Prisons even in those days were fearful dens, although considerably improved by the exertions of the noble Howard. In an ill-ventilated room with grated windows, on a straw pallet, sat a young man. His cheeks had gained the prison paleness. A frown was on his brow, and an expression on his countenance, which betokened numerous bad passions. Several other persons were in the room, which was closed by a strong door, barred and locked. Five or six other pallets, a rickety table, and several three-legged stools completed the furniture of the apartment. The young man's companions had apparently been amusing themselves at his expense. The more angry he became, the more they laughed and jeered. "Laugh while you may," he growled out. "You will laugh on the wrong side of your mouth when dragged out to Tyburn. I can, even now, fancy I see you dangling on the gibbet, and more thorough jailbirds have never been taken out to be hung!" These remarks, of course, produced retorts of equal bitterness. "As to me, I have no fear of the sort," at length exclaimed the young man. "To be accused of a crime and to be proved guilty are two different things. No evidence can be brought against me--of that I am certain." While he was speaking, the door opened, and the jailer appeared, a couple of armed guards standing behind him. The prisoners gazed at him anxiously; although none of them were convicted, yet all of them in that chamber were accused of capital offences, and each supposed that it might be his turn to be led forth for trial. Most of them knew pretty well that it would be the last scene but one of their existence. The last would be on the scaffold at Tyburn. "It is an old gentleman wants to see you," said the jailer, looking at the young man on the pallet bed. "Now you others, behave civilly to him, or I will be down upon you," he added, turning to the other prisoners. As he spoke, Mr. Sleech, the owner of Stanmore, entered the prison room. "Oh! is it you?" said the young man, looking at Mr. Sleech. "Well, I am glad you have come at last. Here, there's room for two of us; sit down. It is not a handsome reception-room, and my attendants are somewhat noisy. We must take things as they are. Well, what news?" Old Mr. Sleech was no stranger to similar scenes. He had often visited jails professionally to consult with his clients, but the case in this instance was somewhat altered. The prisoner he now came to see was his own son Silas. It might have occurred to him that he had not brought him up in the way that an honest man should go. The other prisoners, hardened villains most of them, were gathering round with the intention of mocking at the old man. "He is my father!" said Silas, rising with a greater approach to dignity than he had yet exhibited. "Some of you have fathers. If one of them was to come and see you, you would not like the others to stand round and see him insulted."