M EANWHILE, in her Southern prison-house, Mrs. Kenyon languished in hopeless captivity. There was only one thing to add to her unhappiness, and that was supplied by the cruel ingenuity of her unprincipled husband.

Tell her [wrote Mr. Kenyon to Dr. Fox] that her son Oliver is dead. He has just died of typhoid fever, after a week\'s illness. We did all we could to save him, but the disease obtained too great headway to be resisted, and he finally succumbed to it.

"If she\'s not insane already that may make her so," he said to himself cunningly. "I shall not tell even Dr. Fox that the story is false. If he believes it he will be the more likely to persuade her of it."

Dr. Fox did believe it. Had it been an invention he supposed Mr. Kenyon would have taken him into his confidence. So he made haste to impart the news to his patient. Essentially a coarse-minded man, he was not withheld, as many would have been, by a feeling of pity or consideration, but imparted it abruptly.

"I\'ve got bad news for you, Mrs. Kenyon," he said, entering the room where she was confined.

"What is it?" she asked quickly.

"Your son Oliver is dead!"

She uttered one cry of deep suffering, then fixed her eyes upon the doctor\'s face.

"You say this to torment me," she said. "It is not true."

"On my honor, it is true," he answered; and he believed what he said.

"When did you learn it? Tell me all you know, in Heaven\'s name! Would you drive me mad?"

Dr. Fox shrugged his shoulders.

"I only got the letter this morning," he said. "It was from Mr. Kenyon."

"May I see the letter?"

Reflecting that it contained nothing of a private nature, Dr. Fox consented, and put the letter into her hands. It carried conviction to the grief-stricken woman.

"I have nothing to live for now," she said mournfully. "My poor Oliver! So young to die!"

"Who\'s dead?" enquired Cleopatra, advancing to where they stood.

"My boy Oliver."

"Is that............