Doctor May, a month after the night I have told you of, was reading to his wife at breakfast from this fourth column of the morning-paper:  an unusual thing,—­these police-reports not being, in general, choice reading for ladies; but it was only one item he read.

“Oh, my dear!  You remember that man I told you of, that we saw at Kirby’s mill?—­that was arrested for robbing Mitchell?  Here he is; just listen:—­’Circuit Court.  Judge Day, Hugh Wolfe, operative in Kirby & John’s Loudon Mills.  Charge, grand larceny.  Sentence, nineteen years hard labor in penitentiary.’—­Scoundrel!  Serves him right!  After all our kindness that night!  Picking Mitchell’s pocket at the very time!”

His wife said something about the ingratitude of that kind of people, and then they began to talk of something else.

Nineteen years!  How easy that was to read!  What a simple word for Judge Day to utter!  Nineteen years!  Half a lifetime!

Hugh Wolfe sat on the window-ledge of his cell, looking out.  His ankles were ironed.  Not usual in such cases; but he had made two desperate efforts to escape.  “Well,” as Haley, the jailer, said, “small blame to him!  Nineteen years’ imprisonment was not a pleasant thing to look forward to.”  Haley was very good-natured about it, though Wolfe had fought him savagely.

“When he was first caught,” the jailer said afterwards, in telling the story, “before the trial, the fellow was cut down at once,—­laid there on that pallet like a dead man, with his hands over his eyes.  Never saw a man so cut down in my life.  Time of the trial, too, came the queerest dodge of any customer I ever had.  Would choose no lawyer.  Judge gave him one, of course.  Gibson it was.  He tried to prove the fellow crazy; but it wouldn’t go.  Thing was plain as daylight:  money found on him.  ’Twas a hard sentence,—­all the law allows; but it was for ’xample’s sake.  These mill-hands are gettin’ onbearable.  When the sentence was read, he just looked up, and said the money was his by rights, and that all the world had gone wrong.  That night, after the trial, a gentleman came to see him here, name of Mitchell,—­him as he stole from.  Talked to him for an hour.  Thought he came for curiosity, like.  After he was gone, thought Wolfe was remarkable quiet, and went into his cell.  Found him very low; bed all bloody.  Doctor said he had been bleeding at the lungs.  He was as weak as a cat; yet, if ye’ll b’lieve me, he tried to get a-past me and get out.  I just carried him like a baby, and threw him on the pallet.  Three days after, he tried it again:  that time reached the wall.  Lord help you! he fought like a tiger,—­giv’ some terrible blows.  Fightin’ for life, you see; for he can’t live long, shut up in the stone crib down yonder.  Got a death-cough now.  ’T took two of us to bring him down that day; so I just put the irons on his feet.  There he sits, in there.  Goin’ to-morrow, with a batch more of ’em.  That woman, hunchback,