I earnestly hoped and prayed that he might die before the

Recorder's Report was made, but, in the dread of his lingering on,

I began that night to write out a petition to the Home Secretary of

State, setting forth my knowledge of him, and how it was that he

had come back for my sake. I wrote it as fervently and pathetically

as I could, and when I had finished it and sent it in, I wrote out

other petitions to such men in authority as I hoped were the most

merciful, and drew up one to the Crown itself. For several days and

nights after he was sentenced I took no rest except when I fell

asleep in my chair, but was wholly absorbed in these appeals. And

after I had sent them in, I could not keep away from the places

where they were, but felt as if they were more hopeful and less

desperate when I was near them. In this unreasonable restlessness

and pain of mind, I would roam the streets of an evening, wandering

by those offices and houses where I had left the petitions. To the

present hour, the weary western streets of London on a cold dusty

spring night, with their ranges of stern shut-up mansions and their

long rows of lamps, are melancholy to me from this association.

The daily visits I could make him were shortened now, and he was

more strictly kept. Seeing, or fancying, that I was suspected of an

intention of carrying poison to him, I asked to be searched before

I sat down at his bedside, and told the officer who was always

there, that I was willing to do anything that would assure him of

the singleness of my designs. Nobody was hard with him, or with me.

There was duty to be done, and it was done, but not harshly. The

officer always gave me the assurance that he was worse, and some

other sick prisoners in the room, and some other prisoners who

attended on them as sick nurses (malefactors, but not incapable of

kindness, God be thanked!), always joined in the same report.

As the days went on, I noticed more and more that he would lie

placidly looking at the white ceiling, with an absence of light in

his face, until some word of mine brightened it for an instant, and

then it would subside again. Sometimes he was almost, or quite,

unable to speak; then, he would answer me with slight pressures on

my hand, and I grew to understand his meaning very well.

The number of the days had risen to ten, when I saw a greater

change in him than I had seen yet. His eyes were turned towards the

door, and lighted up as I entered.

"Dear boy," he said, as I sat down by his bed: "I thought you was

late. But I knowed you couldn't be that."

"It is just the time," said I. "I waited for it at the gate."

"You always waits at the gate; don't you, dear boy?"

"Yes. Not to lose a moment of the time."

"Thank'ee dear boy, thank'ee. God bless you! You've never deserted

me, dear boy."

I pressed his hand in silence, for I could not forget that I had

once meant to desert him.

"And what's the best of all," he said, "you've been more

comfortable alonger me, since I was under a dark cloud, than when

the sun shone. That's best of all."

He lay on his back, breathing with great difficulty. Do what he

would, and love me though he did, the light left his face ever and

again, and a film came over the placid look at the white ceiling.

"Are you in much pain to-day?"

"I don't complain of none, dear boy."

"You never do complain."

He had spoken his last words. He smiled, and I understood his touch

to mean that he wished to lift my hand, and lay it on his breast. I

laid it there, and he smiled again, and put both his hands upon it.

The allotted time ran out, while we were thus; but, looking round,

I found the governor of the prison standing near me, and he

whispered, "You needn't go yet." I thanked him gratefully, and

asked, "Might I speak to him, if he can hear me?"

The governor stepped aside, and beckoned the officer away.