“I found it in her possession, and she confessed taking it.”
“That will do; you can go.”
But the woman kept her seat, and moved her hands uneasily. “You can go,” said the foreman again; but she did not start. A juror sitting near the door rose to show her out, and as he did so the woman said,—
A PLEA FOR MERCY.
“I do not wish to press the complaint. I want to withdraw it, and have the girl released.”
“Why so?” asked the foreman.
“Because,”—and her voice began to choke,—“because the girl is young, and I do not wish to ruin her. Somebody else urged her to steal the money, and I think she will do better in future. If I send her to prison she may become a professional thief, but if I give her a chance she will be a good girl. She is an orphan and has no friends, and I want to be her friend. I know she is guilty, but I want to be merciful, and I beg you to be merciful, gentlemen.”
Half her utterance was drowned with tears, which flowed rapidly down her face. The foreman told her to step outside and he would call her again in a few moments, and inform her of the result of her eloquent appeal. “Be merciful, gentlemen,” were her last words as she closed the door.
It was voted to dismiss the complaint; and when the foreman called her to the room, told her of the result of the vote, and commended her for her kindness of heart, her tears flowed afresh, and she thanked us through broken sobs. I know that in that room more eyes than hers were wet—eyes not accustomed to tears.
But soon a discussion arose as to the propriety of our action. When the grand jury was impanelled, the following oath was administered to the foreman:—