. By degrees they let him
know that doubts have arisen, that inquiries are to be made, and
perhaps he may be pardoned after all. At last, the evening being come,
they bring him to a room where some gentlemen are assembled. Foremost
among them is his good old master, who comes and takes him by the hand.
He hears that his innocence is established, and that he is pardoned.
He cannot see the speaker, but he turns towards the voice, and in
trying to answer, falls down insensible.

They recover him again, and tell him he must be composed, and bear this
like a man. Somebody says he must think of his poor mother. It is
because he does think of her so much, that the happy news had
overpowered him. They crowd about him, and tell him that the truth has
gone abroad, and that all the town and country ring with sympathy for
his misfortunes. He has no ears for this. His thoughts, as yet, have
no wider range than home. Does she know it? what did she say? who
told her? He can speak of nothing else.

They make him drink a little wine, and talk kindly to him for a while,
until he is more collected, and can listen, and thank them. He is free
to go. Mr Garland thinks, if he feels better, it is time they went
away. The gentlemen cluster round him, and shake hands with him. He
feels very grateful to them for the interest they have in him, and for
the kind promises they make; but the power of speech is gone again, and
he has much ado to keep his feet, even though leaning on his master's
arm.

As they come through the dismal passages, some officers of the jail who
are in waiting there, congratulate him, in their rough way, on his
release. The newsmonger is of the number, but his manner is not quite
hearty--there is something of surliness in his compliments. He looks
upon Kit as an intruder, as one who has obtained admission to that
place on false pretences, who has enjoyed a privilege without being
duly qualified. He may be a very good sort of young man, he thinks,
but he has no business there, and the sooner he is gone, the better.

The last door shuts behind them. They have passed the outer wall, and
stand in the open air--in the street he has so often pictured to
himself when hemmed in by the gloomy stones, and which has been in all
his dreams. It seems wider and more busy than it used to be. The
night is bad, and yet how cheerful and gay in his eyes! One of the
gentlemen, in taking leave of him, pressed some money