report on newspapers. But his lack of experience everywhere
handicapped him. What he contrived to earn during those months of
struggle was all too little as the time approached for the great
event.

Angela was now entirely confined to her bed. She seemed to grow more
spirit-like every day. A terrible dread haunted O'Connell waking and
sleeping. He would start out of some terrible dream at night and
listen to her breathing. When he would hurry back at the close of
some long, disappointing day his heart would be hammering dully with
fear for his loved one.

As the months wore on his face became lined with care, and the
bright gold of his hair dimmed with streaks of silver. But he never
faltered or lost courage. He always felt he must win the fight now
for existence as he meant to win the greater conflict later--for
liberty.

Angela, lying so still, through the long days, could only hope. She
felt so helpless. It was woman's weakness that brought men like
O'Connell to the edge of despair. And hers was not merely bodily
weakness but the mare poignant one of PRIDE. Was it fair to her
husband? Was it just? In England she had prosperous relatives. They
would not let her die in her misery. They could not let her baby
come into the world with poverty as its only inheritance. Till now
she had been unable to master her feeling of hatred and bitterness
for her brother Nathaniel; her intense dislike and contempt for her
sister Monica. From the time she left England she had not written to
either of them. Could she now? Something decided her.