NUMBER 110.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XII, Issue XIII, 31 March 1894, Page 306

NUMBER 110.

The iron door of the great prison clangs loudly after No. 110, as he emerges from the gloom of the corridor into the bright world outside. He stands for a moment, gazing straight ahead, stupidly, as if trying to realise that his prayers are answered —that freedom is indeed his. The warm sunshine rests kindly upon the pathetic figure, bowed, not by the weight of years, but by sorrow’s burden ; and like a caressing hand it touches the silvered locks that were as dark as night a dozen years ago, when first the grim prison walls hid him from his fellow-men. A dozen years he has borne the stigma of a crime of which he is innocent ! What now avails the tardy confession of the criminal ? Can it blot out the misery endured, replace the years filched from manhood’s prime? His wife—his child—how have they fared 1 Thank God ! they knew not of his disgrace. Though bis toitured heart cried for them by day and by night, his lips have been silent as the lips of the dead. Now he is free to go to them, free to take up the broken threads of his life, and yet—what right has he. No. 110, to cloud their lives with shame ? True, he is guiltless, but the prison taint still clings to his garments. He will seek them out, be near them, watch over them, but they shall never know. Has he not kept silence all these years ? With slow faltering steps, he passes down the busy thoroughfare. The jangle of car bells and tbe cries of street vendors confuse him ; the careless glances of passers-by fill him with alarm. What if the change were not so great, after all—what if he should be recognised ? Set amid green fields and smiling gardens, but a day’s journey from the metropolis, is the little village where the happiest days of his life were passed. Once again he follows the winding path across the meadow—who so well knows the way ? Here is the lane that leads to the orchard, there through the swaying branches of the elm the moss-grown roof of the cottage is visible. With slouched hat pulled low over his brow, he creeps in the shadow of the hedge, to the very doorstone. Empty 1 Desjrted ! The shutterless windows give free entrance to storm and sunshine alike ; spiders have spun their webs across the doorway, and weeds, breast high, flourish in the garden walks. In the neglected corner of the village churchyard he finds what he seeks. ******* The travel-stained wanderer drags himself wearily along until he reaches the iron-barred entrance of the great prison. ‘ Take me in !’ he cries, hoarsely. ‘I have no other home than this.’