Here Peter is fain to take breath and heart, and Miss Paulina (herself in tears) comforts May-blossom, who is sobbing aloud. After this pathetic interruption, Peter, apparently composed by a prolonged fit of sneezing, regains the thread of his narrative.
"'Scuse me, marm," he apologizes, "I b'leeve thinkin' o' mother I got a leetle grain ahead o' my story, but, as I sed, I'd made up my mind how to come up with Hiram, an' that night I got ahead on him sure afore he locked up, for there I was, stowed away in his haymow, as slick as grease! Well, jest as the Presberteren meetin'-house time struck 'leven, I crep' down to the stalls, turned out the cow an' the horse, an' druv 'em down to the medder lot; then I walked back, put a match er two under the mow, an' made tracks fer hum. Well," sighed Peter, "the rest on it's an ugly story, marm, an' p'r'aps you druther this innocent little creetur shouldn't hear it." May-blossom is now "all ears," and Miss Parker, signifying her assent, Peter goes on. "Well, 'bout 'leven the wind riz, an' afore that barn got well agoin' it blowed a perfect harrycane, an' them sparks was a flyin' like the mischief! 'Lord help us,' sez I, looking out my bedroom winder, 's'pos'n' it kerries 'em as fur's Hiram's house!' An' sure 'nuff, it did; an' it bein' a dry spell, the ruff blazed up like tinder! I was there in a jiffy, helpin' on' em git out the truck. I'd got all over my huff now. I was sober as a jedge, an' I'd' a' gin my head for a football to had that night's work undid! Well, there was lots o' furnitoor in the house, an' Hiram he was a graspin' man, an' bound to git the hull on it out, an' arter it got too hot fur the rest on us, he hung on, an'—well—the last time he went in, he stayed. Poor Hiram! I could e'en a'most have changed places with him; for arter that, I wa'n't no ways sot on livin'. I knowed I wa'n't nothin' less than a murderer, an' I wa'n't easy nowhere, 'specially to hum, where mother was round, settin' as much store by me as ever. Well, by'm by, when folks got wind o' my havin' a spat with Hiram, an' his owin' on me, they put this an' that together, an' I was took up for arson; an' I can't say as I was sorry, neither.
"Well, to make short on't, I was nigh about hung; but the governor, he stepped in at the last minnit, an' sent me to State Prison for life. When it come to that pass, 'I won't disgrace the fam'ly,' sez I. 'The Ballous figgered pooty well in the revelooshing,' sez I, 'an' that name sha'n't never be writ in the prison 'count book, ef I kin hinder it.' So, es I've told you, marm, I had myself writ down as Peter Floome. I hadn't no nigh relations 'cept mother and sister Betsy. Uncle George's family'd settled in Illinoise, an' we didn't hear from 'em once in a dog's age. Betsy was a young gal then an' had a beau. She was allus pooty toppin', an' sez I, 'it don't stan' to reason she'll be comin' to the State Prison to see her own brother; but there's mother,' sez I, 'she'll come reg'lar, I reckon; same's she did to the jail;' so I writ her a letter, an' gin her word how I was, an' who she must ask arter in case she come. Bless her dear old soul!
"The very next Friday, there she was on the spot! Arter that, reg'lar as clock work, once in three months, rain or shine, there was mother!
"Mothers, you see, marm, never misses. Wives, an' sisters, an' children, now an' then do keep up to the mark, but mothers, on the hull, is about the only reg'lar prison stan'bys. Well, mother sot a good deal o' store by me, an' when I see her gittin' thin, I knowed what fretted her, an' sez I to myself, 'she won't hold out forever, an' when she's gone, the Lord help me!'
"Well," continued Peter, huskily, "by'm by she went, mother did; but (dropping his voice to a confidential whisper) mothers is master hands to hang on, an' no mistake! An' sure's you're 'live, ef she didn't keep right on with them visits! jest as reg'lar as ef nothin' hed turned up! Ev'ry time the quarter come round, on a Friday night, jest as the clock struck one, there stood mother, large as life, at the gratin' o' my cell. She never once opened her head; but, when I see her stan' there so smilin' an' pleasant, I sez to myself, 'she's done frettin', anyhow;' an', though I warn't never no great hand at prayin', I did thank God for that. I never let on 'bout them visits, for 'bout that time things got pesky upside down with me, an' the boys they used to say, 'Peter's cranky.' 'So,' sez I, 'ef I was to tell 'um, they wouldn't none on 'em b'leeve me.' An' I jest kep' dark, an' year arter year mother come reg'lar, an' we had it all to ourselves. By'm by Hiram, he come. Not reg'lar, like mother did, but off an' on. Well, ghosts is poor company, marm; an' arter a while I got clean upsot, and wa'n't wurth an old shoe.
"But I'm gittin' kinder ahead o' my story. Arter mother died, Betsy she thawed out some, an' come to see me twice, an' then she got married an' went to Californy. She writ one or two letters to me an' I answered 'em punctooal, but by'm by she left off writin', an' I knew she'd gin me up. An' then I got sorter cross-grained an' callous; an' sez I to myself, 'what's the odds anyhow, it can't last to all etarnity; an' by'm by I'll go out o' this, feet fust, an' I hope 't 'ill be the last o' me.'"
"But Peter, my poor fellow," piously interposes Miss Parker, "you read the Bible sometimes, I trust, and found some comfort there; you couldn't have doubted God's providence, all His blessed promises to the penitent and believing soul?"
"Why, yes'm," responds Peter; "I read my Bible some, purty reg'lar, too, 'long at fust; an' mother bein' a church-member, I was brung up to set on providence 'en sich like; but them promises you tell on works best outside o' prisons; an' 'long 'bout the time I got upsot, I'd gin up readin' even in the Bible; for 't wa'n't no use; the letters all stood wrong eend up. I did hang on to providence a spell, but by 'm by, I see that wa'n't no use, nuther. 'Providence,' sez I, 'don't take no 'count o' me, an' I may as well try to jog along on my own hook.'
"Well, finally, I was took down with roomatic fever, an' went into the hospital a spell; an' arter I got round agin, I wa'n't strong enough to go back to the shoe shop, an' the doctor said a change would set me up agin. Twelve year I'd ben a workin' there at the same bench, an' one day exactly like t'other, till it 'peared to me as ef I was a sewin' one 'tarnal everlastin' shoe, over an' over, an' back an' forth, an' no mortal hope o' comin' to the eend on't in this world or next. An' when they sot me to runnin' arrants in the prison, an' doin' chores fur the warden's folks, I was mighty glad, I tell you! An' things kinder got right eend up agin. 'T wa'n't long arter that, afore this dear little creetur come to town. Children air strange now, ain't they, marm? Would you b'leeve that, afore that child could set alone, she took a reg'lar shine to me! I was beat, I tell you! An' when I felt them two little arms 'round my old neck, things somehow lifted up like; an' though I didn't go to prayer-meetin', and didn't ezackly git religin, as some on 'em do, I took a reg'lar hitch on to the Almighty; 'fur,' sez I, 'it's right down handsome in Him to send a blessed little angel to sich a place as this.' Fur she was a reg'lar angel to us, a growin' up there, so innocent, purty an' lovin'; an' she did our souls a heap more good than all the chaplain's Sunday sermons; an' when the boss got killed, an' you took her off, it seemed as ef there wa'n't nothin' left. I s'pose I took on, to myself, a leetle too hard, fur arter I'd had one or two poor spells, the doctor he overhauled me, an' I heered him say there was trouble with the heart; an' sez I to myself, 'you're right there is!' Next day as I was cleanin' up his office, the warden asked me 'bout my folks; an' how long I'd ben to the prison, an' how long I'd got to stay, an' so I told him, nigh as I could, the hull story, 'cept 'at I didn't let on 'bout mother, an' them reg'lar visits. He wouldn't 'a' b'leeved me, you see, an' besides, I never did like to let on much about her.