The Denison review. [volume] (Denison, Iowa) 1867-current, 1906-07-19
oakley waived this bit of gratuitous

information.
Did you run all the way?"
"Yep, every STEP" with the impudent
mendacity that comes of long practice.
ITS rather curious you didn't get
back sooner"
Clarence looked at the clock.
"Was l gone long? 1t didn't seem
long to me-" he added, With candor
he intended should disarm criticism.
"Only little over half an hour Clar-
ence. guess you may us weil so nome
now
"Good night, Mr. Oakley,o with hap
py alacrity.
Good night, Clarence
The door into the yards closed With
a bang, and Clarence, gleefully skip
ping the mud puddles which lay in his
path, hurried his small person off
through the rain and mist.
Oakley glanced at his letters. One
he saw was from General Cornish. 1t
proved to be brief note, scribbed in
pencil Oh the back of telegram blank.
The general would arrive in Antioch
that night on the late train. He wished
Oakley to meet him.
The other letter was in an unfamiliar
hand. Oakley opened it. Like the
first. it was brief and to the point, but
he did not at once grasp its meaning.
This is what lie read:
Dear Sir-I inclose two newspaper clip
pings which fully explain themselves.
Your father is much interested in know
ing your whereabouts have not fur
nished him with any definite information
on this point. as l have not felt at lib
erty to do so. However, l was able to tell
him | believed you We're doing we'll
Should you desire to write him, | will
gladly undertake to see that any ccmmu-
nication you may send care of this office
will reach him. Very sincerely yours,
EZRA HART.
1t was like a bolt from clear sky.
He drew a deep. quick breath. Then
he took up the newspaper clippings.
One was tlOrid column and half nc-
count of fire in the hospital ward of
the Massachusetts state prison and
dealt particularly With the heroism OF
Roger Oakley, Il life prisoner, in lead
ing a rescue. The other clipping, mere
ly paragraph, was of more recent
date. 1t announced that Roger Oak
ley had been pardoned.
Oakley had scarcely thought of his
father in years. The man and his con
cerns-his crime and his tragic atone
ment-had passed completely out of his
life, but now he was free ii he chose,
to enter it again. There was such sud
denness in the thought that he turned
sick on the moment; great wave of
self pity enveloped him, the recollec-
tion of his struggles and his shame
the bitter, helpless shame of child
returned. He felt only resentment to-
ward this man whose crime had blast
ed his youth, robbing him of every
ordinary advantage, and clearly the
end was not yet.
True, by degrees, he had grown
away from the memory of it all. un
had long since freed himself of the fear
that his secret might be discovered.
With success he had even acquired a
certain complacency. Without know
ing his history, the good or the bad of
it, his world had accepted him for
what he was really worth. He was
neither cowardly nor selfish. 1t was
not alone the memory of his own hard
ships that embittereu him and turned
his heart against his father His
mothers face, with its hunted, fugitive
look, rose up before him in protest. He
recalled their wanderings in search of
some place where their story was not
known and where they could begin life
anew, their return to Burton and then
her death.
For years it had been like dream,
and now he saw only the slouching fig
ure of the old convict, which seemed to
menace him, and remembered only the
evil consequent upon his crime.
Next he fell to wondering what sort
of a man this Roger Oakley was who
had seemed SO curously remote, who
had been as Il shadow in his way pre-
ceding the presence, and suddenly he
found his heart softening toward him.
1t was infinitely pathetic to the young
man, with his abundant strength and
splendid energy, this Imprisonment
that had endured for almost a quarter
of century. He fancied his father as
| broken and friendless, as dazed and
confused by his unexpected freedom.
with his place in the world forever
lost. After all, he could not sit in judg-
ment or avenge.
So far as he knew he had never seen
his father but once First there had
been a hot, dusty journey by stage;
then he had gone through Il massive
iron gate and down a narrow passage,
1 where he had trotted by his mothers
side, holding fast to her hand.
All this came back in jerky, dis
connected fashion, with wide gaps and
lapses he could not fill, but the impress
sion made upon his, mind by his father
had been lasting and vivid. He still
| saw him Nc hn was then with tha