“Has Mr. Montrose been here to day?” was the first question she put to the turnkey, who conducted her.
“No, he is not to come until six o’clock,” answered the man.
“Very well; go on.”
She was admitted to the cell, where she found Eudora sitting by the little table engaged in reading the Scriptures. At her feet was coiled up her little dog, and on the table was laid a folded paper. Upon seeing the visitor, she put her hand out, and taking that of Annella, drew her up to her side and kissed her, saying:
“I thank you for coming to see me once more, dear girl. I am not afraid, now, Annella! Every dark cloud has passed from my spirit, and I feel strangely well. And now I begin to understand how it was that Jane Grey and Anne Boleyn, and so many other young and timorous women, were enabled to meet unmerited death with so much fortitude. I think that strength comes at the very last by the gift of God.” And so saying, Eudora moved and seated herself on the side of the bed to yield the only chair to her visitor.
Annella did not trust her tongue to speak. She sat down with her back to the light, that Eudora might not see the disturbance of her face.
So there fell silence in the cell for a few moments, and then Eudora arose and approached the table, took up the pocket Bible, and wrote a few lines on the flyleaf. Then laying it upon the lap of the visitor, she said:
“You will keep it for my sake, dear?”
Annella’s hand closed over the book, but she made no reply.
The dead silence of the young girl surprised and troubled Eudora, who perceived in it a sympathy too deep and painful for words.