For look you, Michael, though we never ran together, but quarrelled and took our own paths, yet we are both Calhouns, and my heart is warm to him.

If my son were a thousand times a criminal, nevertheless I would ache to take him by the hand.'" "Hush! Look at the prison gate," said his companion, and stood up.
As the gates of the prison opened, the sun broke through the clouds and gave a brilliant phase to the scene.

Out of the gates there came slowly, yet firmly, dressed in peasant clothes, the stalwart but faded figure of Dyck Calhoun.
Terribly changed he was.

He had entered prison with the flush upon his cheek, the lilt of young manhood in his eyes, with hair black and hands slender and handsome.

There was no look of youth in his face now.