tle that is good, and it is easy to--to question the ways of
Providence, if there is any belief left in Providence. But when men like
Benoix come to us, as occasionally they do come, the old-fashioned idea
of a guardian Providence becomes--well, more tangible. There seems to be
a reason back of such miscarriage of justice. I believe," he said rather
haltingly, "that Benoix was sent here, not because he had any need of
prison, but because prison had need of him."

He told them something of the doctor's prison life; of an epidemic that
had raged through the wards, when he offered his services to the jail
physician and for many days and nights had gone without sleep in his
efforts to assuage suffering; of women in the surgical wards who
mentioned his name beside that of God in their prayers; of men to whom
he had given new hope and a new outlook on life by curing them of
obscure disease from which they had not known they suffered.

"I would have recommended him for pardon or parole years ago, but he
forbade me. He said he had more opportunity for research here than
elsewhere." The warden smiled. "By 'research' he meant help, of course,
he held the modern theory that crime is always a thing for the surgeon's
knife, or the physician, or the teacher, to handle. We let him practise
his theories wherever possible, because he was of great assistance to
us. He could do more with the prisoners than we could, being one of
them. Whenever we had trouble with an inmate, his first punishment was
Benoix. He did not often need a second. It is many years since the
whipping-post, or the standing-irons, or solitary confinement, have been
used in this place, as perhaps you know. Many of our prison reforms may
be traced to Benoix' influence, though he will never get the credit of
them. He said once, 'What is the use of making men desperate? What you
want is to make them ashamed. And that comes from inside.' Young man,"
he turned to Philip, "convict or not, you need never be ashamed of your
father."

"I never have been," said Philip.

They went away, each with a letter Jacques had left for them. Kate's was
very short:

I have known always that you would come, and that I must not let
you. I am going while I have the strength to go. Fill up your busy,
useful life without me, Kate. I thank God that you have your
children and my boy, whom you have made a man. Once I left him to
your care. Now I leave you to his, witho