But what is hard is when the time comes"-- Wentworth stopped, and then went on--"when the time comes that you can't do anything more for the person you care for most." Silence.
The yellow butterfly was still feebly trying to open and shut his wings.
The low sun had abandoned him to the encroaching frost, and was touching the bare overarching branches to palest gold, "so subtly fair, so gorgeous dim"; so far beyond the reach of tiny wings.
"I don't think," said Wentworth, "I would stick at anything.

I don't know of anything I would not do, anything I would not give up, to get him back his freedom.

But it's no use, I can do nothing for him." "Oh! Why does not the real murderer confess ?" said Fay with a sob, wringing her hands.

"How can he go on, year after year, letting an innocent man wear out his life in prison, bearing the punishment of his horrible crime ?" That mysterious murderer occupied a large place in Fay's thoughts.

She hated him with a deadly hatred.