Thanksgiving-time, a box from his mother came to the prisoner, and among the pies and cakes was an especial pie for Mr. Wickliff, “From his affectionate old friend, Rebecca Smith.”
THE THANKSGIVING BOX
The sheriff spent fully two hours communing with a large new Manual of Etiquette and Correspondence; then he submitted a letter to Paisley. Paisley read:
“Dear Madam,—Your favor (of the pie) of the 24th inst. is received and I beg you to accept my sincere and warm thanks. Ned is an efficient clerk and his habits are very correct. We are reading history, in our leisure hours. We have read Fisk’s Constitutional History of the United States and two volumes of Macaulay’s History of England. Both very interesting books. I think that Judge Jeffreys was the meanest and worst judge I ever heard of. My early education was not as extensive as I could wish, and I am very glad of the valuable assistance which I receive from your son. He is doing well and sends his love. Hoping, my dear Madam, to be able to see you and thank you personally for your very kind and welcome gift, I am, with respect,
“Very Truly Yours,
“Amos T. Wickliff.”
Paisley read the letter soberly. In fact, another feeling destroyed any inclination to smile over the unusual pomp of Wickliff’s style. “That’s out of sight!” he declared. “It will please the old lady to the ground. Say, I take it very kindly of you, Mr. Wickliff, to write about me that way.”
“I had a book to help me,” confessed the flattered sheriff. “And—say, Paisley, when you are writing about me to your ma, you better say Wickliff, or Amos. Mr. Wickliff sounds kinder stiff. I’ll understand.”
The letter that the sheriff received in return he did not show to Paisley. He read it with a knitted brow, and more than once he brushed his hand across his eyes. When he finished it he drew a long sigh, and walked up to his mother’s portrait. “She says she prays for me every night, ma”—he spoke under his breath, and reverently. “Ma, I simply have got to save that boy for her, haven’t I?”