"Why, Harriet," he exclaimed, "what is the matter?"

"Oh," she gasped, "Tommy! Tommy! Where is Tommy?"

A guard at the end of the engine rail turned ashy white. He raised a hand to his head, and with the other grasped the wheel to keep from falling. Then he cried, "Mr. Jeffries, I--I believe Tommy is up there in the stock-room. He went to look--"

The warden clutched the man's arm. "Up there? Up there?" he cried.

The sudden approach of the woman and the words that followed had wrought so much confusion that the men had paid no attention to the foreman's command, and he had even failed to notice their lack of attention, in the excitement of that moment.

"Great G.o.d!" cried the warden. "What can I do--what can I do? No one can live up there!"

There was a crash. One of the windows fell out. "Get a ladder!" some one cried. A guard ran back toward the prison-house. Then, in the midst of the hubbub, a man in a dingy gray suit stepped out a yard from the line of convicts. His prison number was 2034. He touched his little square cap.

"If you'll give me permission, I think I can get up there," was all he said.

"You! you!" exclaimed the warden. "No, no; I will tell no man to do it!"

There was a second crash. Another window had fallen out, and now the tongues of flame were lapping the outer walls above.

The convict made no reply. With a bound he was at the end of the line and dashing up the stairway.

The warden's wife was on her knees, clinging to the hand of her husband. In his eyes was a dead, cold look. A few men bit their lips, and a faint shadow of a smile played about the mouths of others. They all waited. A convict had broken a regulation--had run from the line!

He would be punished! Even as he had clambered up the stairs a guard had cried, "shall I shoot?"

The silence was broken by a shriek from the woman kneeling at the warden's feet. "Look!" she cried, and pointed towards the last of the up-stairs windows.

There, surrounded by a halo of smoke, and hemmed in on all sides by flames, stood a man in a dingy gray suit. One sleeve was on fire, but he beat out the flames with his left hand. Those below heard him cry, "I've got him!" Then the figure disappeared. Instantly it returned, bearing something in its arms. It was the limp form of a child.

All saw the man wrap smoking straw round the little body and tie round that two strands of heavy twine. Then that precious burden was lowered out of the window. The father rushed forward and held up his hands to receive it.

Another foot--he hugged the limp body of his boy to his breast! On the ground a little way back lay a woman, as if dead.

"Here's the ladder!" yelled the foreman, and that moment the eyes that were still turned upon the window above where stood a man in a dingy gray suit, witnessed a spectacle that will reappear before them again and again in visions of the night.

The coat the man wore was ablaze. Flames shot on either side of him and above him. Just as the ladder was placed against the wall, a crackling was heard--not the crackling of the fire. Then like a thunderbolt, a crash occurred that caused even the men in their cells to start. The roof caved in.

In the prison yard that line of convicts saw 2034 reel and fall backwards, and heard, as he fell, his last cry, "I'm a-comin', warden!"

He was a convicted criminal, and died in prison gray. But it would seem not wonderful to the warden if, when that man's soul took flight, the recording angel did write his name on the eternal Book of Record, with a strange cabalistic sign, a ring around a cross--that stands for "good behavior."--_The Youth's Companion._

HIS MOTHER'S SONG.

Beneath the hot midsummer sun The men had marched all day; And now beside a rippling stream Upon the gra.s.s they lay.

Tiring of games and idle jest, As swept the hours along, They cried to one who mused apart, "Come, friend, give us a song."

"I fear I cannot please," he said; "The only songs I know Are those my mother used to sing For me, long years ago."

"Sing one of those," a rough voice cried, "There's none but true men here; To every mother's son of us A mother's songs are dear."

Then sweetly rose the singer's voice Amid unwonted calm, "Am I a soldier of the Cross, A follower of the Lamb?

And shall I fear to own His Cause?"

The very stream was stilled, And hearts that never throbbed with fear With tender thoughts were filled.

Ended the song; the singer said, As to his feet he rose, "Thanks to you all, my friends, good-night, G.o.d grant us sweet repose."

"Sing us one more," the captain begged, The soldier bent his head, Then glancing round, with smiling lips, "You'll join with me?" he said.

"We'll sing this old familiar air, Sweet as the bugle call, 'All hail the power of Jesus' name, Let angels prostrate fall;'"

Ah! wondrous was the old tune's spell, As on the soldier sang, Man after man fell into line, And loud the voices rang.

The songs are done, the camp is still, Naught but the stream is heard; But ah! the depths of every soul By those old hymns are stirred, And up from many a bearded lip, In whispers soft and low, Rises the prayer that mother taught Her boy long years ago.

--_Safeguard._

PERFECT PEACE.

[Lines written by a lady on the steamship "Mongolia," near Malta. She was en route from China, where she had been a missionary for seventeen years, to her home in England. She gave the verses to Bishop Bowman, who was on the steamer with her, and he sent them to his wife, not knowing she had died a few days before he wrote his letter.--_A.

Lowry._]

Lonely? No, not lonely While Jesus stands by; His presence always cheers me, I know that He is nigh.

Friendless? No, not friendless, For Jesus is my friend; I change, but He remaineth The same unto the end.

Tired? No, not tired, While leaning on His breast; My soul hath full enjoyment, 'Tis His eternal rest.

Saddened? No, not saddened By darkest scenes of woe; I should be, if I knew not That Jesus loves me so.

Helpless? Yes, so helpless, But I am leaning hard On the mighty arm of Jesus, And He is keeping guard.

Waiting? Oh, yes, waiting, He bade me watch and wait; I only wonder often What makes my Lord so late.

Joyful? Yes, so joyful, With joy too deep for words; A precious, sure possession, The joy that is my Lord's.

--_Divine Life._

SWEET REVENGE.

A few years ago while Robert Stewart was Governor of Missouri, a steamboat man was brought in from the penitentiary for a pardon. He was a large, powerful fellow, and when the governor looked at him he seemed strangely affected. He scrutinized him long and closely.

Finally he signed the doc.u.ment that restored to the prisoner his liberty. Before he handed it to him he said, "You will commit some other crime and be in the penitentiary again, I fear."

The man solemnly promised that he would not. The governor looked doubtful, mused a few minutes and said, "You will go back on the river and be a mate again, I suppose?"

The man replied that he would.

"Well, I want you to promise me one thing," resumed the governor. "I want you to pledge your word that when you are mate again, you will never take a billet of wood in your hand and drive a sick boy out of a bunk to help you load your boat on a stormy night."

The boatman said he would not, and inquired what he meant by asking him such a question.