“Do the prison bars still hold you,” I asked him.
“What do you mean?”
“You act like a mad man when you talk of the past. Some men can never throw off the thought of their imprisonment. It rules their life. They think only of prison and the crimes that follow such thinking. There is no hope for them. Can’t you see it is your ideals that enslave or make you free? Can’t you see you are free?”
“It’s mighty hard,” he said, "but I want to forget. My friend sent me to you. He said you knew the path to freedom, and would help me. Days and days I have waited for you to come to me. My father would not have me at home, my friends left me, my money grew less and less—my clothes went, my razor—everything. And still you did not come. Sometimes I’d meet a boy that told me of your work. Sometimes I would doubt all I had heard, and then I would become indifferent—mutter a prayer or plan a crime. At last the letter came. I knew I was being put to the test, and I sought to be firm. Oh, God, such a test! What is it holds a man? I was hungry, yet I knew how to steal; I needed money, and I knew where I could rob with reasonable safety. What is it holds a man like me? At times I have thought it was my belief in you."
“You mean our Colony held out a hope to you.”
“Yes,” he said.
“I am afraid to take you into my Family,” I told him.
“For fear I’ll steal from you?” he said, coldly.
“No, not that; I fear you cannot leave your prison thoughts behind you when you enter the Colony.”
“If you help me,” he said, thoughtfully, “I think I can begin anew.”