the other morning—I was somewhat hasty I fear, and out of humor. If you'll get the papers I'll see what can be done."
I knew of course what could be done, and knew then that it would be done, and I made haste to get the papers, which had been kept on my desk awaiting that propitious season which I had the faith to feel would come sooner or later, though I had not expected it to come quite so soon as that. I already anticipated the gladness that would light up Brennan's good Irish face when I handed him the pardon for his friend, and I could dramatize the scene in that miner's cottage in Braidwood when the pardoned boy flew to his mother's arms. I intended to say nothing then to Brennan, however, but to wait until the pardon, signed and sealed, could be delivered into his hands, but as I was going across the hall to the Governor's chambers I encountered Brennan, and then of course could not hold back the good news. And so I told him, looking into his blue eyes to behold the first ripple of the smile I expected to see spread over his face; but there was no smile. He regarded me quite soberly, shook his head, and said:
"It's too late now."
And he drew from his pocket a telegram, and, without any need to read it, said:
"He died last night."
I took the papers back and had them filed away among those cases that had been finally disposed of, though that formality could not dispose of the case for me. The Governor was waiting for the papers,
