"You have not shown me all," said the old governor, sternly. "What is it you have kept back?"
Then the secretary said: "I had thought not to show it to you. It is nothing but a little child's letter—I thought I should not bother you with it."
The old governor was interested. A child's letter to him—what could it be about? Such a thing had never happened to him before.
"A child's letter; let me see it," said the old governor, and, although his voice was harsh, somewhat of a tender light came into his eyes.
"'T is nothing but a scrawl," explained the secretary, "and it comes from the prisoner's child—Monckton's little girl—Monckton, the forger, you know. Of course there's nothing to it—a mere scrawl; for the child is only four years old. But the gentleman who sends it says the child brought it to him and asked him to send it to the governor, and then, perhaps, the governor would send her papa home."
The old governor took the letter, and he scanned it curiously. What a wonderful letter it was, and who but a little child could have written it! Such strange hieroglyphics and such crooked lines—oh! it was a wonderful letter, as you can imagine.
But the old governor saw something more than the strange hieroglyphics and crooked lines and rude pencillings. He could see in and between the lines of the little child's letter a sweetness and a pathos he had never seen before, and on the crumpled sheet he found a love like the love his bereaved heart had vainly yearned for, oh! so many years.
He saw, or seemed to see, a little head bending over the crumpled page, a dimpled hand toiling at its rude labor of love, and an earnest little face smiling at the thought that this labor would not be in vain. And how wearied the little hand grew and how sleepy the little head became, but the loyal little heart throbbed on and on with patient joy, and neither hand nor head rested till the task was done.
Sweet innocence of childhood! Who would molest thee—who bring thee one shadow of sorrow? Who would not rather brave all dangers, endure all fatigues, and bear all burdens to shield thee from the worldly ills thou dream'st not of!
So thought the old governor, as he looked upon the crumpled page and saw and heard the pleadings of the child's letter; for you must know that from the crumpled page there stole a thousand gentle voices that murmured in his ears so sweetly that his heart seemed full of tears. And the old governor thought of his own little one—God rest her innocent soul. And it seemed to him as if he could hear her dear baby voice joining with this other's in trustful pleading.