M'Carstrow places some pieces of silver in his hand; they turn
the man of keys into a subservient creature. He hastens to the cell,
M'Carstrow following,--draws the heavy bolts,--bids the prisoner come
forth. "Yes, come, girl; I've had a tough time to get you out of
that place: it holds its prey like lawyers' seals," rejoins
M'Carstrow.
"Not without my child?" she inquires quickly. She stoops down and
kisses it. "My daughter,--my sweet child!" she mutters.
"Till to-morrow. You must leave her for to-night."
"If I must!" Again she kisses the child, adding, as she smoothed her
hand over Annette, and parted her hair, "Mother will return soon."
There was something so touching in the word mother, spoken while
leaning over a sleeping babe. Clotilda reaches the door, having kept
her eyes upon the child as she left her behind. A tremor comes over
her,--she reluctantly passes the threshold of the narrow arch; but
she breathes the fresh air of heaven,--feels as if her life had been
renewed. A mother's thoughts, a mother's anxieties, a mother's love,
veil her countenance. She turns to take a last look as the cold door
closes upon the dearest object of her life. How it grates upon its
hinges! her hopes seem for ever extinguished.
The law is thus far satisfied-the legal gentlemen are satisfied, the
warden is not the least generous; and Mr. Cur feels that, while the
job was a very nice one, he has not transcended one jot of his
importance. Such is highly gratifying to all parties.
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