Ned did not express much—the sick, especially the very sick, cannot; but whenever he waked in the night and saw his mother bending over him he smiled happily, and she would answer his thought. “Yes, my boy; my dear, good boy,” she would say. And the sheriff in his dim corner thought sadly that the ruined life would always be saved for her now, and her son would be her good boy forever. Yet he muttered to himself, “I suppose the Lord is helping me out, and I ought to feel obliged, but I’m hanged if I wouldn’t rather take the chances and have the boy get well!” But he knew all the time that there was no hope for Ned’s life. He lived three days after his mother came. The day before his death he was alone for a short time with the sheriff, and asked him to be good to his mother. “Ruth will be good to her too,” he said; “but last night I dreamed Mame was chasing mother, and it scared me. You won’t let her get at mother, will you?” “Of course I won’t,” said the sheriff; “we’re watching your mother every minnit; and if that woman comes here, Raker has orders to clap her in jail. And I will always look out for your ma, Ned, and she never shall know.” “That’s good,” said Ned, in his feeble voice. “I’ll tell you something: I always wanted to be good, but I was always bad; but I believe I would have been decent if I’d lived, because I’d have kept close to you. You’ll be good to ma—and to Ruth?” The sheriff thought that he had drifted away and did not hear the answer, but in a few moments he opened his eyes and said, brightly, “Thank you, Amos.” It was the first time that he had used the other man’s Christian name. “Yes, Ned,” said the sheriff. Next morning at daybreak he died. His mother was with him. Just before he went to sleep his mind wandered a little. He fancied that he was a little boy, and that he was sick, and wanted to say his prayers to his mother. “But I’m so sick I can’t get out of bed,” said he. “God won’t mind my saying them in bed, will He?” Then he folded his hands, and reverently repeated the childish rhyme, and so fell into a peaceful sleep, which deepened into peace. In this wise, perhaps, were answered many prayers. Amos made all the arrangements the next day. He said that they were going home from Fairport on the day following, but he managed to conclude all the necessary legal formalities in time to take the evening train. Once on the train, and his companions in their sections, he drew a long breath. “It may not have been Mame that I saw,” he said, taking out his cigar-case on the way to the smoking-room; “it was merely a glimpse—she in a buggy, me on foot; and it may be she wouldn’t do a thing or think the game worth blackmail; but I don’t propose to run any chances in this deal. Hullo—excuse me, miss!”