recognized Mr. Minorkey, and was by him introduced to his daughter.  That lady could not wholly resist the exhilaration of such a stage-ride over snowy roads, only half-broken as yet, where there was imminent peril of upsetting at every turn.  And so she and her new acquaintance talked of many things, while Charlton could not but recall his ride, a short half-year ago, on a front-seat, over the green prairies—­had prairies ever been greener?—­and under the blue sky, and in bright sunshine—­had the sun ever shone so brightly?—­with this same quiet-voiced, thoughtful Helen Minorkey.  How soon had sunshine turned to darkness!  How suddenly had the blossoming spring-time changed to dreariest winter!

It is really delightful, this riding through the snow and darkness in a covered coach on runners, this battling with difficulties.  There is a spice of adventure in it quite pleasant if you don’t happen to be the driver and have the battle to manage.  To be a well-muffled passenger, responsible for nothing, not even for your own neck, is thoroughly delightful—­provided always that you are not the passenger in handcuffs going to prison for ten years.  To the passenger in handcuffs, whose good name has been destroyed, whose liberty is gone, whose future is to be made of weary days of monotonous drudgery and dreary nights in a damp cell, whose friends have deserted him, who is an outlaw to society—­to the passenger in handcuffs this dashing and whirling toward a living entombment has no exhilaration.  Charlton was glad of the darkness, but dreaded the dawn when there must come a recognition.  In a whisper he begged the deputy marshal to pull his cap down over his eyes and to adjust his woolen comforter over his nose, not so much to avoid the cold wind as to escape the cold eyes of Helen Minorkey.  Then he hid his handcuffs under the buffalo robes so that, if possible, he might escape recognition.

The gentleman alongside Miss Minorkey asked if she had read the account of the trial of young Charlton, the post-office robber.

“Part of it,” said Miss Minorkey.  “I don’t read trials much.”

“For my part,” said the gentleman, “I think the court was very merciful.  I should have given him the longest term known to the law.  He ought to go for twenty-one years.  We all of us have to risk money in the mails, and if thieves in the post-office are not punished severely, there is no security.”

There spoke Commerce!  Money is worth so much more than humanity, you know!

Miss Minorkey said that she knew something of the case.  It was very curious, indeed.  Young Charlton was disposed to be honest, but he was high-tempered.  The taking of the warrant was an act of resentment, she thought.  He had had two or three quarrels or fights, she believed, with the man from whom he took the warrant.  He was a very talented young man, but very ungovernable in his feelings.

The gentleman said that that was the very reason why he should have gone for a longer time.  A talented and self-conceited man of that sort was dangerous out of prison.  As it was, he would learn all the roguery of the penitentiary, you know, and then we should none of us be safe from him.