On this side a flight of wooden steps, protected by a hand-rail, led to a door opening upon the summit of the prison. The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent. “In two days,” she reflected, “Mrs. "Good-bye, young man; and good luck. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate.
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