"He left a scrap o' paper in which he told about it an' the reason for doin' it. The doctor who came in when it was too late, saw the charcoal burnin', an' found the p'ison at the bottom of the cups. An' this man," he pointed to one of the eleven, a sturdy fellow with a frank, honest face, "this man an' his wife live in the next room. He was out last evenin', but she was in, an' she heard poor Martin ravin' about you an' his eight dollars, an' his wife, an' sister, an' children, an' starvation, death, an' the cold dark street. She heered him, I say, but didn't suspec' there was p'ison in the case until the doctor called her in, an' then it was too late." "But how did you know of all this? What have you to do with it?" "You see the doctor went an' told the JUDGE, who has just been tryin' you,--told him hours ago, you mind,--an' THE JUDGE sent me here with you, in order to show you some of yer work. How d'ye like it Isr'el?" Ninety-One's features were harsh and scarred, but now they quivered with an almost child-like emotion. With his brawny hand he pointed to the bodies of the dead,-- "Thar's eight dollars worth o' yer notes, Isr'el," he said. "Thar's Chow Bank, Muddy Run, an' Tarrapin Holler! Look at 'em! Don't you think that some day God Almighty will ax you to change them notes?" And Israel shrank back appalled from the bed. Ninety-One clutched his wrist with a firmer grasp; the eleven gathered closely in his rear, their ominous murmur growing more distinct; and the light, held in the convict's hand, shed its calm rays over the faces of the dead family. This death-scene in the artist's home, calls up certain thoughts.