I don't believe in that woman's
penitence," he remarked; "and I look upon the parson as a poor weak
creature. What is to become of the child?"

There was no reason for concealing from one of my colleagues the
benevolent decision, on the part of the good Minister, of which I had
been a witness. The Doctor listened to me with the first appearance of
downright astonishment that I had ever observed in his face. When I had
done, he made an extraordinary reply:

"Governor, I retract what I said of the parson just now. He is one of
the boldest men that ever stepped into a pulpit."

Was the doctor in earnest? Strongly in earnest; there could be no doubt
of it. Before I could ask him what he meant, he was called away to a
patient on the other side of the prison. When we parted at the door of
my room, I made it a request that my medical friend would return to me
and explain what he had just said.

"Considering that you are the governor of a prison," he replied, "you
are a singularly rash man. If I come back, how do you know I shall not
bore you?"

"My rashness runs the risk of that," I rejoined.

"Tell me something, before I allow you to run your risk," he said.
"Are you one of those people who think that the tempers of children are
formed by the accidental influences which happen to be about them? Or do
you agree with me that the tempers of children are inherited from their
parents?"

The Doctor (as I concluded) was still strongly impressed by the
Minister's resolution to adopt a child whose wicked mother had committed
the most atrocious of all crimes. Was some serious foreboding in secret
possession of his mind? My curiosity to hear him was now increased
tenfold. I replied without hesitation:

"I agree with you."

He looked at me with his sense of humor twinkling in his eyes. "Do you
know I rather expected that answer?" he said, slyly. "All right. I'll
come back."

Left by myself, I took up the day's newspaper.

My attention wandered; my thoughts were in the cell with the Minister
and the Prisoner. How would it end? Sometimes, I was inclined to doubt
with the Doctor. Sometimes, I took refuge in my own more hopeful view.
These idle reflections were agreeably interrupted by the appearance of
my friend, the Chaplain.

"You are always welcome," I said; "and doubly welcome just now. I am
feeling a little worried and anxious."

"And you are naturally," the Chaplain added, "not at all disposed to
receive a stranger?"