Charlton watched Lurton with intense interest, listened to all he had to say, responded to the influence of his fine quality, but found his own doubts yet unanswered and indeed untouched.  The minister, on his part, took a lively interest in the remarkable young man, and often endeavored to remove his doubts by the well-knit logical arguments he had learned in the schools.

“Mr. Lurton,” said Charlton impatiently one day, “were you ever troubled with doubt?”

“I do not remember that I ever seriously entertained a doubt in regard to religious truth in my life,” said Lurton, after reflection.

“Then you know no more about my doubts than a blind man knows of your sense of sight.”  But after a pause, he added, laughing:  “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