A spectacled young wife-murderer, who worked in the prison office on the prison books, got down a book and looked through it until he came to a certain entry on a certain page. The warden was right--so far as the black marks of the prison discipline went, the friendless convict's record showed fair. "I think," said the young governor to the warden and his secretary when they had moved out of hearing of the convict bookkeeper--"I think I'll give that poor devil a pardon for a Christmas gift. It's no more than a mercy to let him die at home, if he has any home to go to." "I could have him brought in and let you tell him yourself, sir," volunteered the warden. "No, no," said the governor quickly. "I don't want to hear that cough again. Nor look on such a wreck," he added. Two days before Christmas the warden sent to the hospital ward for No. 874. No. 874, that being Anse Dugmore, came shuffling in and kept himself upright by holding with one hand to the door jamb. The warden sat rotund and impressive, in a swivel chair, holding in his hands a folded-up, blue-backed document. "Dugmore," he said in his best official manner, "when His Excellency, Governor Woodford, was here on Sunday he took notice that your general health was not good. So, of his own accord, he has sent you an unconditional pardon for a Christmas gift, and here it is." The sick convict's eyes, between their festering lids, fixed on the warden's face and a sudden light flickered in their pale, glazed shallows; but he didn't speak. There was a little pause. "I said the governor has given you a pardon," repeated the warden, staring hard at him. "I heered you the fust time," croaked the prisoner in his eaten-out voice. "When kin I go?" "Is that all you've got to say?" demanded the warden, bristling up. "I said, when kin I go?" repeated No. 874. "Go!--you can go now. You can't go too soon to suit me!"