“God help him when we meet!”
“Hush!” cautioned the girl again.
“When I took on his troubles,” he continued, more quietly, “I did not think of anything more than a few months in prison, but, Great God! they gave me five years:––five years!”
His eyes widened at the awfulness of the thought and a look of agony came into his face.
Eileen Pederstone gasped, and her lips parted.
“Five years,” she whispered.
The man continued in bitterness.
“Yes! five years in hell––buried alive––away from 23 humanity––from light––air––freedom; from the sunshine, the hills, and the valleys; from the sea, the wind, and, and, the higher things––literature, music, art: truth––love––life:––buried from the combination of all these, from God himself.”
He shuddered. He almost wept in his frailness. “And now the very sunshine hurts like an electric shock, the open spaces make me feel lost and afraid; make me long for the confinement of a cell again.”
He stopped suddenly and brushed his eyes with the back of his hand.