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In a quiet little room she was told to sit down, while
the servant communicated her name and the nature of
her errand to the governor. She had not long to wait.
His Excellency — a kind, affable person — came presently
into the apartment, looked at her somewhat curiously,
shook hands with her, and sitting down, like any
pleasant gentleman, with no frown of the high official
about him, listened to her story.

He was a man who loved straightforward dealing and
despatch; and the directness, simplicity, and brevity
with which she laid her business before him made him
smile.

But he was a cautious man withal; and, when she
had finished, all he could promise was, that the petition,
with the accompanying documents, should be carefully
examined, and laid before his council; and that he
would endeavor to do impartial justice in the matter.
It might be several days, he said, before he would be
prepared to grant or refuse the pardon for which the
hundred petitioners prayed; but there should be no needless
delay; and, if it would be any satisfaction to her

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impatience, she might call on him again the next evening
at his house.

“If I am occupied, and cannot see you, of course,” he
added, “you will not take it unkindly, nor be discouraged.”

She thanked him, with tears, which his gentle and
frank speech called forth. Hitherto she had controlled
herself well, — concentrating all her emotions to give
power to her appeal. But now the grief she had held
back, the suffering of nights and days, kept down by
constant activity, the hope and fear she felt, and her
deep conviction of Abel's innocence, — deeper and
stronger than any reason she could give, — found utterance
in a few broken but fervent words of thanks and of
entreaty. And so she departed; not knowing whether
she had spoken well or ill, shedding silent tears, and
moving her lips to silent prayers, as she once more
threaded the strange streets.

She slept that night — for, after all her toils, she slept
well — at a boarding-house to which one of the ex-members
of the legislature had recommended her. The next
day she felt refreshed and strong. But do you think
she spent the hours that intervened till night in viewing
the sights of the city? Not she. Having learned, by
inquiry, where the state-prison was, she went to learn
her way to it; so that, the pardon procured, she could
hasten, without an instant's uncertainty, to bear it to
her dear prisoner. A half-hour's ride and a few minutes'
walk brought her in sight of the formidable pile.

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There rose the impassive gray walls, somewhere within
which she knew her Abel breathed the air of captivity,
that calm winter's morning, while she breathed the air
of freedom without. How mournfully and hopefully she
walked by them, and far around, viewing them on every
side; with what memories and thrills of tenderness she
thought of him there immured, hopelessly plodding,
never suspecting how near she was to him; with what
stifled aspiration and rapture she anticipated their next
meeting; and how she lingered, feeling a strange satisfaction
in being there, though she could not see him nor
make her presence known, — all this may be imagined,
but not told.

In the afternoon she returned to her boarding-house,
and prepared for the evening. The hope of seeing the
governor, and of hearing something favorable to her mission,
kept her heart occupied. But the hope was destined
to disappointment. His Excellency was absent
from home. And the only consolation she received was
a notification that he would expect to see her at his
office the next day.

The next morning, at the hour assigned, little Eliza
was already at the state-house, waiting for the bell to
strike the minute. She had taken care to find the doors
of the executive department; and punctually, at the appointed
hour, she entered the awful precincts, and was
ushered into the presence of the governor.

He appeared absorbed in business; but, recognizing

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her, and, looking up at the clock, he immediately turned,
and motioned her to a seat near him.

“I have not forgotten you,” he said, “though I was
obliged to disappoint you last night.”

He then spoke to a clerk, who brought to him a package
of papers, which Eliza perceived to be her petition,
affidavits, and so forth.

“I have done something in this unfortunate affair,
too,” he added; but his manner was not promising.
Eliza's eyes were delighted by no pardon, and her hopes
began to sink. “But how happens it,” he inquired,
“that, among all these papers, there is no memorial
from the prisoner himself?”

“Sir,” said the earnest girl, “I can explain that. He
does not know yet that a pardon has been applied for.
I thought it best not to inform him; for I would not
raise false expectations in his mind. Besides, — for I
wish to be entirely frank with you, and rely upon your
goodness, — I think it possible that he might not have
approved of what his friends were doing.”

“And why not?” said the governor, lifting his eyebrows
with some surprise.

“I will not conceal anything,” replied Eliza. “I
think Mr. Dane was aware of his wife's guilt; yet he
would not expose her. He preferred to sacrifice himself
in her place.”

“It would appear, then, that he not only accepted and
used the stolen money” —

“O sir! that was without his knowledge, — the

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affidavits show that, — and I would pledge my life that it
is true.”

“And yet,” said the governor, “according to your
own representation, he concealed her crime, and thus
became an accessory after the fact.”

“Do not, sir! do not let appearances and technicalities
stand in the way of justice!” Eliza conjured him.
“If appearances were truths, if the law was infallible, I
should not be here. Grant that, in the eyes of the law,
he was an accomplice; grant that it was criminal to
conceal her crime, — I don't care!” she cried, with
flashing spirit. “I know, and you know, sir, that it
was nobler in him to conceal than to expose it. It was a
holy sacrifice he made of himself, unworthy as she was.
His conduct is to be admired, and not blamed. In your
heart you must commend it, whatever you may say.
If what he did was a sin, I think such a sinner is worthier
of heaven than many a precise saint. Such a spirit
of self-sacrifice, — it overcomes me now to think of
it” — and Eliza dashed the quick tears from her eyes.

“But will this fine sinner thank us for what we are
doing?” asked the governor, with a smile.

“He will at least forgive me for saving him in spite
of himself and without his knowledge. And when he
learns how his wife has repaid his devotion by deserting
his child, he will not regret that justice has come about
through her own indiscretion.”

“Well,” said the governor, smiling again very curiously,
“if that does not satisfy him, I have something

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here that I think will. Have you seen the morning
papers?” So saying, he took one from a pile on the
desk, and handed it to Eliza, pointing to a paragraph.
“That will interest him, I think.”

Eliza read, and turned white with astonishment and
indignation.

“O sir!” she said in thick, tremulous tones, after a
pause of speechless amazement, “after this” —

“After this,” interrupted the governor, “I think both
he and you will be satisfied with what I have done.”
With which quiet speech, he opened a drawer, and produced
a large unsealed envelope, which he placed in her
hand.

Eliza knew well what it contained; and as she drew
forth the precious paper, and unfolded it, she could but
just see the great shining seal and blurring signature
through the tears of joy that blinded her.

p471-314

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