“Mr. Goodall, hitherto you have supposed that I only protested my innocence because I hoped, through such protestations, to be believed and saved. But now you must know that not a shadow of hope remains to me.”
“I do know it,” said the minister, earnestly.
“And, therefore, now that I have lost all hope of man’s mercy, and know that I must certainly die to-morrow morning, you will believe me when I repeat, as I hope for God’s mercy—I am guiltless of the crimes for which I am to suffer,” said Eudora, solemnly.
“I do believe you; I am constrained to have faith in your innocence; dear Eudora, forgive me that I ever doubted you.”
“There is nothing to forgive, since it was inevitable that you should at first think as all the world did; but there is much to be grateful for, now that you have confidence in me. And now that we understand each other, you can indeed give me much comfort,” said Eudora, holding out her hand, which he took and held, while he said:
“I will attend you to the last, dear, unhappy girl.”
“But you are ill, and must not fatigue yourself.”
“I will be with you to the last,” repeated the minister. “It will be time enough for me to rest when you are—in Heaven.”
Meanwhile, what had become of Annella Wilder, since her daily visits to the prison had been prohibited, and her eccentric inroads into Malcolm Montrose’s lodgings had ceased?
Annella, for the last few days, had restricted herself to the Anchorage and its immediate environs, where her burning cheeks and blazing eyes, and feverish manner, excited the serious alarm of her relatives.