hton-Kirk,
"for Christianity teaches that evil clings from generation to
generation, from age to age."

"I recall _him_ first as a man whom I felt to be a stranger, but whom I
was told to call father," said young Burton. "He did not live with us,
only appealing now and then and making my mother very unhappy. Even
then, small boy as I was, I hated him; and I know he detested me."

The young man was in that queerly relaxing state which causes men to
tell their private griefs to even casual acquaintances.

"Very often," he went on, "we were rather happy, but that was always
when my father was away. I remember a little white house on the
outskirts where we lived unmolested for several years. My sister was at
school; I was employed by an old wood engraver, one of the last of his
kind; my mother earned a good living and we were quite comfortable and
happy. My father had been away for so long that I had almost forgotten
him; when a thought of him did come into my mind, it was as of an old
trouble--and one that would never come again.

"But one evening when I reached home I found him there. My mother's face
was white and she was trembling. But he was smiling! I would rather,"
and young Burton raised a shaking hand, "have heard another man curse
than see him smile."

"I know the feeling," said Bat Scanlon. "I've felt something like it
myself."

"He wanted money," proceeded the young artist. "I knew my mother had a
little store somewhere, which she had put away, for the winter was
coming on. He was cunning and must have divined this--it was the kind of
thing she would do. When she refused, he smiled and insisted. And
finally--the smile still on his mouth, remember--he struck her! I had
been silent until that; but when I saw the blow fall, I became a
maddened young animal. I flew at him blindly, and he beat me like a dog.
A half hour later he went away, and with him went what money my mother
had saved."

"Bad!" said Bat Scanlon. "Very bad!"

"And now," said the young man, "he's dead. But the evil which his life
brought into the world still lives!" Oddly, his mind seemed to cling to
this thought; his eyes, looking straight ahead, were filled with
apprehension; his fingers picked nervously at the edge of a blanket.

"Evil is fear, and fear can be conquered," said Ashton-Kirk, quietly;
"if a man wills it, he can stamp it out."

"Evil is fear!" The prisoner looked at Ashton-Kirk in sudden inquiry.
"In what way?"

"In ev