Through a grated window, some six feet from the stone floor, a strip of sunshine came and went, falling on Mortimer, who leaned thoughtfully against the damp wall. The room, if we may call it one, was devoid of furniture, with the exception of a low iron bedstead, whose straw-stuffed mattress and ragged coverlid suggested anything but sleep. Daisy Snarle was standing with downcast eyes near the door which a few minutes before had closed on its creaking hinges, and outside of which the jailor stood listening.
The long, dark lashes were resting on her cheek; the pearls of the necklace, which gleamed here and there in the queenly braid, looked whiter by contrast with Daisy's chestnut hair. In one hand she had gathered the folds of her shawl, the other hung negligently at her side. From beneath the skirt of her simple dress, peeped one of the loveliest feet ever seen, and her whole attitude was unconsciously exquisite. She had just ceased speaking, and the faintest possible tinge of crimson was on her cheeks.
"Daisy, you are one of God's good angels, or you would never have come to me in this repulsive place."
Daisy's eyes were still bent on the floor.
"Speak to me again, Daisy," said Mortimer, taking her hand. "Your voice gives me heart, and your words make me forget everything but you."
Daisy lifted her dreamy hands, and said, softly:—"They could not find it."
"Could not find what, Daisy?"
"The necklace," said Daisy, smiling.
"No," she continued, in a low, musical voice, "they searched in all the rooms, in all the trunks—turned over your papers and mother's work-basket—but they could not find it."
And Daisy smiled again.