pearance to-day?"

"Ah," replied the turnkey, carelessly, "they have put him in another
ward."

The witnesses who deposed to these facts at a later period, remarked,
that at this answer, Sam's hand, in which was a lighted candle,
trembled a little. He again asked, calmly,

"Whose order was this?"

The turnkey said "Mr. Flint's."

The name of the director of the work-rooms was Flint.

The next day went by like the last, but no news of Heartall.

That evening, when the day's work ended, Mr. Flint came to make his
usual round of inspection. As soon as Sam Needy saw him, he took off
his cap of coarse wool, buttoned his gray vest, sad livery of the
work-house, (it is a principle in prisons, that a vest, respectfully
buttoned, bespeaks the favor of the superior officers,) and placed
himself at the end of his bench, waiting till the director came by. He
passed.

"Sir," said Sam.

The director stopped and turned half round.

"Sir," said Sam, "is it true that Heartall's ward has been changed?"

"Yes," returned the director.

"Sir," continued Sam, "I cannot live without Heartall; you know that
with the ration of the house I have not enough to eat, and that
Heartall shared his bread with me."

"That was his business," replied the director.

"Sir, is there no means of getting Heartall replaced in the same ward
as myself?"

"Impossible! it is so decided."

"By whom?"

"By myself."

"Mr. Flint," persisted Sam, "the question is my life or death, and it
depends upon you."

"I never revoke my decisions."

"Sir, is it because I have given you offence?"

"None."

"In that case," said Sam, "why do you separate me from Heartall?"

"_It is my will_" said the director.

With this explanation he went away.

Sam Needy stooped his head and made no answer. Poor caged lion, from
whom they had taken his dog!

The grief of this separation in no way changed the prisoner's almost
disease of voracity. Nor was he, in other respects, obviously altered.
He did not speak of Heartall to any of his comrades. He walked alone
in the airing-ground, in the hours of recreation, and suffered
hunger--nothing more.

Nevertheless, those who knew him well, remarked something of a
sinister and sombre expression which daily overspread his countenance
more and more. In other respects he was gentler than ever. Many wished
to share their ration with him, but he refused with a smile.

Every evening, after the explanation which the dir