tones had said: "It is over. Thank God he took that way."
That was all—they had started back then, Doctor Kreelmar and himself—and now they were nearing the penitentiary again. A dream? Well, there was another dream then, too, in which sombre shadow, chill and blackness had no place, where there were flowers and trees and blades of grass again, and children prattled in their happy mirth, and there was laughter that was not stilled, and there was no dreariness, no hopelessness—where there was life and love. Life—to live; and love, a love so great, so true, so strong, to fill to overflowing all the years to come that God should grant.
Dreams? No—he was no longer dreaming now—it was true—all true. Here were the great walls looming over him—one more night within them, perhaps two, or three at most—and he would never enter them again. Just this once—they were stopping now—there was a light burning in the warden's office—just this once.
Doctor Kreelmar's hand fell upon Varge's knee.
"Get out!" said the little man crisply.
Varge obeyed quietly; and then, as they both stepped from the buggy, they stood an instant silently facing each other before the prison entrance. Suddenly Doctor Kreelmar snatched for his handkerchief and began to jab at his face.
"Hum!" said he. "Hum! I've got to have a little talk with the warden. I telephoned him before we left. He's waiting for me"—he jerked his thumb toward the office window. "I'll be some time with him, and if I were you I'd walk down the road to the first
