“Harding, I am sorry for you. You have suffered greatly. It is useless to attempt to convey in words what the South has long endured, but I believe she is on the point of struggling from beneath the crushing burden that weighs her down. A time will come when our southern governors will order a special term of Superior Court to try speedily a criminal and invariably fix the death penalty for the offense which is largely responsible for lynching. How much graver, deeper, more human now, must seem to you our tragedies and our defense. We would indeed welcome a worthier mode or the day when there will be no such tragedies.” * * * * * That night as the sheriff and his family sat in their lighted room, a man outside kept patient tryst, every fiber of his being directly concerned in the slightest movement or sound. As the night wore on and no one entered the door, his soul illumined with hope and seemed loosening itself from pain and desire. Presently there was a sound, a sight that startled him. A messenger was at the door holding a yellow slip. The sheriff came out rubbing his eyes. “What is it?” he asked sleepily. “A reprieve! A reprieve!” Holding it to the lamp in the hall, the sheriff read: “Sheriff of Scott County, Georgetown, Ky.--Ephriam Cooley’s sentence commuted to life imprisonment. Hurry prisoner to Frankfort. ----, Governor.” The sheriff hastily pencilled an answer and sent the boy speeding back. “Hitch the horse!” he called to his man. “Oh my God!” In that supreme cry, hope quivered in its death throb. Elliott Harding received the lance thrust of despair. He stood defenseless: alone with Destiny. All was done quietly and swiftly. The sleeping town knew nothing of the change. As the midnight train whistled in the distance, the sheriff with his handcuffed prisoner stepped from behind his sweating horse onto the empty platform. When the iron monster, like a great strong savior came rushing in, the criminal looked as if he could have embraced it. It was a thing of life to him. One or maybe two drowsy travelers shook themselves and scrambled to the platform. The sheriff and his man lost no time in seating themselves. The murderer was within a hair’s breadth of safety. The engine was ready to start. Snorting, trembling, as if in frightened pain, she moved off slowly, slowly. There was a sudden rush and speeding through the darkness; an unkempt figure, running staggeringly as though in exhaustion, leaped to the platform and pursued the moving train. A sudden flash, a sharp report, and Ephriam Cooley fell back dead, shot through the heart. By the time the train had drawn back to the station, the platform was deserted; only the shrouding mists of blue smoke remained. THE END. =Neely’s Tourist Library.= =PRICE, -- TEN CENTS.= _Entered as second-class matter._