banishment for life to the andaman islands—to the place which the natives of india speak of as “beyond the black waters,” a kind of stygian pit into which the foul drains of guilt, the slimy streams of vice throughout hindostan, empty themselves; where there is the society of murderers and thieves; a place of mysterious misery, like the fabled infernal regions;—to oscar coldstream this was a sentence more terrible even than that of public execution. such banishment was a kind of living death which, to one not yet thirty years of age, might endure for forty years or more! what frightful consequences had been entailed on oscar by half a minute’s yielding to passion! when he received the final sentence, coldstream realized to the full extent what earthly misery he had brought on himself.

by the same ship which carried the decision regarding oscar’s fate, came also a letter from his sister-in-law, jane thorn, addressed to himself. jane deplored oscar’s miserable condition; but earnestly, solemnly implored him not to let his innocent wife share in his exile. the home which was about to be jane’s should always, she wrote, be shared by her dearly-loved sister. let io return to england and try to forget the past.

“yes, let her forget me—the unworthy, the guilty! why should her young life be blighted? i do not wish to be remembered in my living grave!” and with the brief comment, “you had better do what your sister desires,” oscar handed the open letter to io.

her eyes streaming with tears, her hands clasped round the neck of her husband, io replied in the words of ruth, “entreat me not to leave thee, nor to depart from following after thee; for where thou goest, i will go; and where thou diest, i will die.” the last word was lost in a sob.

“but, my beloved, you have not permission to go with—a convict,” said oscar, scarcely able to command his voice.

“i will have it! i will have it!” cried io.

the door of the cell opened; the jailer was bringing in the prisoner’s meal. io availed herself of the opportunity of quitting the place in which she had been locked up with her husband. repeating, “i will have it; i will not return without it,” she ran—she almost flew—down the long corridor, like a bird escaping from a snare. until the rebound came, io had scarcely realized how heavy had been the pressure of a weight on her heart—the fear, the secret dread that oscar’s might be a capital sentence. relieved from that weight, the poor wife’s spirit rebounded almost into joy. “he is safe—his precious, precious life is safe!” io kept repeating to herself, as she quitted the dark, dismal prison. “the lord can make him happy yet; and as for me, it is happiness to be with him.”

io did not find the palanquin at the entrance, for no one had expected her to quit the prison so soon. she stopped the first empty conveyance which she saw. “to government house” was the direction which she gave to the driver. she had entered that lordly building but once before—on her arrival as a bride at calcutta. io had gone in goodly apparel, and her beauty had attracted much admiration. “coldstream has drawn a prize,” had been the governor-general’s remark to a friend. how changed was all now! and yet io was fairer in the dark weeds which she wore for her mother, nobler in the devotion which she showed to a husband ruined and disgraced, than she had been at her presentation at a semi-regal court.

on her arrival at the stately palace in which the ruler of india resided, io found that her humble vehicle could not be driven up to the handsome entrance. before the pillared portico stood a splendid carriage drawn by tall camels with trappings of scarlet and gold, preceded by outriders on gaily-caparisoned steeds. the governor-general was going out to attend a review.

“i am just in time,” thought io, as she threw open the door of her conveyance and sprang out. through the little crowd of gaping orientals waiting to see the lord sahib “eat the air,” past outriders, and all the glittering paraphernalia of princely state, glided io coldstream, too intent on her errand to heed anything around her.

the governor-general was at the top of the flight of broad steps, which he was about to descend, conversing with one of the aides-de-camp who were in attendance on the great man. io rapidly mounted the steps, all gazing at her, but no one hindering. she fell at the governor-general’s feet, clasped her hands, and in a voice of passionate entreaty exclaimed, “oh, grant me leave to share my husband’s exile!”

“mrs. coldstream! my dear lady!” exclaimed the governor-general, raising the suppliant, whom he had at once recognized, “is it possible that you can wish to go to the settlement, where all the surroundings will be so utterly uncongenial?”

“i care not for surroundings; i have but one desire, one favour to implore—to be allowed to go with my husband. you cannot, you will not, refuse that one little boon!” cried io.

“madam, i honour your devotion; i sympathize with your sorrows; i cannot refuse your petition,” said the governor, visibly affected.

mrs. coldstream was not suffered to depart in the humble vehicle in which she had come, gladly as she would have escaped from the uncongenial glare and glitter; for, now that her petition was granted, io realized her position as the wife of a felon. a handsome carriage was placed at her disposal, and the highest officer in the governor-general’s suite would have been proud to act as her escort. io was impatient of delay, for the vessel which was to bear its sad cargo of criminals to the place of punishment was to sail in two days. there were preparations to be made for the voyage and the life-long exile. io very gratefully thanked the governor-general for all his kindness; but it was with a sigh of relief that she found herself at last on the way to the missionary’s house in which, through all the long months of suspense and waiting, she had found a quiet home.

the missionary’s wife received her guest in the veranda. mrs. leveson, like the rest of the calcutta world, had heard of mr. coldstream’s sentence. she took the weary young wife into her motherly arms.

“oh, dear mrs. leveson, i have so much, so very much to do and to think of!” cried io. “i so need to have the quiet waiting spirit of a mary, but i must do the work of a martha. i have so much purchasing and packing before me, that i shall hardly have time to-morrow even to go to my husband.”

“i will do the purchasing and packing, dear child,” said the kind-hearted lady. “you have nothing to do but to give me a list of what you require.”

very thankfully was this kindness accepted. io would scarcely wait to throw off her bonnet, tired and heated as she was, before sitting down to draw up her list of requirements. as she was completing it, mrs. leveson glanced over her shoulder. “my dear child, ‘a colour-box and a supply of cardboard!’” she read out in a tone of surprise.

“yes, my oscar paints beautifully; he will need every resource. i am taking his flute also. alas! he has not touched it since our marriage!”

“and you have forgotten a waterproof cloak for yourself when going to a place noted for dampness,” said mrs. leveson. “dear mrs. coldstream, i shall have to revise your list, as well as to execute your commissions.”