cell. The two first days had not appeared very long. He had requested and been granted some sheets of paper, numbered, which he was obliged to account for; and he wrote, with a sort of rage, plans of defence and a narrative of justification. The third day he began to be uneasy at not seeing anyone except the condemned prisoners who were employed to serve those confined in secret cells, and the jailer who brought him his food. "Am I not to be examined again?" he would ask. "Your turn is coming," the jailer invariably answered. Time passed, and the wretched man, tortured by the sufferings of solitary confinement which quickly breaks the spirit, sank into the depths of despair. "Am I to stay here forever?" he moaned. No, he was not forgotten; for on Monday morning, at one o'clock, an hour when the jailer never came, he heard the heavy bolt of his cell pushed back. He ran toward the door. But the sight of a gray-headed man standing on the sill rooted him to the spot. "Father," he gasped, "father!" "Your father, yes!" Prosper's astonishment at seeing his father was instantly succeeded by a feeling of great joy. A father is one friend upon whom we can always rely. In the hour of need, when all else fails, we remember this man upon whose knees we sat when children, and who soothed our sorrows; and although he can in no way assist us, his presence alone comforts and strengthens. Without reflecting, Prosper, impelled by tender feeling, was about to throw himself on his father's bosom. M. Bertomy harshly repulsed him. "Do not approach me!" he exclaimed. He then advanced into the cell, and closed the door. The father and son were alone together, Prosper heart-broken, crushed; M. Bertomy angry, almost threatening. Cast off by this last friend, by his father, the miserable young man seemed to be stupefied with pain and disappointment. "You too!" he bitterly cried. "You, you believe me guilty? Oh, father!" "Spare yourself this shameful comedy," interrupted M. Bertomy: "I know all." "But I am innocent, father; I swear it by the sacred memory of my mother." "Unhappy wretch," cried M. Bertomy, "do not blaspheme!" He seemed overcome by tender thoughts of the past, and in a weak, broken voice, he added: "Your mother is dead, Prosper, and little did I think that the day would come when I could thank God for having taken her from me. Your crime would have killed her, would have broken her heart!" After a painful silence, Prosper said: "You overwhelm me, father, and at the moment when I need all my courage; when I am the victim of an odious plot." "Victim!" cried M. Bertomy, "victim! Dare you utter your insinuations against the honorable man who has taken care of you, loaded you with benefits, and had insured you a brilliant future! It is enough for you to have robbed 

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