flickering in the draught showed Mabel's white bust and arms, like
those of a phantom, beaming through a cloud of blackness, when she
stooped to try the key in the lock of the prison-chamber.

After fitting it, she knocked before she turned it in the rusty
wards--again, and more loudly--then spoke, putting her lips close to
the key-hole:

"We are friends, and have brought you supper. Can we come in?"

There was no answer, and with a beating heart she unlocked the door,
pushed it ajar, and motioned to Aunt Rachel to hold her candle up,
that she might gain a view of the interior.

The wan, uncertain rays revealed the heap of mattresses, and upon
them what looked like a mass of rough, wet clothing, without sound
or motion.

"He is pretending to be asleep! Take care!" whispered Mrs. Sutton,
trying to restrain Mabel as she pressed by her into the room.

"He is dead, I fear!" was the low answer.

Forgetful of her nephew's prohibition and her recent fears, the good
widow entered, and leaned anxiously over the stranger's form. A
tall, gaunt man, clad in threadbare garments, which hung loosely
upon the shrunken breast and arms, black hair and beard, mottled
with white, ragged, and unshorn, and dank from exposure to the snow
and sleet; a chalky-white face, with closed and sunken eyes,
sharpened nose, and prominent cheek-bones--this was what they beheld