Pippin: A Wandering Flame by Laura E. Richards, author of “Florence Nightingale,” “Elizabeth Fry,” etc. CONTENTSDedicationChapter 1. Pippin Says Good-ByChapter 2. Pippin Makes a FriendChapter 3. Pippin Finds a Trade, “Temp’ry”Chapter 4. Pippin Goes to CyrusChapter 5. Cyrus Poor FarmChapter 6. Pippin Sings for His SupperChapter 7. Flora MayChapter 8. Pippin Sets Bread and Lays a PlanChapter 9. Pippin Encounters the Red RuffianChapter 10. Pippin Looks for the Grace of GodChapter 11. The Chaplain Reads His MailChapter 12. NipperChapter 13. Enter Mary-in-the-KitchenChapter 14. Pippin Looks for Old Man Blossom’s Little GalChapter 15. Pippin Meets an Old AcquaintanceChapter 17. Pippin Encounters the GideonsChapter 17. Three Tete-a-TetesChapter 18. Pippin Keeps Watch, with ResultsChapter 19. A Knot in the ThreadChapter 20. The Perplexities of PippinChapter 21. Mary BlossomChapter 22. The Old ManChapter 23. The Chaplain Speaks His MindChapter 24. Primal ForcesChapter 25. Pippin OvercomesChapter 26. Pippin Praises the LordChapter 1. Pippin Says Good-ByThe chaplain seemed to be waiting for some one. He was sitting in his office, as usual at this hour of the morning the little bare office in a corner of Shoreham State Prison, with its worn desk and stool, its chair facing the window (what tales that chair could tell, if it had power of speech!), its piles of reports and pamphlets, its bookshelf within arm’s reach of the desk. (Bible, Concordance, Shakespeare, the “Life of John Howard,” Pickwick, the “Golden Treasury”; these, thumbed and shabby, jostled the latest works on prison reform and criminology. An expressive bookshelf, as all bookshelves are.)One would not have picked out Lawrence Hadley for a prison chaplain; if chaplain at all, he surely belonged in the army. Look, bearing, voice--that clear ringing voice we remember so well--all bespoke the soldier; and a soldier he was, not only because of his service in the Philippines--he was in the army till his health broke down--but because he was born one.As I said, he seemed to be waiting for some one. His eyes were watching the yard, taking note of each figure that came and went, seeing that old Pete was walking lame, that French Bill was drooping and poking his head forward, a bad sign with him; that Mike was whistling, a good sign always; but while his eyes looked, his ears listened; and now, when it seemed that he had been listening a long time, came the familiar knock.“Ah!” The chaplain’s chair, which had been tilted back on two legs for meditation, came down on four for action. “Come in!”“Pippin, sir!”“Come in, Pippin! I was looking for you.”A young man entered and closed the door behind him, making no sound. He moved with an extraordinary grace and swiftness, like some wild creature, yet there was no haste or hurry about him. At first glance, the two men were of something the same build, both tall and square shouldered, holding their chins well up and looking straight forward; but there the resemblance ceased. The chaplain was sandy fair, with blue eyes as kindly as they were piercing; the other was all brown: brown, crisp, curling hair, brown skin, brown flashing eyes. The eyes were not flashing now, though; they were as nearly dim as they could be, for Pippin had been saying good-by, and now was come the hardest parting of all.“Well, here I be, Elder!” he said. “I s’pose it’s time I was off.”(Continued...)