“Yes, I have, Robert,” answered the old lady, calmly; “and but for the others I would have left the corridor-door unlocked also. I was mindful of them, though, and of thy reputation.”
“I’m thankful you had that much common-sense,” muttered her son; “and now, with your permission, I will take that cup of coffee, which I suppose you intend for your young protegé, up to him myself.”
“And thee’ll speak gently with him?”
“Oh, yes. I’ll talk to him like a Dutch uncle.”
Thus it happened that when the door at the end of the jail corridor was swung heavily back on its massive hinges, and Rod Blake, who had been gazing from one of the corridor windows, looked eagerly toward it, he was confronted by the stern face of the sheriff instead of the placidly sweet one of the old lady, whom he expected to see.
“What are you doing out here, sir? Get back into your cell at once!” commanded the sheriff in an angry tone.
“Oh, sir! please don’t lock me in there again. It doesn’t seem as though I could stand it,” pleaded Rod.
The sheriff looked searchingly at the lad. His face was certainly a very honest one, and to one old lady at least he had been kindly considerate. At the thought of the ready help extended by this lad to his own dearly-loved mother in the time of her perplexity, the harsh words that the sheriff had meditated faded from his mind, and instead of uttering them he said:
“Very well; I will leave your cell-door open, if you will give me your promise not to attempt an escape.”
And Rod promised.