"Hur'll never see Deb again!" she ventured, her lips growing

colder and more bloodless.
What did she say that for? Did he not know it? Yet he would

not be impatient with poor old Deb. She had trouble of her own,
as well as he.

"No, never again," he said, trying to be cheerful.
She stood just a moment, looking at him. Do you laugh at her,

standing there, with her hunchback, her rags, her bleared,
withered face, and the great despised love tugging at her heart?

"Come, you!" called Haley, impatiently.
She did not move.

"Hugh!" she whispered.
It was to be her last word. What was it?

"Hugh, boy, not THAT!"
He did not answer. She wrung her hands, trying to be silent,

looking in his face in an agony of entreaty. He smiled again,
kindly.

"It is best, Deb. I cannot bear to be hurted any more.
"Hur knows," she said, humbly.

"Tell my father good-bye; and--and kiss little Janey."
She nodded, saying nothing, looked in his face again, and went

out of the door. As she went, she staggered.
"Drinkin' to-day?" broke out Haley, pushing her before him.

"Where the Devil did you get it? Here, in with ye!" and he
shoved her into her cell, next to Wolfe's, and shut the door.

Along the wall of her cell there was a crack low down by the
floor, through which she could see the light from Wolfe's. She

had discovered it days before. She hurried in now, and,
kneeling down by it, listened, hoping to hear some sound.

Nothing but the rasping of the tin on the bars. He was at his
old amusement again. Something in the noise jarred on her ear,

for she shivered as she heard it. Hugh rasped away at the bars.
A dull old bit of tin, not fit to cut korl with.

He looked out of the window again. People were leaving the
market now. A tall mulatto girl, following her mistress, her

basket on her head, crossed the street just below, and looked
up. She was laughing; but, when she caught sight of the haggard

face peering out through the bars, suddenly grew grave, and
hurried by. A free, firm step, a clear-cut olive face, with a

scarletturban tied on one side, dark, shining eyes, and on the
head the basket poised, filled with fruit and flowers, under

which the scarletturban and bright eyes looked out half-
shadowed. The picture caught his eye. It was good to see a

face like that. He would try to-morrow, and cut one like it.
To-morrow! He threw down the tin, trembling, and covered his

face with his hands. When he looked up again, the daylight was
gone.

Deborah, crouching near by on the other side of the wall, heard
no noise. He sat on the side of the low pallet, thinking.

Whatever was the mystery which the woman had seen on his face,
it came out now slowly, in the dark there, and became fixed,--a

something never seen on his face before. The evening was
darkening fast. The market had been over for an hour; the

rumbling of the carts over the pavement grew more infrequent:
he listened to each, as it passed, because he thought it was to

be for the last time. For the same reason, it was, I suppose,
that he strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of each passer-by,

wondering who they were, what kind of homes they were going to,
if they had children,--listening eagerly to every chance word in

the street, as if--(God be merciful to the man! what strange
fancy was this?)--as if he never should hear human voices again.

It was quite dark at last. The street was a lonely one. The
last passenger, he thought, was gone. No,--there was a quick

step: Joe Hill, lighting the lamps. Joe was a good old chap;
never passed a fellow without some joke or other. He remembered

once seeing the place where he lived with his wife. "Granny
Hill" the boys called her. Bedridden she Was; but so kind as

Joe was to her! kept the room so clean!--and the old woman, when
he was there, was laughing at some of t' lad's foolishness."

The step was far down the street; but he could see him place the
ladder, run up, and light the gas. A longing seized him to be

spoken to once more.
"Joe!" he called, out of the grating. "Good-bye, Joe!"

The old man stopped a moment, listening uncertainly; then
hurried on. The prisoner thrust his hand out of the window, and

called again, louder; but Joe was too far down the street. It
was a little thing; but it hurt him,--this disappointment.

"Good-bye, Joe!" he called, sorrowfully enough.
"Be quiet!" said one of the jailers, passing the door, striking

on it with his club.
Oh, that was the last, was it?

There was an inexpressible bitterness on his face, as he lay
down on the bed, taking the bit of tin, which he had rasped to

a tolerable degree of sharpness, in his hand,--to play with, it
may be. He bared his arms, looking intently at their corded

veins and sinews. Deborah, listening in the next cell, heard a
slight clicking sound, often repeated. She shut her lips

tightly, that she might not scream; the cold drops of sweat
broke over her, in her dumb agony.

"Hur knows best," she muttered at last, fiercely" target="_blank" title="ad.凶猛地，残忍地">fiercely clutching the
boards where she lay.

If she could have seen Wolfe, there was nothing about him to
frighten her. He lay quite still, his arms outstretched,

looking at the pearly stream of moonlight coming into the
window. I think in that one hour that came then he lived back

over all the years that had gone before. I think that all the
low, vile life, all his wrongs, all his starved hopes, came

then, and stung him with a farewellpoison that made him sick
unto death. He made neither moan nor cry, only turned his worn

face now and then to the pure light, that seemed so far off, as
one that said, "How long, O Lord? how long?"

The hour was over at last. The moon, passing over her nightly
path, slowly came nearer, and threw the light across his bed on

his feet. He watched it steadily, as it crept up, inch by inch,
slowly. It seemed to him to carry with it a great silence. He

had been so hot and tired there always in the mills! The years
had been so fierce and cruel! There was coming now quiet and

coolness and sleep. His tense limbs relaxed, and settled in a
calm languor. The blood ran fainter and slow from his heart.

He did not think now with a savage anger of what might be and
was not; he was conscious only of deep stillness creeping over

him. At first he saw a sea of faces: the mill-men,--women he
had known, drunken and bloated,--Janey's timid and pitiful-poor

old Debs: then they floated together like a mist, and faded
away, leaving only the clear, pearly moonlight.

Whether, as the pure light crept up the stretched-out figure, it
brought with It calm and peace, who shall say? His dumb soul

was alone with God in judgment. A Voice may have spoken for it
from far-off Calvary, "Father, forgive them, for they know not

what they do!" Who dare say? Fainter and fainter the heart
rose and fell, slower and slower the moon floated from behind a

cloud, until, when at last its full tide of white splendor swept
over the cell, it seemed to wrap and fold into a deeper

stillness the dead figure that never should move again. Silence
deeper than the Night! Nothing that moved, save the black,