Mrs. Raker noticed nothing in his voice; but Paisley rolled his eyes on the impassive face in a strange, quivering, searching look; then he closed them and feebly turned his head. “Don’t you want me to telegraph? Don’t you want to see her?” Some throb of excitement gave Paisley the strength to lift himself up on the pillows. “What do you want to rile me all up for?” His voice was almost a scream. “Want to see her? It’s the only thing in this damned fool world I do want! But I can’t have her know; it would kill her to know. You must make up some lie about it’s being diphtheria and awful sudden, and no time for her to come, and have me all out of the way before she gets here. You’ve been awful good to me, and you can do anything you like; it’s the last I’ll bother you—don’t let her find out!” “For the land’s sake!” sniffed Mrs. Raker, in tears—“don’t she know?” “No, ma’am, she don’t; and she never will, either,” said the sheriff. “There, Ned, boy, you lay right down. I’ll fix it. And you shall see her, too. I’ll fix it.” “Yes, he’ll fix it. Amos will fix it. Don’t you worry,” sobbed Mrs. Raker, who had not the least idea how the sheriff could arrange matters, but was just as confident that he would as if the future were unrolled before her gaze. The prisoner breathed a long deep sigh of relief, and patted the strong hand at his shoulder. And Amos gently laid him back on the pillows. Before nightfall Paisley was lying in Amos Wickliff’s own bed, while Amos, at his side, was critically surveying both chamber and parlor under half-closed eyelids. He was trying to see them with the eyes of the elderly widow of a Methodist minister. “Hum—yes!” The result of the survey was, on the whole, satisfactory. “All nice, high-toned, first-class pictures. Nothing to shock a lady. Liquors all put away, ’cept what’s needed for him. Pops all put away, so she won’t be finding one and be killing herself, thinking it’s not loaded. My bed moved in here comfortable for him, because he thought it was such a pleasant room, poor boy. Another bed in my room for her. Bath-room next door, hot and cold water. Little gas stove. Trained nurse who doesn’t know anything, and so can’t tell. Thinks it’s my friend Smith. _Is_ there anything else?” At this moment the white counterpane on the bed stirred. “Well, Ned?” said Wickliff. “It’s—nice!” said Paisley. “That’s right. Now you get a firm grip on what I’m going to say—such a grip you won’t lose it, even if you get out of your head a little.” “I won’t,” said Paisley. “All right. You’re not Paisley any more. You’re Ned Smith. I’ve had you moved here into my rooms because your boarding-place wasn’t so good. Everybody here understands, and has got their story ready. The nurse thinks you’re my friend Smith. You are, too, and you are to call me Amos. The telegram’s gone. ’S-sh!—what a way to do!”—for Paisley was crying. “Ain’t I her boy too?”