Sitting in the straw, talking to himself or some imaginary companion, he saw his old friend.

It took him a full minute to realize that the gentle sportsman, the true Christian, the delicate man, the delightful companion, was there before him, a wreck--cast out from among his fellows, confined in a noisome cell, and hopelessly given over to his vagrant fancies and the tender mercies of Thomas Buffum.

When the memory of what Paul Benedict had been to him, at one period of his life, came to Jim, with the full realization of his present misery and degradation, the strong man wept like a child.

He drew an old silk handkerchief from his pocket, blew his nose as if it had been a trumpet, and then slipped up to the cell and said, softly: "Paul Benedict, give us your benediction." "Jim!" said the man, looking up quickly.
"Good God! he knows me," said Jim, whimpering.

"Yes, Mr.Benedict, I'm the same rough old fellow.