riod of his life, came to Jim, with the full
realization of his present misery and degradation, the strong man wept
like a child. He drew an old silk handkerchief from his pocket, blew his
nose as if it had been a trumpet, and then slipped up to the cell and
said, softly: "Paul Benedict, give us your benediction."

"Jim!" said the man, looking up quickly.

"Good God! he knows me," said Jim, whimpering. "Yes, Mr. Benedict, I'm
the same rough old fellow. How fare ye?"

"I'm miserable," replied the man.

"Well, ye don't look as ef ye felt fust-rate. How did ye git in here?"

"Oh, I was damned when I died. It's all right, I know; but it's
terrible."

"Why, ye don't think ye're in hell, do ye?" inquired Jim.

"Don't you see?" inquired the wretch, looking around him.

"Oh, yes; I see! I guess you're right," said Jim, falling in with his
fancy.

"But where did you come from, Jim? I never heard that you were dead."

"Yes; I'm jest as dead as you be."

"Well, what did you come here for?"

"Oh, I thought I'd call round," replied Jim carelessly.

"Did you come from Abraham's bosom?" inquired Mr. Benedict eagerly.

"Straight."

"I can't think why you should come to see me, into such a place as
this!" said Benedict, wonderingly.

"Oh, I got kind o' oneasy. Don't have much to do over there, ye know."

"How did you get across the gulf?"

"I jest shoved over in a birch, an' ye must be perlite enough to return
the call," replied Jim, in the most matter-of-course manner possible.

Benedict looked down upon his torn and wretched clothing, and then
turned his pitiful eyes up to Jim, who saw the thoughts that were
passing in the poor man's mind.

"Never mind your clo'es," he said. "I dress jest the same there as I did
in Number Nine, and nobody says a word. The fact is, they don't mind
very much about clo'es there, any way. I'll come over and git ye, ye
know, an' interjuce ye, and ye shall have jest as good a time as Jim
Fenton can give ye."

"Shall I take my rifle along?" inquired Benedict.

"Yes, an' plenty of amanition. There ain't no game to speak on--only a
few pa'tridge; but we can shoot at a mark all day, ef we want to."

Benedict tottered to his feet and came to the grated door, with his eyes
all alight with hope and expectation. "Jim, you always were a good
fellow," said he, dropping his voice to a whisper, "I'll show you my
improvements. Belcher mustn't get hold of them. He's after them. I hear
him rou