"If you've been listening to him, I suppose there isn't much hope of my getting what I'm after," the old man returned, hotly; "for no man ever spoke more unfairly against another than that man did against my boy." "You do him injustice," the Governor said, firmly. "He did his duty at the trial in pressing for sentence, and he has done his duty now in laying before me this newly discovered evidence. He has even gone further; he has urged me to accede to your request for your son's pardon." "The District Attorney?" cried the old man in surprise. "Yes," the Governor replied. "Then his conscience has pricked him at last." "And it is chiefly in consequence of his recommendation that I have decided to pardon your son," the Governor continued. "I don't care on whose urging it is, so long as it's done," the old man rejoined. "When can the boy come out?" he asked, eagerly. "I will let you bear the pardon to him," said the Governor, and he unfolded one of the papers which lay on the table by his side and signed it. "Here it is." The old man seized the paper with a convulsive clutch. His knees trembled as his eyes read the pardon swiftly. The door of the parlor opened, and the secretary returned. The old man grasped his hat. "Do you know when the next train leaves for Auburn?" he inquired, hastily. "There's one at four o'clock, I think," the secretary answered. "I shall be in time," said the old man; and then, the pardon in his twitching fingers, he left the parlor without another word. He passed quickly through the corridors of the hotel, down the stairs, and out into the street. When he reached the pavement he stood still for a moment and bared his head, quite unconscious of the rain-storm which had broken but a minute before. A small boy came running to him across the street, crying, "Evening papers--four o'clock _Gazette_!" Seemingly the old man did not hear him. "Terrible loss of life!" the newsboy shrilled out, as he moved away. "Riot at Auburn! Attempted escape of the prisoners!" Then a clutch of iron was fastened on the newsboy's arm, and the old man towered above him, asking hoarsely: "What's that you say? A loss of life in the prison at Auburn? Give me the paper!" He seized it. On the first page was a despatch from Auburn stating that there had been a rising of the convicts at the State-prison, which the wardens had been able to repress after it had gained headway. The prisoners had yielded and gone back to their cells only after the wardens had fired on them, wounding half a dozen and killing the ringleader, who had fought desperately. He was a young man from one of the lake villages, sentenced to fifteen years for manslaughter; his name was Grant Baxter. As the old man read this, the paper slipped from his fingers, and he fell on the sidewalk dead, still tightly grasping the pardon. (1889.) AT A PRIVATE VIEW