His reflections were broken by the sound of footsteps in the corridor without, and the sound of the jailor's voice saying:
"This is his cell."
The prisoner looked up and met the frank, kindly face and outstretched hand of Lem Pawlett.
"Well, Dorn, old fellow, I'm mightily sorry to see you here," he said cordially, as the jailor walked away, leaving him standing in front of the grated iron door of the cell, through which his hand was thrust to grasp that of Mary's lover.
"Does—do they know of it?" stammered Dorn.
"Does Mary, you mean. Well, yes, I guess she does. Uncle Thatcher was at the store last night when the mail-rider brought the news, and he has most probably mentioned it at home. But, Lord bless you man! she don't think anything of it. Cheer up. Don't get down in the mouth. She won't believe a word against you, you may be sure. And it don't come on her like a shock, as it were, because she has been expecting it."
"She expected it?"
"Yes. She has known for two or three days that they were after you, but had no way of getting any word to you."
"But how did they come to be after me?"
"That was Aunt Thatcher's doings, I believe; but I'll tell you all about it, as far as I know."