his flushed forehead, "how ill you look."

"Yes!" answered Fitzgerald, with a hard laugh. "Prison does not improve
a man--does it?"

"Don't speak in that tone, Brian," she said; "it is not like you--let
us sit down and talk calmly over the matter."

"I don't see what good that will do," he answered, wearily, as they sat
down hand-in-hand. "I have talked about it to Calton till my head
aches, and it is no good."

"Of course not," retorted the lawyer, sharply, as he also sat down.
"Nor will it be any good until you come to your senses, and tell us
where you were on that night."

"I tell you I cannot."

"Brian, dear," said Madge, softly, taking his hand, "you must tell
all--for my sake."

Fitzgerald sighed--this was the hardest temptation he had yet been
subjected to he felt half inclined to yield, and chance the result--but
one look at Madge's pure face steeled him against doing so.
What could his confession bring but sorrow and regret to one whom he
loved better than his life.

"Madge!" he answered, gravely, taking her hand again, "you do not know
what you ask."