But there came a time when Sister Xavier brought him an Italian Bible and catechism, and Larry Priori taught him to read them. Then Shorty was a different creature. He became a man—quiet, considerate, industrious, and we respected him. About this time came a letter and photograph from Italy—from home. They read the letter to Shorty—he could not read writing as yet—they gave him the photograph because it was not a tintype. You may not possess a tintype in the Death-Chamber. A man once cut his throat with a picture of his mother; they have been more careful since. The picture had been taken by a rural artist in some little mountain town. Shall I ever forget it? On a gilt chair—no, a throne—sat his mother in peasant dress. I only remember that she had on white stockings and congress gaiters, and that the elastics on the sides of them were worn out. She must have weighed a ton, and evidently was frightened to death. Perhaps the camera _was_ an “evil eye.” The father on one side looked a hundred and fifty years old. He must have toiled every moment of it. Oh, the sister on the other side of the mother, how hideous she is! But listen: that the good saints might be pleased to look with pity upon her brother at the other end of the earth (the letter said this), his sister walked to and from church every day—barefooted. “It’s about eight miles away,” sobbed Shorty. “Let me see the picture again. It looks different to me now.” Shorty wept; Shorty howled; Shorty prayed to the picture. He covered the back of it with soap, pressed it against the wall, and knelt before it. Humor and agony are near neighbors in the Death-Chamber. From Italy had come one hundred dollars; all his family possessed. This was to be used in arguing the appeal. It was forwarded to an Italian banker in New York to Shorty’s credit. It was then, and not till then, that Shorty’s brother appeared. All Shorty had to do was to sign a paper. The brother had the paper all ready, and the keeper brought a pen. Well, I guess _not_! Have you forgotten about the three hundred dollars and the other paper Shorty signed? Shorty hadn’t. While there was breath in his body he would not sign another paper. It was “lie business.” Then the brother explained it all over again, the keepers explained, and the “P. K.,” meaning principal keeper, came with an interpreter and explained many times over that it was for a trial, lawyer; trial, lawyer. “Don’t you see, Shorty?” Shorty stood with his short legs apart, hands behind him, pipe in the corner of his mouth, and eyes half closed, listening to all they had to say. “Throw away lawyer,” remarked Shorty. “Yes, yes, Shorty, but he’d use it to get you a new trial.” “I had trial. See?” urged he of small stature. “No, no, Shorty; a _new_ trial—_new_—_new_!” “They give new trial? Yes?” Shorty was delighted. “I don’t know,” said the P. K. “I wait,” said Shorty, and dismissed them all.