"You must work very hard."
"Oh yes, it's very little sleep I ever get. How old would you think me?"
"Thirty-five," I answered, as I looked at his furrowed face.
"That is what almost every one says; yet I am only twenty-five. All these wrinkles and hard spots are from work."
"You ought to rest awhile," I ventured to suggest.
"Oh, I'll wait until I am my own master; then I'll rest."
"But you may die before that time comes."
"So I may, so I may," he repeated despondingly. "All my family have died early and from over-work. Sometimes I think freedom too great a blessing for me ever to realize."
He brushed a tear from his eye with the back of his hand. I looked at him, so young and energetic, yet lonely. Noble and handsome was his face, despite the lines of care and labor. What wonder that a soft feeling took possession of my heart, particularly when I remembered how he had gladdened my imprisonment with kind messages and the gift of flowers. I did but follow an irrepressible and spontaneous impulse, when I said with earnestness,