his dignity, and not a little anxious about being seen in such society.  And from the horrors of this dream he wakes, surprised to find himself watched over by a kind friend-a young, comely-featured man, in whom he recognizes the earnest theologian, as he is plumed by the prisoners, whom he daily visits in his mission of good.  There was something so frank and gentle in this young man’s demeanor-something so manly and radiant in his countenance-something so disinterested and holy in his mission of love—­something so opposite to the coldness of the great world without—­something so serene and elevated in his youth, that even the most inveterate criminal awaited his coming with emotions of joy, and gave a ready ear to his kindly advice.  Indeed, the prisoners called him their child; and he seemed not dainty of their approach, but took them each by the hand, sat at their side, addressed them as should one brother address another;—­yea, he made them to feel that what was their interest it was his joy to promote.

The young theologian took him a seat close by the side of the dreaming inebriate; and as he woke convulsively, and turned towards him his distorted face, viewing with wild stare each object that met his sight, the young man met his recognition with a smile and a warm grasp of the hand.  “I am sorry you find me here again-yes, I am.”

“Better men, perhaps, have been here—­”

“I am ashamed of it, though; it isn’t as it should be, you see,” interrupts Tom.

“Never mind-(the young man checks himself)-I was going to say there is a chance for you yet; and there is a chance; and you must struggle; and I will help you to struggle; and your friends—­”

Tom interrupts by saying, “I’ve no friends.”

“I will help you to struggle, and to overcome the destroyer.  Never think you are friendless, for then you are a certain victim in the hands of the ruthless enemy—­”

“Well, well,” pauses Tom, casting a half-suspicious look at the young man, “I forgot.  There’s you, and him they call old Spunyarn, are friends, after all.  You’ll excuse me, but I didn’t think of that;” and a feeling of satisfaction seemed to have come over him.  “How grateful to have friends when a body’s in a place of this kind,” he mutters incoherently, as the tears gush from his distended eyes, and child-like he grasps the hand of the young man.

“Be comforted with the knowledge that you have friends, Tom.  One all-important thing is wanted, and you are a man again.”

“As to that!” interrupts Tom, doubtingly, and laying his begrimed hand on his burning forehead, while he alternately frets and frisks his fingers through his matted hair.

“Have no doubts, Tom-doubts are dangerous.”

“Well, say what it is, and I’ll try what I can do.  But you won’t think I’m so bad as I seem, and ’ll forgive me?  I know what you think of me, and that’s what mortifies me; you think I’m an overdone specimen of our chivalry-you do!”