"Thar's your quarters." Such a place as it was! A small room of six by eight, with a dirty, discolored floor, over which rats and mice scampered _ad libitum_. One miserable little iron grate let in a stray ray of daylight, only revealing those loathsome things which the friendly darkness would have concealed. Cowering in the corner of this wretched pen was a poor, neglected white woman, whose face seemed unacquainted with soap and water, and her hair tagged, ragged, and unused to comb or brush. She clasped to her breast a weasly suckling, that every now and then gave a sickly cry, indicative of the cholic or a heated atmosphere. "Poor comfort!" said the woman, as I entered, "poor comfort here, whare the starved wretches are cryin' for ar. My baby has bin a sinkin' ever sense I come here. I'd not keer much if we could both die." "For what are you to be tried?" "For takin' a loaf of bread to keep myself and child from starvin'." She then asked me for what I stood accused. I told her my story, and we grew quite talkative and sociable, thereby realizing the old axiom, "Misery loves company." * * * * * * * For several days I lingered on thus, diversifying the time only by reading my Testament, the gift of Louise, and occasionally having a long talk with my companion, whom I learned to address by the name of Fanny. She was a woman of remarkably sensitive feelings, quick and warm in all her impulses; just such a creature as an education and kindly training would have made lovely and lovable; but she had been utterly neglected--had grown up a complete human weed. Our meals were served round to us upon a large wooden drawer, as filthy as dirt and grease could make it. The cuisine dashed our rations, a slice of fat bacon and "pone" of corn bread to us, with as little ceremony as though we had been dogs; and we were allowed one blanket to sleep on. One day, when I felt more than usually gloomy, I was agreeably disappointed, as the cumbersome door opened to admit my kind friend Louise. The jailer remarked: "You may stay about a quarter of an hour, but no longer." "Thank you, sir," she replied. "This is very kind of you, Louise," for I was touched by the visit. "I wanted to see you, Ann; and look what I brought you!" She held a beautiful bouquet to me. "Thank you, thank you a thousand times, this _is_ too kind," I said, as I watered the lovely flowers with my tears. "Oh, they were sent to you," she answered, with a smile. "And who sent them?" "Why, Henry, of course;" and again she smiled. I know not why, but I felt the blood rushing warmly to my face, as I bent my head very low, to conceal a confusion which I did not understand. "But here is something that I did bring you," and, opening a basket, she drew out a nice, tempting pie, some very delicious fruit cake, and white bread. "I suppose your fare is miserable?" "Oh, worse than miserable."