"I see! I see! You cannot grant my request! I should have known it and refrained from asking," interrupted Lyon Berners.
At this point Beatrix Pendleton, who had been sitting beside Sybil, deliberately took off her gloves, bonnet, and lace shawl, and laid them on a table near, saying quietly,
"I shall stay with my friend. Mr. Martin, I don't think you will turn me out in the storm to-night. And, Mr. Sheriff, I know that women-friends are often permitted to be in the cell with women prisoners."
"Miss Pendleton," said the sheriff, before the warden could speak, "there is not the slightest objection to your remaining with your friend, if you please to do so. Women in her sad position are always allowed a female companion in the cell. It is usually, however, a female warder."
"Thank you, Mr. Fortescue! I will be Sybil's warder, or her fellow-prisoner, as you please, that is, with Mr. Martin's consent. He has not spoken yet," said Beatrix, appealing to the warden.
"My dear young lady, I would no more turn you out in the storm, as you call it, then I would turn my own daughter out. Of course you will stay if you please, though, bless my heart, the trouble is usually to keep people here, not to send them away. They come unwillingly enough. They go away gladly," said the old man.
"My dear Beatrix, you do well! you do nobly!" whispered her brother, pressing her hand.
"Miss Pendleton, how shall I thank you? May the Lord, who makes up all our shortcomings, reward you infinitely!" said Lyon Berners, fervently pressing her hand.
"I think we had better end this interview now," whispered the sheriff.
Lyon Berners turned to look at his wife. She was still sitting in the same dreamy, abstracted, unconscious manner.