‘Hear me!’ exclaimed the man, raising himself on his arm with difficulty, for the pain from his twisted ankle was excruciating. ‘Hear my story, and then do with me as you will. I’m an escaped convict, but I am innocent of the crime I was condemned for. My time had nearly expired—in a few weeks more I should have been out on a ticket of leave. Unfortunately I incurred the hatred of one of the warders. I refused to help him in a dishonest act. He never forgave me. Twice he found tobacco in my cell. _He put it there!_ For the second offence I lost all my privileges. I was not allowed to write to my wife or to hear from her for nine months, and I lost my chance of a ticket.’ ‘Poor devil!’ said Mr. Jarvis. ‘I was maddened with rage. Up in London my wife lay ill, perhaps dying—for her last letter was written in a hand that told its own weakness, though she spoke hopefully. I had counted the days till I should see her again—and now, oh! sir, can you blame me if when I saw at last a chance of escape I seized it? That chance came to-day. I escaped from the guard who were marching us to some outdoor work, and you know the rest. I am here at your mercy; but for God’s sake save me! Think of my poor wife! Think——’ The man spoke no more. In his excitement he had moved too hastily and hurt the twisted ankle; the anguish was so great that he fainted dead away. ‘There, there, my poor fellow!—don’t you fidget. You lie still. We’ll carry you safe to London, or my name is not Lizer Jarvis.’ The speaker was Mrs. Jarvis, and the person addressed was the escaped convict. Mr. Jarvis had consulted his better half before deciding what to do, and when she had heard the story, the good soul’s motherly heart went out to the poor man, and she determined he should not be given up. So the baggage-waggon was brought up close to the living-van, and the poor fellow was lifted carefully out and put up snugly in a corner and covered over with a rug, and Mrs. Jarvis, who was clever at sprains and bruises, soon found out what was the matter with his ankle, and bound it up with cold-water bandages. ‘Now, all you’ve got to do is to keep still,’ she said, ‘and lie close, and we’ll get up to our crib in London, and there we can rig you out, and then you must look out for yourself.’ And that night, as the vans went jolting along the road, the convict slept calmly, a free man for the first time for six long years, and he dreamed that his wife was sitting by his side. When they halted for the night the horses were taken out. The convict awoke with a start. ‘Where am I, Bess?’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re all right,’ answered Mrs. Jarvis cheerily. ‘You stop where you are. Nobody won’t interfere with you.’ ‘So his wife’s name’s Bess, is it?’ thought the good lady to herself. ‘It’s a purty name. It’s the name o’ our lodger, Mrs. Smith, as has been so good to Shakspeare. Lor’, how I do long to give that there boy a good motherly hug—bless him!’