eedy did not let one pass without gravely warning the director of the
state, more and more miserable, in which the disappearance of Heartall
placed him. The director, worn out, sentenced him to four-and-twenty
hours of solitary confinement, because his prayer was too like a
demand. This was all that Sam Needy obtained.

The 10th of November arrived. On this day Sam arose with such a serene
countenance as he had not worn since the day when _the decision_ of
Mr. Flint had separated him from his friend. When risen, he searched
in a white wooden box, which stood at the foot of his bed, and
contained his few possessions. He drew thence a pair of sempstress's
scissors. These, with an odd volume of Cowper's poems, were all that
remained to him of the woman he had loved--of the mother of his
child--of his happy little home of other days. Two articles, totally
useless to Sam; the scissors could only be of service to a woman--the
book to a lettered person. Sam could neither sew nor read.

At the time when he was traversing the old hall, which serves as the
winter walk for the prisoners, he approached a convict of the name of
Dawson, who was looking with attention at the enormous bars of a
window. Sam was holding the little pair of scissors in his hands; he
showed them to Dawson, saying, "To-night I will divide those bars with
these scissors."

Dawson began to laugh incredulously. Sam joined him.

That morning he worked with more zeal than usual--faster and better
than ever before. A little past noon he went down on some pretext or
other to the joiner's workshop, on the ground-floor, under the story
in which was his own. Sam was beloved there as every where else; but
he entered it seldom. Thus it was--"Stop, here's Sam!" They got round
him; it was a perfect holyday. He cast a quick glance around the room.
Not one of the overlookers was there.

"Who has a hatchet to lend me?" said he.

"What to do?" was the inquiry.

"Kill the director of the work-rooms."

They offered him many to choose from. He took the smallest of those
which were very sharp, hid it in his trowsers, and went out. There
were twenty-seven prisoners in that room. He had not desired them to
keep his secret; they all kept it. They did not even talk of it among
themselves. Every one separately awaited the result. The thing was
straight-forward--terribly simple. Sam could neither be counseled nor
denounced.

An hour afterward he approached a convict sixteen