She had had no communication from without; and the lapse of time was only told by the change which her mirror marked. She had entered that prison young, very young—now her bright hair was thin, and grey mingled with the yet golden tresses. But this. morning she was happy. She had risen with the sun—the lark she never heard now—to watch over the slumber of one who made her feel that earth had still one precious link—one for whose sake there was yet something to pray and to hope—a handsome youth of about fourteen was sleeping in the little room adjoining her own. It was her son, Prince George, who had escaped the night before from his attendants; and at the risk of his life had swam the moat to see his ill-used, his beautiful mother.
"How soundly he sleeps," murmured she—"it is a pity to wake him—and yet he can sleep any day—while his mother he may not see again."
But she was spared the necessity of awakening him; for, as if made conscious, by some sweet instinct, of her presence, the youth opened his eyes, and said—"mother." The sadness of a wasted life—the bitterness of a false accusation—the weariness of years of prison, were repaid by that moment’s happiness. Sophie could not satisfy herself with gazing on the bright and noble features of her son. She overwhelmed him with a thousand questions—she was eager to learn all his habits, pursuits, and pleasures, and yet she startled at the least sound she feared that they were about to take him from her.
"You eat no breakfast, mother," exclaimed the Prince, pausing in the midst of the meal to which he was doing the full justice of a youthful appetite.
"Not yet, George," said she, "this is Sunday, and since I have dwelt in this castle I never break my fast till after the service in the chapel."
"This is a dreary place," rejoined the youth, looking round
