because of the
splendid vote I had received, and consequent endorsement of the people
who were personally acquainted with me, Mr. Cleveland would certainly
grant a pardon. He did not so much as answer my communication.

No one can imagine the anxiety I felt during that campaign. Had I
received but a small vote it would have required more nerve than I
possess to have induced me to return to my old home. But when the vote
was counted, and I received the returns, I must write it down as one
of the happiest hours of my life. I had many true friends, and they
demonstrated that fact by voting for me. Although in the garb of a
felon, was not the vote I received a grand vindication? Any person of
sense must answer in the affirmative.

Looking over the past, I can now see that I made no mistake in carrying
into effect the scheme to which my mind gave birth on that Sunday
afternoon as I sat in my little-cell.

I will close this chapter by tendering my friends who voted and worked
for me at the time when I so much stood in need of their aid, my
heartfelt gratitude.

CHAPTER XII. A DARK HOUR

It was a bright Sabbath morning. I had been detailed to assist the
prison choir in their preparation for the religious services of the day.
While engaged in this duty, the deputy warden sent for me. Meeting this
official, he said to me, "John, I have sad news for you. Governor Martin
has just telephoned from Atchison that your wife is dead, and that it
was his wish to have you sent home at once." This was a great surprise
to me. I had heard from my wife only two days before this. At that time
she was quite sick, but was thought to be improving. With a heart filled
with sadness I now prepared for my journey home. The warden was absent,
and the deputy warden said, "There was no precedent for permitting
a prisoner to go home on a visit, as such a thing had never occurred
before in the history of the State, but," continued he, "if you will
give me your word that you will return to the prison I will let you
go." I told him to set the time for my return and I would be back. Mr.
Morgan, the turnkey of the prison, was my guard. My journey from
the prison was the saddest of my life. It was a bright May morning.
Everything around seemed joyful and happy, but to me the world was
gloomy. I imagined my wife lying at home a corpse, surrounded by my
weeping, motherless little ones. She had passed away without my being at
her bedside to go with her