ing: "Nevertheless, I
would give away my doubtativeness any day in exchange for your
peacefulness." Charlton did not know, nor did Lurton, that the natures
which have never been driven into the wilderness to be buffeted of the
devil are not the deepest.

It was during Mr. Lurton's time as chaplain that Charlton began to
receive presents of little ornamental articles, intended to make his cell
more cheerful. These things were sent to him by the hands of the
chaplain, and the latter was forbidden to tell the name of the giver.
Books and pictures, and even little pots with flowers in them, came to
him in the early spring. He fancied they might come from some unknown
friend, who had only heard of him through the chaplain, and he was prone
to resent the charity. He received the articles with thankful lips, but
asked in his heart, "Is it not enough to be a convict, without being
pitied as such?" Why anybody in Stillwater should send him such things,
he did not know. The gifts were not expensive, but every one gave
evidence of a refined taste.

At last there came one--a simple cross, cut in paper, intended to be hung
up as a transparency before the window--that in some unaccountable way
suggested old associations. Charlton had never seen anything of the kind,
but he had the feeling of one who half-recognizes a handwriting. The
pattern had a delicacy about it approaching to daintiness, an expression
of taste and feeling which he seemed to have known, as when one sees a
face that is familiar, but which one can not "place," as we say. Charlton
could not place the memory excited by this transparency, but for a moment
he felt sure that it must be from some one whom he knew. But who could
there be near enough to him to send flower-pots and framed pictures
without great expense? There was no one in Stillwater whom he had ever
seen, unless indeed Helen Minorkey were there yet, and he had long since
given up all expectation and all desire of receiving any attention at her
hands. Besides, the associations excited by the transparency, the taste
evinced in making it, the sentiment which it expressed, were not of Helen
Minorkey. It was on Thursday that he hung it against the light of his
window. It was not until Sunday evening, as he lay listlessly watching
his scanty allowance of daylight grow dimmer, that he became sure of the
hand that he had detected in the workmanship of the piece. He got up
quickly and looked at it more closely and