The treatment which this particular Sister of whom I speak had received at the hands of the hard citizen was somewhat as follows, according to my informant: First, he had lied to her; then he had asked of her an impossibility. Of course she had attempted to do it. Of course she failed; then he insulted her, and what he said I am ashamed to write; but tears were in her eyes when she turned away. But for all that—wait, I am ahead of my story. It seems that previous to this he had abused his own lawyer until that worthy would do little or nothing for him. “Let him go. No one will help him, anyhow—there’s no one who would be a witness for him. He has no friends—there’s no evidence that can save him,” said his legal adviser. At the trial, which took place that day, the day it stormed so, some evidence _did_ appear which proved him absolutely innocent; never was this expected; it came from an old enemy; he had not dreamed this possible. How did this happen? She (the Sisters hear much that no one else does) had learned of this witness, and in spite of the man himself and her own outraged feelings, had procured his defence and acquittal. “He didn’t deserve it, but then that is just her way,” said my friend the attendant. “Whose way?” I asked. “Don’t you know? Why, God bless her, I thought every one knew Sister Xavier.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ _CHAPTER XV_ _“Shorty”_ Had I been the Governor of the State of New York, I would have pardoned “Shorty.” There was universal sorrow in the Death-Chamber when he died, for we knew his story, and every one of us felt that justice might have been satisfied in another way. Each of us had learned to respect this stupid-faced little fellow of five feet one inch; who walked with such heavy feet, and whose stooped shoulders were the result of a long life of excessive hard work, yet Shorty was only twenty-two years old. On arriving among us, there was something very like an animal about him. He could not read or write; he learned to do both while there. Larry, an Italian member of our guild, taught him. At that time, when he was not drawing pictures for “The Murderers’ Home Journal,” which the editor had to suppress, he was catching flies; he did this almost as well as a monkey—and why not? How the flies loved Shorty! But this was at first. So was his feud with our colored brother, Benjamin, which was renewed daily. Every morning Shorty told Benjamin that his face was black, and urged him to wash it. Benjamin replied; Shorty responded; Benjamin observed, and then the keeper would interfere.