h.

"How is it with you, sir?"

"I--I hardly know, my son," he replied, after a pause, during which he
looked earnestly at him. "I am supposed to-that is, the surgeon has been
so good as to ask me to teach you the Russian language. You have been
outraged."

"Yes, sir; but not to the extent that you have been," said Barnwell,
taking his hand.

"My son, I like you," said he, returning the pressure of his hand.
"There is something about you that fills a long vacant place in my
heart. I will do all I can to teach you the Russian language, but at the
same time, if I find you apt, I will teach you even more than that, for
there is much more to be learned, my son."

"And I hope I may be found worthy, for I will admit that I like you much
more than words can express. I was told something of the time you have
slaved here, and also that you were now insane, but it does not seem
so."

The old man was silent a moment.

"Well, my son, I will not say but you have been rightly informed, for
there are times when I do not know myself, and it may be that I am then
insane. But what would you or any man be, suffering all I have
suffered?"

"It is a wonder that you are alive, my dear sir," said Barnwell.

"I wonder at it myself, but I have clung to life for the sake of
revenge--for the hope I had of one day escaping from this frozen place
and killing the villain whose treachery consigned me here. And now you
come and tell me that other means have taken away my revenge! I--I feel
a great change creeping over me. Yes, yes--but I will do all I can to
teach you the Russian language."

"But, from what I have told you, you can understand that I have not long
to remain here, and probably but little use for the language."

"Poor boy!" moaned the old man, shaking his bowed head sadly.

"Why do you so exclaim?"

"You hope to escape?"

"I do."

"Ah! do not lay that flattering unction to your immortal soul, my son."

"Why not? The governor assured me that he would present my case to the
authorities."

"But he never will."

"What!"

"Or if he does it, will never be acted upon. Oh, how many have I known
in the thirty-five years that I have toiled and suffered here, who held
hopes just as bright, and whose unredeemed and unclaimed bones now
whiten on Siberian snows! I do not wish to dishearten you, nor do I wish
to buoy you up with false hopes."

"But my case is different, my dear sir."

"It may be, as one-half differs from a