The Worthington Advance

SEVENTY-SEVEN.

"What is that you say, Robert?"
"Little things don't count."
"Don't they? Now my belief is that there never was a little duty done, or a kind word spoken which did not bring a long train of blessings. You may not see them but somewhere and somehow they are there; just as you plant a seed and go away, and the roots spread and the tree grows, and goes on growing, and the birds come and sing in the branches, long after you are dead. I'll tell you a story about that," said the old man, settling himself on the heap of warm hay, while the boys gathered around him.

"Two boys went out to fish one day.
'If you clear out the barn,' their father told them in the morning, 'you can have the afternoon for play.'
'Let's make a quick job of it,' said Charley.
So they worked steadily and actively and earned their holiday. As they started, they halted by the gate, their rods over their shoulders.
"The pond or the creek?" asked Bill.
"Charley was a good hearted fellow.
The creek; and then we can take a basket of apples to old Aunty Stannix, he said.
"So they brought the apples gave them to the old negro, and went down to the creek. Under a big walnut was a dark pool, the very place for perch.
"They hardly spoke for an hour. Just as Bill had a nibble a step was heard on the grass above, and a man appeared and looked down at them. His clothes were shabby, his face strangely bloodless and pinched.
"It's too bad,' muttered Bill. 'He's driven that fellow away and he's a two-pounder. The sneaking old tramp! I'll shy a stone at him if he comes any closer.'
"You'll do nothing of the sort, Bill Pardee,' said Charley. 'The man looks hungry, poor fellow.'
"I believe he's escaped from the lock-up,' persisted Bill. 'If he comes down I'll tell him to go back to jail where he belongs, see if I don't.'
"The man was slowly and unsteadily making his way toward them. He watched the boys with a strangely eager, imploring glance. A few feet from them he stopped, twirling his hat in his hand.
"'Been fishing, boys?' he said. 'Can I come down?'
Before I tell you what they said, I must go back a little.
"Fifteen years before a dead man was found in the woods, a mile from this creek. He was a son of one of the neighboring farmers. There was a bullet-hole through his heart, but his watch and money were untouched. The object of the murderer had been revenge, not plunder.
"Suspicion fell on a companion of the victim, with whom he had had a quarrel. They had been seen on the road together a week before, and the murdered man was never seen alive again. This friend was arrested and tried. The circumstantial evidence was strong against him. He was found guilty, and sentenced to imprisonment for life. Fifteen years of his confinement had passed when he received a pardon, and was released.
'On the morning and just at the hour when our boys went to clear the barn, he came out of the prison gates, and stood looking up and down the busy streets, as though he were half blinded.
"The gate-keeper followed him kindly.
'Where are ye goin', Seventy-seven?' he asked, calling the man by his prison number; for he never had heard his name.
"'I don't know.
"'Got no kin?'
"The man did not answer. He sat down on the curbstone, his eyes blinking, his mouth twitching nervously. He looked wistfully at the gate, as if he would ask to be taken in again. In that fifteen years his cell had grown to be a home to him. He had no other home. The keeper turned to go in.
"Don't leave me, Jackson,' he said, feebly putting out his hand.
"Jackson stood before him.
'Take a cigar,' he said, in token of their new equality.
"'I have never smoked.
"'Where are ye goin', anyhow?'
"Seventy-seven stared vacantly up and down the street. When he had gone in at the gate, he was a young and handsome man. He had been a lawyer in fair practice, with a mother who made an idol of him, and hosts of friends.
"Now he was bent and white haired. There was not a man whom he could call friend, or a house where he had a right to shelter, in all the world.
"I'd like to go back,' he said, with a miserable smile.
"'Can't do that, my boy. You were in for—"
"Murder!
"Yes!
"I was innocent,' muttered Seventy-seven. And then, suddenly, as if the free air and sun accused him afresh of his crime, he rose and stretched out his arms.
"Before God, I was innocent!' he cried.
"Yes, of course, of course,' said Jackson. 'You all say so. But I believe you, Seventy-seven. Got no kin?'
"My mother died eight years ago. My brother lives in the old homestead. I don't know whether to go to him, or— what would you do?' turning in his bitter solitude to Jackson as a friend.
"Got the money to go?
"Yes, the prison society gave me these clothes, and money to pay my way home. But—"
"How's yer brother treated ye? Has he gin you the cold shoulder?'
"No. After he married ten years ago, I never would see him when he came to prison. I wanted him to feel clear of me; I was a cursed black spot in his life. He does not know I'm out. I thought I'd keep clear of him; but—oh, I can't! I can't!'
"He covered his face with his hands. He was so utterly alone! Only to see him once more—to go through the old house—to lay his head on his mother's grave.
"I don't know what to advise,' said Jackson. 'Kinsfolks don't generally kill the fatted calf for returned jail-birds. But you might try it. I don't see what else you kin do, in fact.'
"About noon the prisoner got off the train at the station next his old home. He walked down the road. Old Aunty Stannix was smoking in the door of her cabin.
"'John Pardee live in the old place?' he said, inquiringly, stopping in front of her.
"'Yeh. Dem's his boys a-fishin' in de branch yonder. Stranger in dis country, sah?'
"The man shook his head and walked on. A stranger! Why, there was not a stone nor a tree which he did not remember and love!
"He came to his brother's gate and opened it, then, ghastly as death turned away. He could not risk it.
"If John should speak harshly to me it would kill me!' he said. Where are his boys? I'll go to them. Whatever they say to me, I'll take it for a sign.'
"He climbed down the bank. If the boys spoke harshly to him he would turn his back on his old home—forever.
"He stood irresolute on the bank above them. Bill saw him and made up his mind to fling a stone at him. The man caught the boy's scowling glance, and stooped. What was the use? His life was a wretched wreck—why should he intrude into his brother's happy home?
"There seemed no place for him in all the world—but the prison cell which he had just left. He looked at the dark deep water rushing by and made a step towards it. Then he looked again at the boys. His heart was very sore. They were John's sons—dear, dear brother John! One of them had a look of his mother in his eyes.
"He would try once more, and he went towards them—with a prayer to God in his heart.
"'Been fishing, boys?' trying to speak in an off-hand way. 'Can I come down?'
"Jail-bird!' muttered Bill.
"Charley gripped his leg like a vice, and whispered, 'Hold your tongue!'
"'Yes, sir,' he said aloud, touching his cap, 'we're after perch. Will you take a seat?' moving his basket aside.
"Seventy-seven sat down. He could not speak. The boys dropped their lines in the water.
"Presently he laid his hand on Charley's arm. It seemed as if he must caress the boy, if but by a touch.
"'What is your name?'
"'Charley, sir; Charley Pardee.'
"It was his own name! The blood rushed violently to his heart.
"'Who—who were you named for, Charley?'
"'My uncle, sir. You've heard of him, maybe?' coloring hotly, 'I never saw him, but my father says he was the best man he ever knew, and the most ill-used. O, here comes papa!'
"The man staggered to his feet and stood trembling, not looking up.
"'Well, boys, what luck?' came in Jack's old hearty voice. Then there was a terrible silence.
"'Charley!'
"Jack had his arms about him. 'O Charley, is it you? Thank God, thank God!' and he sobbed like a child.
"The winter passed quietly. Charles Pardee found his brother's house a happy home, but he feared to go outside of it. Public opinion held him a murderer. A few old friends came to him, but he shrunk from every strange face.
"Now little Charley had a habit of taking some trifling gift to old Aunty Stannix on his way to school. The old woman was crabbed and sour beyond her wont, being ill all winter, but the boy persevered.
"One night he was roused out of bed by his father.
"'Stannix is dying, and has sent for you, my boy.'
"'It's snowing,' muttered Bill. 'She'll live till morning. It's one of her impish tricks, anyhow. I wouldn't go a step, Charley.'
"Charley thrust out one foot into the nipping air and hesitated.
"'I'd better go,' he said.
"When he reached the cabin with his father, the old woman was very low.
"'I want Charley Pardee,' she muttered fumbling with her hands.
"'Here I am, aunty.'
"'Yo've been good to me, sonny—better dan anybody in dis wohld. I've got something foh you. Wish's a squire? I must say it foh a squire.'
"'I am a magistrate, aunty,' said the doctor.
"'I want to say, foh de squire, da dis boy's uncle, Charles Pardee, was as innocent as a baby of George Tygart's murder. It was my son, Oaf, as done it—Oaf, de barber in Dover.'
"'I kep' it quiet 'cos I didn't want Oaf hung. But when he was shot in dat fight las' summer, and I knowed he'd got to die, I made him write a paper 'bout it, an' swar to it befoh witnesses.'
"'Iyah's de paper, I gib it to yoh, Charley, kase you've bin good to me. I dun't want folks castin' up to you dat yoh's got a uncle what's grazed de gallows.' 'Yoh've bin good to me, Charley.'
"Before morning she was dead."

"Grandfather," said the boys, after a pause, "is that a true story?"
The old man's eyes grew dim.
"Boys," he said, "I was Seventy-seven!"