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point in permitting this so soon. Both of these visits rarely occupied more than an hour, or an
hour and a half, and after that the day was long. He was taken out on several days on a court
order, between nine and five, to testify in the bankruptcy proceedings against him, which
caused the time in the beginning to pass quickly.
It was curious, once he was in prison, safely shut from the world for a period of years
apparently, how quickly all thought of assisting him departed from the minds of those who had
been most friendly. He was done, so most of them thought. The only thing they could do now
would be to use their influence to get him out some time; how soon, they could not guess.
Beyond that there was nothing. He would really never be of any great importance to any one
any more, or so they thought. It was very sad, very tragic, but he was gone--his place knew him
not.
"A bright young man, that," observed President Davison of the Girard National, on reading of
Cowperwood's sentence and incarceration. "Too bad! Too bad! He made a great mistake."
Only his parents, Aileen, and his wife--the latter with mingled feelings of resentment and
sorrow--really missed him. Aileen, because of her great passion for him, was suffering most of
all. Four years and three months; she thought. If he did not get out before then she would be
nearing twenty-nine and he would be nearing forty. Would he want her then? Would she be so
attractive? And would nearly five years change his point of view? He would have to wear a
convict suit all that time, and be known as a convict forever after. It was hard to think about, but
only made her more than ever determined to cling to him, whatever happened, and to help him
all she could.
Indeed the day after his incarceration she drove out and looked at the grim, gray walls of the
penitentiary. Knowing nothing absolutely of the vast and complicated processes of law and
penal servitude, it seemed especially terrible to her. What might not they be doing to her Frank?
Was he suffering much? Was he thinking of her as she was of him? Oh, the pity of it all! The
pity! The pity of herself--her great love for him! She drove home, determined to see him; but as
he had originally told her that visiting days were only once in three months, and that he would
have to write her when the next one was, or when she could come, or when he could see her on
the outside, she scarcely knew what to do. Secrecy was the thing.
The next day, however, she wrote him just the same, describing the drive she had taken on the
stormy afternoon before--the terror of the thought that he was behind those grim gray walls--and
declaring her determination to see him soon. And this letter, under the new arrangement, he
received at once. He wrote her in reply, giving the letter to Wingate to mail. It ran:
My sweet girl:--I fancy you are a little downhearted to think I cannot be with you any more soon,
but you mustn't be. I suppose you read all about the sentence in the paper. I came out here the
same morning--nearly noon. If I had time, dearest, I'd write you a long letter describing the
situation so as to ease your mind; but I haven't. It's against the rules, and I am really doing this
secretly. I'm here, though, safe enough, and wish I were out, of course. Sweetest, you must be
careful how you try to see me at first. You can't do me much service outside of cheering me up,
and you may do yourself great harm. Besides, I think I have done you far more harm than I can
ever make up to you and that you had best give me up, although I know you do not think so,
and I would be sad, if you did. I am to be in the Court of Special Pleas, Sixth and Chestnut, on
Friday at two o'clock; but you cannot see me there. I'll be out in charge of my counsel. You must
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