im.

"This is Thanksgiving day," said he. "And we don't know much about
praying, but I guess we all have something in our hearts that does just
as well."

"Damme, yes," said Gillispie, again, as he pensively cocked and uncocked
his revolver.

A Resuscitation

AFTER being dead twenty years, he walked out into the sunshine.

It was as if the bones of a bleached skeleton should join themselves on
some forgotten plain, and look about them for the vanished flesh.

To be dead it is not necessary to be in the grave. There are places
where the worms creep about the heart instead of the body.

The penitentiary is one of these. David Culross had been in the
penitentiary twenty years. Now, with that worm-eaten heart, he came out
into liberty and looked about him for the habiliments with which he had
formerly clothed himself,--for hope, self-respect, courage, pugnacity,
and industry.

But they had vanished and left no trace, like the flesh of the dead men
on the plains, and so, morally unapparelled, in the hideous skeleton of
his manhood, he walked on down the street under the mid-June sunshine.

You can understand, can you not, how a skeleton might wish to get back
into its comfortable grave? David Culross had not walked two blocks
before he was seized with an almost uncontrollable desire to beg to be
shielded once more in that safe and shameful retreat from which he had
just been released. A horrible perception of the largeness of the world
swept over him. Space and eternity could seem no larger to the usual man
than earth--that snug and insignificant planet--looked to David Culross.

"If I go back," he cried, despairingly, looking up to the great building
that arose above the stony hills, "they will not take me in." He was
absolutely without a refuge, utterly without a destination; he did not
have a hope. There was nothing he desired except the surrounding of
those four narrow walls between which he had lain at night and dreamed
those ever-recurring dreams,-dreams which were never prophecies or
promises, but always the hackneyed history of what he had sacrificed by
his crime, and relinquished by his pride.

The men who passed him looked at him with mingled amusement and pity.
They knew the "prison look," and they knew the prison clothes. For
though the State gives to its discharged convicts clothes which are
like those of other men, it makes a hundred suits from the same sort of
cloth. The police know the fabr