no share in it. She was as cold, impervious to the
suffering of others as nothing but a snake or a selfish woman can be:
whatever muddy human feeling did ooze from her brain was for this man
only. And yet, when we think of it, she was, as they guessed, a
quadroon: maybe, under the low, waxy-skinned forehead that Yarrow's
fingers were patting that night there might have been a revengeful
consciousness of the wrongs of her race that justified to her the harm
she did. It is likely: the coarsest negroes argue in that way. God help
them! At any rate, we shall come closest to Christ's rule of justice in
trying to find a sore heart behind the vicious fingers of the woman.

While the two stood in the pleasant light of the warm room waiting for
him, Stephen Yarrow came towards the house across the fields. It was his
shadow that his wife and Jem saw crossing Shag's Hill. He was a free man
now,--by virtue of his nickname, "quiet Stevy," in part. It startled him
as much as the jailer, when his release was sent in a year before the
time, "in consideration of his uniform good conduct." The truth was,
that M. Soule took an interest in the poor wretch, and had said a few
words in his favor to the Governor at a dinner-party the other evening,
so the release was signed the next day. Soule had called to see the man
when he came to Pittsburg, and spent an hour or two in his cell. The
next morning he was free to go, but he had stayed a week longer, making
a pair of red morocco shoes for the jailer's little girl,--idling over
them: when they were done, tying them on, himself, with a wonderful
bow-knot, and looking anxiously in her clean Dutch face to see if she
were pleased.

"Kiss the gentleman, Meg," growled Ben. "Where's yer manners?"

Stephen drew back sharply. The innocent baby! who lived out-of-doors!
Ben must have forgotten who _he_ was: a thief, belonging to this cell.
They were going to let him out; but what difference did that make? His
thin face grew wet with perspiration, as he walked away. Why, his very
fingers had felt too impure to him, as he tied on her shoes. He went
away an hour after, only nodding goodbye to Ben, looking down with an
odd grin at the clothes he had asked the jailer to buy for him. Ben had
chosen a greenish coat and trousers and yellow waistcoat. He did not
shake hands with him. Ben had been mixing hog-food, and the marks were
on his fingers. This was yesterday: he was going now to meet his
brother, as he