Their time was regularly divided, and occupations succeeded one to another. Elizabeth rented apartments not far from the prison. She gave the early morning hours to exercise, and the rest of the day was spent in Falkner's prison. He read to her as she worked at the tapestry frame, or she took the book while he drew or sketched; nor was music wanting, such as suited the subdued tone of their minds, and elevated it to reverence and resignation; and sweet still hours were spent near their fire; for their hearth gleamed cheerfully, despite surrounding horrors--gayety was absent, but neither was the voice of discontent heard; all repinings were hidden in the recesses of their hearts; their talk was calm, abstracted from matters of daily life, but gifted with the interest that talent can bestow on all it touches. Falkner exerted himself chiefly to vary their topics, and to enliven them by the keenness of his observations, the beauty of his descriptions, and the vividness of his narrations. He spoke of India, they read various travels, and compared the manners of different countries--they forgot the bars that checkered the sunlight on the floor of the cell--they forgot the cheerless gloom of each surrounding object. Did they also forget the bars and bolts between them and freedom? the thoughtful tenderness which had become the habitual expression of Elizabeth's face--the subdued manner and calm tones of Falkner were a demonstration that they did not. Something they were conscious of at each minute, that checked the free pulsations of their hearts; a word in a book, brought by some association home to her feelings, would cause Elizabeth's eyes to fill with unbidden tears--and proud scorn would now and then dilate the breast of Falkner, as he read some story of oppression, and felt, "I also am persecuted, and must endure."