wonder who it is from."

      She opened it with languid indifference and began to read it; listlessly at first and in a dazed sort of way, but all at once with a glow of emotion. The expression of her face, her whole attitude changed. She sprang to her feet waving the letter. She uttered a cry of joy. "Not guilty! not guilty!" she cried. He did not know he had wronged me — he did not know — he thought she was dead — she has written it here, she has written it herself! Oh, my husband!" She threw herself on her knees and clasped her hands. "Oh, my God! forgive me!" then at last she burst into a passion of happy tears.

      "I would not live now if I could," she began to say softly when she had recovered herself a little. "Oh, no! I shall go to him. In a little while now we shall be together again, and he will forgive me, and we shall be very happy, and it will be forever! What a wonderful thought! he and I, and — Oh, yes! and the baby boy we lost, both, both! What joy! I can hardly bear the anticipation of it even! Yet * * * A blessed sense of security steals over me. Just now I thought myself forsaken, but behold the promise and the pardon. 'I will not leave you comfortless.' The power to pray returns. I can say Our Father now as I did when I was a little child. How beautiful death is. Lord, I am wayworn and weary; give me rest!"

      She had risen, and now went to the comfortless-looking pallet and composed herself upon it with a gentle expression of content on her haggard and tear-stained face that was very touching. For a little while after she had lain down her slender frame was racked by an occasional convulsive sob; but she was smiling when she closed her eyes, and so she remained. Words, thoughts, images thronged through her mind at first. She heard her husband's voice. He called her to come to him. She saw his face. Once more there was something between them, an obstacle to be overcome with an effort. It was a moment of painful struggle; but at last! The oblivion of darkness tenderly enfolded her; and then the dawn broke.

      A rosy dawn. It flooded the bare cell. It radiated her quiet face. It tinted her bridal gown.

      All through the night it had been the duty of one of the prison officials to look in upon her at intervals and report, and always when she heard him coming she had assumed her mask of proud tranquillity, so that invariably each report had been "awake, but quite calm," until the last, which was "sleeping very quietly."

      At an early hour the bell began to toll, and sheriff, under-sheriffs, governor of the prison, warders, hangman, all the dreadful party assembled with solemn and agitated faces, and they entered the cell.

      "She sleeps soundly," the Sheriff said. "Some one must wake her."

      All seemed to shrink from the task, and while they hesitated a breathless messenger entered, waving a paper. The Sheriff took it from him and glanced at it. "A reprieve!" he exclaimed. "Lady Charlotte! you are reprieved!" The chaplain had been bending over her, and now he looked up. "Yes," he said, "and released. An angel brought her freedom and forgiveness hours ago."

[Copyrighted.]