Hector Ainscourt was idolized by his old mother. She had not seen him for a long time, but he had never failed to write. His last letter was penned under extraordinary circumstances and although it was dated from a hospital where he informed her he was convalescing after a slight illness, the truth was that he was an inmate of the death cell and the day set for his execution was not far distant. The immediate members of his family knew of his crime and the sentence, but all had agreed to spare no pains to keep the dear old lady in ignorance. As she fondled the relics of his innocent boyhood, her kind old face glowed with pride as she thought of her noble and handsome son and of how well he was getting along in the world. She was very feeble and the doctor had warned them that her death was not far distant. As the day of the execution advanced the unfortunate son wept bitter and unavailing tears as he thought of her. The fatal hour arrived and as he was led toward the little green door the spirit of the old mother whose great love knew no bounds passed away. She never knew.