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'The secret of true eloquence is an eloquent heart.'

STILL anxious to try what he could effect towards winning Maida's attention and confidence, Mr. Evelyn applied for permission to visit the prisoner again.

Remembering with apprehension the passionate ebullition she had given way to before Mr. Evelyn, Maida was equally anxious to see that gentleman, in order to ascertain how far she had betrayed Norwell, and her own secret. Remembering also that Mr. Evelyn had spoken of a friend who loved her better than anyone else, and fearing that this friend could be none other than her father, she longed to ask her informant to whom he had alluded. But too proud to ask a favour, she incurred the risk of letting her doubts remain unsatisfied rather than seek an interview with Mr. Evelyn through the kindness of the matron.

Pleasure was, therefore, plainly depicted on her countenance when the object of her wishes entered her cell.

'Well, Martha, I am indeed glad to see you more cheerful; how are you, my poor girl? I have thought unceasingly of you since the night of your conviction.'

Not noticing the question, Maida eagerly exclaimed:

'Oh, sir! do tell me. What have I told you of my past history? I have been so miserable since you were here.'

'Then do not be miserable, you were so excited as to be almost incoherent. I only gathered from what you said that you had been betrayed by some villain calling himself a gentleman.'

'No names then?'

'None. I have not the faintest clue to any particular man.'

'I am anxious to know, sir, of whom you spoke, when you said you brought a message from some one who loved me better than--than--he?' She at last added, with a flushing cheek and with a firm start of her whole frame, 'Was it my father?--tell me, No--and I care not who else it may be.'

'No, Martha! no earthly--'

'Thank God!' interrupted Maida; 'if he had sent you he would soon be following himself' (hiding her face in her hands)--'and I could not--oh! I could not see him--it would break his heart to find me in these prison clothes. But perhaps his heart is broken already.'

She rocked herself wildly to and fro. Mr. Evelyn held his peace. Long experience had taught him that a chaplain's most favourable opportunity lies in the brief calm after a violent outburst of feeling. As he watched Maida he hoped the storm was passing away.

'Will you do me a favour, sir?' she asked at last.

'Anything--anything, Martha.'

'I shall have all my hair cut off when I am at Millbank; do you think they would give me two locks for a particular purpose?'

'Perhaps; it depends upon what person you ask: the matron would, I am sure; you must speak to her, and then?'

'Three months after I have gone--that is, left England--will you send one to my father, whose address you must promise not to discover until then, when, by a clue I will leave, you will easily find him--and the other--no, thank you, I will send that myself--will you oblige me, sir?'

'Willingly; but, Martha, you must write to your father.'

'Impossible, Mr. Evelyn! Should his own daughter's be the hand to sign his death-warrant?'

'Yes, Martha! the warrant has to reach him--let it be through his child rather than through the public executioner. I have a daughter; I know a father's feelings. You have also yourself to think of and act for; you have to prepare your dying bed.'

'You do not know what you ask for, sir. Were I to write, he would come to me; and I would rather that he should see me in my coffin than here: it would finish the breaking of his heart; and, surely, you would not bid me do that! besides, it would unnerve me--and then--'

'Would to God I could see you unnerved, Martha!'

Maida grasped Mr. Evelyn's hand, and fixing her eyes intently on him, whispered in beseeching tones:

'For pity's sake, do not talk so, sir; you will undo me--you will ruin me. What good would his pardon work upon a soul unforgiven by itself? For pity's sake, no more of this.'

'It is just for pity's sake that I would and must speak, my poor Martha; calm yourself, and listen to me:

'I have but lately come from that country to which you are shortly to be sent. For more than fourteen years I laboured there as a convict chaplain. I could tell you of hardships, of ill-treatment, of solitude, of home-sickness, of loveless labour, and of unrewarded servitude--all of which you must undergo; but all I could reveal of these, in their every crushing misery, would be insignificant compared to what I could disclose of the unrelenting tortures inflicted under the sentence of conscience--the sentence of remorse! generally reserved for hours of solitary imprisonment, or the day of sickness and death, when its victims are unable to lighten it by toil, or elude it by flight.

'From one cruel phase of this torture I would rescue you in imploring you to seek your father's pardon. That knowledge with which you now satisfy yourself will avail you nothing when once the great gulf betwixt him and you is passed.'

'Mr. Evelyn, you will not understand me--let me explain myself--but first, I pray you to believe that neither stubbornness nor pride is now at work in me. As we see an object for the last time, so do we picture it for ever. We may hear a thousand tales of that object afterwards--and we may receive them all--but without altering the impression left upon our minds.'

'I do not ask you to see your father, Martha. Under your circumstances, where there are all the finer feelings of the gentleman as well as the keen susceptibilities of the parent to be consulted, I would not advise a meeting; but you must write.'

A very earnest and steady look into Maida's face accompanied this boldly given, decidedly made assertion; but at the time, neither look nor assertion was noticed; the prisoner's thoughts were preoccupied, and her eyes fixed on the ground.

'You must write, Martha; and I will undertake to prevent a meeting; and also, if it would spare you pain, I would write to Mr. Grylls--(is that his name?)--break the dreadful intelligence, and prepare him to receive your letter.'

'Oh no! thank you, kindly; if it has to be done, I will do it myself. I do not shrink from a penance as just as it is severe, for the news will break his heart. I have brought it on myself. The letter shall be written; but I must be allowed to send it according to my own arrangement, in order to make his coming impossible.'

'The matron will doubtless permit you this indulgence. I only ask you, Martha, to let me know when you send the letter.'

'You shall be informed, sir; and I thank you for showing me this duty.'

'Farewell, Martha; I have already given you a parting benediction in that little book, and for my sake you have promised to read it. Be faithful to yourself in writing to your father. I will pray that you may be supported in the bitter trial, and that he may have strength to endure the impending stroke. God bless you!'

Meeting the governor's wife in one of the passages, Mr. Evelyn made known to her the prisoner's desire respecting the hair. Mrs. Lowe engaged that the wish should be gratified as far as her influence with the superintendent of Millbank extended, but advised the putting possibility beyond all doubt by at once cutting off the two required locks.

'I should not like to be present, sir, when she has her beautiful hair taken off. I am glad to be spared the painful sight. It will be a great trial to her; so peculiar a creature.'

'She will not feel it, I think, Mrs. Lowe; there is no petty weakness in her grief. As a concomitant of her humiliating portion, she may receive it with a shudder, but the shudder would be for herself, not for her hair.'

Mr. Evelyn was right in Maida's case, but generally, convicts are more sensible of mortification in being deprived of nature's best ornament than in almost any other course of penal discipline. In Van Diemen's Land the convicts especially the men, allow their hair to grow to an unbecoming length as an indisputable voucher of respectability.

The gaoler, who had overheard Mrs. Lowe's remark suggested to Mr. Evelyn in a very confidential tone:

'That woman's hair'll fetch a mint o' money, sir; she wer'n't up to it, or she'd never have brought it in with her.'

A stern frown reprimanded this very natural spirit of speculation, to which the gaoler, misunderstanding, replied apologetically:

'Yes, well, sir, you're right--it is fair it should go to Government.'

But Mr. Evelyn's frown did not accept the apology.