ment, and though he has brought a terrible sorrow upon us, his own punishment is terrible too. I do not know just how to explain myself, I am afraid. He was almost one of us—like one of the family. Neither my mother nor myself can harbour any vindictive feelings—there is only great sorrow and—pity for him."
"I understand," said Warden Rand quietly.
"And so"—Merton was more confident now, surer of his ground, feeling a sympathetic response from the other, "and so any leniency or favour or anything that a little money"—Merton took out his pocketbook—"will procure him that would brighten—"
Warden Rand shook his head.
"There are no favours here, Mr. Merton," he said gravely. "It does you credit; do not think I am insensible to that, but it is impossible."
"But," said Merton, "surely there is something that—"
Again the warden shook his head.
"No," he said; "there is nothing."
Merton put his pocketbook slowly back into his pocket.
"I had no idea the prison regulations were so stringent—aren't they almost too strict, too severe, warden?"
"This is a penitentiary," replied the warden seriously. "We are strict, at times perhaps harshly so, but it is not because we want to be or because we take delight in it—it is because we have to be. We are dealing for the most part—there are exceptions, I am glad to say, even if they are wofully in the minority—with the dregs of the criminal world, men to whom crime has
