had seen convicts, even his own cell-mate,
goaded to murder by their keepers, go to the gallows cursing God. He had
been in a break in which eleven of his kind were shot down. He had been
through a mutiny, where, in the prison yard, with gatling guns trained
upon them, three hundred convicts had been disciplined with
pick-handles wielded by brawny guards.

He had known every infamy of human cruelty, and through it all he had
never been broken. He had resented and fought to the last, until,
embittered and bestial, the day came when he was discharged. Five
dollars were given him in payment for the years of his labour and the
flower of his manhood. And he had worked little in the years that
followed. Work he hated and despised. He tramped, begged and stole, lied
or threatened as the case might warrant, and drank to besottedness
whenever he got the chance.

The little girl was looking at him when he awoke. Like a wild animal,
all of him was awake the instant he opened his eyes. The first he saw
was the parasol, strangely obtruded between him and the sky. He did not
start nor move, though his whole body seemed slightly to tense. His eyes
followed down the parasol handle to the tight-clutched little fingers,
and along the arm to the child's face. Straight and unblinking, he
looked into her eyes, and she, returning the look, was chilled and
frightened by his glittering eyes, cold and harsh, withal bloodshot, and
with no hint in them of the warm humanness she had been accustomed to
see and feel in human eyes. They were the true prison eyes--the eyes of
a man who had learned to talk little, who had forgotten almost how to
talk.

"Hello," he said finally, making no effort to change his position. "What
game are you up to?"

His voice was gruff and husky, and at first it had been harsh; but it
had softened queerly in a feeble attempt at forgotten kindliness.

"How do you do?" she said. "I'm not playing. The sun was on your face,
and mamma says one oughtn't to sleep in the sun."

The sweet clearness of her child's voice was pleasant to him, and he
wondered why he had never noticed it in children's voices before. He sat
up slowly and stared at her. He felt that he ought to say something, but
speech with him was a reluctant thing.

"I hope you slept well," she said gravely.

"I sure did," he answered, never taking his eyes from her, amazed at the
fairness and delicacy of her. "How long was you holdin' that contraption
up ove