"I am so sorry I gave you all so much trouble last night," said Ellinor,
apologetically. "I was overtired, and much shocked by the news I heard."
"No trouble, no trouble, I am sure. Neither Mrs. Johnson nor I felt it
in the least a trouble. Many ladies I know feel such things very trying,
though there are others that can stand a judge's putting on the black cap
better than most men. I'm sure I saw some as composed as could be under
Judge Corbet's speech."
"But about Dixon? He must not die, Mr. Johnson."
"Well, I don't know that he will," said Mr. Johnson, in something of the
tone of voice he would have used in soothing a child. "Judge Corbet said
something about the possibility of a pardon. The jury did not recommend
him to mercy: you see, his looks went so much against him, and all the
evidence was so strong, and no defence, so to speak, for he would not
furnish any information on which we could base defence. But the judge
did give some hope, to my mind, though there are others that think
differently."
"I tell you, Mr. Johnson, he must not die, and he shall not. To whom
must I go?"
"Whew! Have you got additional evidence?" with a sudden sharp glance of
professional inquiry.
"Never mind," Ellinor answered. "I beg your pardon . . . only tell me
into whose hands the power of life and death has passed.
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