The Child’s Letter
by
Everybody was afraid of the old governor because he was so cross and surly. And one morning he was crosser and surlier than ever, because he had been troubled for several days with a matter which he had already decided, but which many people wished to have reversed. A man, found guilty of a crime, had been imprisoned, and there were those who, convinced of his penitence and knowing that his family needed his support, earnestly sought his pardon. To all these solicitations the old governor replied “no,” and, having made up his mind, the old governor had no patience with those who persisted in their intercessions. So the old governor was in high dudgeon one morning, and when he came to his office he said to his secretary: “Admit no one to see me; I am weary of these constant and senseless importunities.”
Now, the secretary had a discreet regard for the old governor’s feelings, and it was seldom that his presence of mind so far deserted him as to admit of his suffering the old governor’s wishes to be disregarded. He bolted the door and sat himself down at his modest desk and simulated intense enthusiasm in his work. His simulation was more intense than usual, for never before had the secretary seen the old governor in such a harsh mood.
“Has the mail come–where are the papers and the letters?” demanded the old governor, in a gruff voice.
“Here they are, sir,” said the secretary, as he put the bundle on the old governor’s table. “These are addressed to you privately; the business letters are on my desk. Would you like to see them now?”
“No, not now,” growled the old governor; “I will read the papers and my private correspondence first.”
But the old governor found cause for uneasiness in this employment. The papers discussed the affair of the imprisoned man, and these private letters came from certain of the old governor’s friends, who, strangely enough, exhibited an interest in the self-same prisoner’s affair. The old governor was highly disgusted.
“They should mind their own business,” muttered the old governor. “The papers are very officious, and these other people are simply impertinent. My mind is made up–nothing shall change me!”
Then the old governor turned to his private secretary and bade him bring the business letters, and presently the private secretary could hear the old governor growling and fumbling over the pile of correspondence. He knew why the old governor was so excited; many of these letters were petitions from the people touching the affair of the imprisoned man. Oh, how they angered the old governor!
“Humph!” said the old governor at last, “I ‘m glad I ‘m done with them. There are no more, I suppose.”
When the secretary made no reply the old governor was surprised. He wheeled in his chair and searchingly regarded the secretary over his spectacles. He saw that the secretary was strangely embarrassed.
“You have not shown me all,” said the old governor, sternly. “What is it you have kept back?”
Then the secretary said: “I had thought not to show it to you. It is nothing but a little child’s letter–I thought I should not bother you with it.”
The old governor was interested. A child’s letter to him–what could it be about? Such a thing had never happened to him before.
“A child’s letter; let me see it,” said the old governor, and, although his voice was harsh, somewhat of a tender light came into his eyes.
“‘T is nothing but a scrawl,” explained the secretary, “and it comes from the prisoner’s child–Monckton’s little girl–Monckton, the forger, you know. Of course there’s nothing to it–a mere scrawl; for the child is only four years old. But the gentleman who sends it says the child brought it to him and asked him to send it to the governor, and then, perhaps, the governor would send her papa home.”