his personality presented him, as—as any other man; and her belief in his innocence, her pity and sympathy had led her to think too often, too frequently of him—to dwell too much upon his case.
Her forehead pursed into honest little wrinkles. She had thought a great deal about him—that was why this—this thing had startled her so. Perhaps Harold Merton had been right, too, about her going away for a little while. A change for a time amongst other scenes and peoples, where prison life was known only in the abstract, and she would come back with her mind and views better adjusted to the relative values in the conditions existing around her here. Yes; that, perhaps, was the best thing to do—go away for a little while. Her father was anxious that she should; and her mother's people had written her so often to come. Yes—she decided, nodding her head—yes; she would go. She would write her aunt at once and—
Her eyes opened wide, full of sudden, quick attention. The whir of the lawn-mower had ceased abruptly. For an instant the stalwart form beside it seemed to stand perfectly motionless, rigid, strained, intent; then the handle dropped from his grasp; he turned, facing the corner of the grey prison wall, where through the trees she could just see the figure of the guard pacing back and forth upon its top—and his shout rang like a clarion through the quiet of the peaceful afternoon.
"Fire!"
