She came to him daily

after that, and every day she kissed him. He could not see that, as she sat by him, she cried, because she kept so very still. For a long while he hardly spoke to her, but he always knew her. He knew her footsteps across the floor, he counted the hours between her visits. It was like some strange and glorious dream.

He knew the dream must end. Very gently he ceased to seek her rare caresses: when her hand lay on his he did not press it; he no longer moved his head, as some one thirsty, for her light, swift kiss. He said to himself: "The first day I sit up I will send her away. She must not come any more."

They noticed that he seemed to dread the first time for getting up. His mother came daily; sometimes she talked to him of Lucia, of whom she had heard from the concierge. She told him of her workroom for the models, and of how she had lighted the quarter by her serenity, her courage. "She was worth a regiment," Madame la Comtesse told him. "One

wonders a little why she stayed in France. Gervase said nothing; he was waiting for her to come. She always came at six, when her day's work was over.

His mother looked at him questioningly.

"You are tired to-day," she said. "Next week I am going to take you to Brittany." Gervase winced; he was not

used to being taken about by others. His mother's eyes filled with tears. She could not give him her eyes; that was what she was always thinking.

He was alone when Lucia came at six. For the first time she did not kiss him.

The bandages were off his head, and she could see what they had done to him. She moved a chair near him, and put her hand over his.

"To-day," she said, "I told them-your old friends in the gardens-that you were to sit up. They were so glad. When you can drive, Gervase, I want you to-to come to tea with me in the garden."

"Mademoiselle," he said, clearing his throat, "your visits have been like those of an angel. I cannot express to you very well what they have been to me. And now, and now,"-his voice shook, but he

went on relentlessly,"I am to tell you-I am to ask you-not to come any more, Mademoiselle."

"Yes," she said calmly, but without withdrawing her small, firm hand.

He leaned back in his chair.

"It is," he explained after a pause, "you see, because I am strong now, quite strong, and do not need visitors. I myself go away next week."

She sat astonishingly still, saying nothing, at least for a moment she sat still,and then he heard the soft movement of her dress, and knew that she had moved. She was close to him now, kneeling beside his chair.

"Gervase," she whispered, "would you know the truth if you heard it? You would not think I was lying to you? You would believe me? I did tell you the truth at least always, did n't I?"

He drew a quick, deep breath.

"Ah, don't make it hard for me!" he muttered. "I am-a coward, Mademoiselle! I was not afraid of the Germans, but of you I am afraid!" She laughed again, close against him now, with such a gentle, happy laugh. He had a quick ear

for truth, and he knew it was a happy laugh.

"I love you!" she said. "I stayed for you, I worked for you, I waited for you. I love France. I thought that they would tell me you were dead. You are not dead."

Her arms were round his neck, her head upon his shoulder. He could feel her slender, light form pressed against his side; her heart beat with his heart. He knew he was not dead.

Tinstitutions, with emphasis placed

institutions, with emphasis placed

upon reformation and reclamation rather than upon punishment and retribution, is the dictate of common sense as well as of decency. Any system that sends hatefilled, despairing men back into the world. is a crime against the tax-payer and a menace to the society that it is presumed to protect.

In comparison with advance along other lines, the progress of the United States in the science of penology has been slow and even grudging. We do not burn witches to-day, nor are insane persons whipped in order that devils may be driven out, but the harsh ignorances of early days still find reflection in the American attitude toward the convict.

In ten States the law permits the leasing of prisoners to private persons, an evil that entails all the injustices and degradations of peonage. In eighteen others the contract-labor system is in vogue, and in eleven there is continued maintenance of the whipping-post, chains, and dungeons. In the majority of States the buildings themselves are gloomy, insanitary inheritances from a distant past, presided over by political henchmen who have no larger vision than the salary that is the reward of their partizanship. In view of these conditions, the wonder is not that our prison population shows a steady annual increase, but that the increase is not more rapid.

Prison reform, rightly conceived and administered, is social insurance in its very In this work, however, as in every other forward movement, there are as many varieties of reform as there are

essence.

intelligent progress has been the revulsion against well-meaning theorists who have tried to proceed through sentiment instead of through system. For purposes of definition as well as of illustration, I choose to cite the work at Great Meadow Prison, Comstock, New York, as the standard of prison reform to which I hold personally and officially, and to which I feel that every State in the Union can be invited.

In this institution there are a thousand inmates, comprising every type of criminal from pickpockets to murderers, and every length of sentence from one year to life. About it, however, there is no wall patrolled by armed guards. Every man is at work in the sun and air, often miles away from the prison, and since the officials carry neither guns nor clubs, they are no more than overseers. The one safeguard against escape is the word of honor that every prisoner pledges to Warden William J. Homer. The effectiveness of this promise is attested by the fact that there has been only one escape attempted in the last two years.

These are changes that have been brought about in a comparatively brief period. When Warden Homer went to Great Meadow in 1911, he found a yelling, ribald population locked in cells, sharpening knives in the hope of killing a keeper, and braving solitary confinement and starvation in order to express hatred and rebellion. One by one he opened the doors, providing wholesome, helpful labor in the woods, the fields, the quarries, the dairies, and on the roads. Against this toil he balanced recreation on the ballfield, moving-picture shows, concerts, and