The sheriff examined the photograph, an ordinary cabinet card. The portrait was that of a woman, pictured with the relentless frankness of a rural photographer’s camera. Every sad line in the plain elderly face, every wrinkle in the ill-fitting silk gown, showed with a brutal distinctness, and somehow made the picture more pathetic. The woman’s hair was gray and thin; her eyes, which were dark, looked straight forward, and seemed to meet the sheriff’s gaze. They had no especial beauty of form, but they, as well as the mouth, had an expression of wistful kindliness that fixed his eyes on them for a full minute. He sighed as he dropped his hand. Then he observed that there was writing on the reverse side of the carte, and lifted it again to read. In a neat cramped hand was written: “To Eddy, from Mother. _Feb. 21, 1889._ “The Lord bless thee and keep thee. The Lord make His face to shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift up His countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.” Wickliff put the carte in his pocket. “That’s just the kind of mother I’d like to have,” said he; “awful nice and good, and not so fine she should be ashamed of me. And to think of _him_!” “He’s an awful slick one,” assented the deputy, cordially. “Two years we’ve been ayfter him. New games all the time; but the lightning-rods ain’t in it with this last scheme—working hisself off as a Methodist parson on the road to a job, and stopping all night, and then the runaway couple happening in, and that poor farmer and his wife so excited and interested, and of course they’d witness and sign the certificate; wisht I’d seen them when they found out!” “They gave ’em cake and some currant wine, too.” “That’s just like women. Say, I didn’t think the girl was much to brag on for looks—” “Got a kinder way with her, though,” Wickliff struck in. “Depend on it, Joseph, the most dangerous of them all are the homely girls with a way to them. A man’s off his guard with them; he’s sorry for them not being pretty, and being so nice and humble; and before he knows it they’re winding him ’round their finger.” “I didn’t know you was so much of a philosopher, Amos,” said the deputy, admiring him. “It ain’t me, Joe; it’s the business. Being a philosopher, I take it, ain’t much more than seeing things with the paint off; and there’s nothing like being a detective to get the paint off. It’s a great business for keeping a man straight, too, seeing the consequences of wickedness so constantly, especially fool wickedness that gets found out. Well, Joe, if this lady”—touching his breast pocket—“is that guy’s mother, I’m awful sorry for her, for I know she tried to train him right. I’ll go over and find out, I guess.” So saying, and quite unconscious of the approving looks of his subordinate (for he was a simple-minded, modest man, who only spoke out of the fulness of his heart), the sheriff walked over to the jail.