The silence at first was almost deathly. Then it was broken by a sound as of a heavy door banged, and the shuffling tramp of marching men—louder, louder, softer—a word of command—still softer, and it died away. Dead silence again! Nedda pressed her hands to her breast. Twice she added up those figures on the blackboard; each time the number was the same. Ah, there was a fly—two flies! How nice they looked, moving, moving, chasing each other in the air. Did flies get into the cells? Perhaps not even a fly came there—nothing more living than walls and wood! Nothing living except what was inside oneself! How dreadful! Not even a clock ticking, not even a bird's song! Silent, unliving, worse than in this room! Something pressed against her leg. She started violently and looked down. A little cat! Oh, what a blessed thing! A little sandy, ugly cat! It must have crept in through the door. She was not locked in, then, anyway! Thus far had nerves carried her already! Scrattling the little cat's furry pate, she pulled herself together. She would not tremble and be nervous. It was disloyal to Derek and to her purpose, which was to bring comfort to poor Tryst. Then the door was pushed open, and the warder said: “A quarter of an hour, miss. I'll be just outside.” She saw a big man with unshaven cheeks come in, and stretched out her hand. “I am Mr. Derek's cousin, going to be married to him. He's been ill, but he's getting well again now. We knew you'd like to hear.” And she thought: 'Oh! What a tragic face! I can't bear to look at his eyes!' He took her hand, said, “Thank you, miss,” and stood as still as ever. “Please come and sit down, and we can talk.” Tryst moved to a form and took his seat thereon, with his hands between his knees, as if playing with an imaginary cap. He was dressed in an ordinary suit of laborer's best clothes, and his stiff, dust-colored hair was not cut particularly short. The cheeks of his square-cut face had fallen in, the eyes had sunk back, and the prominence thus given to his cheek and jawbones and thick mouth gave his face a savage look—only his dog-like, terribly yearning eyes made Nedda feel so sorry that she simply could not feel afraid. “The children are such dears, Mr. Tryst. Billy seems to grow every day. They're no trouble at all, and quite happy. Biddy's wonderful with them.” “She's a good maid.” The thick lips shaped the words as though they had almost lost power of speech. “Do they let you see the newspapers we send? Have you got everything you want?” For a minute he did not seem to be going to answer; then, moving his head from side to side, he said: “Nothin' I want, but just get out of here.” Nedda murmured helplessly: “It's only a month now to the assizes. Does Mr. Pogram come to see you?” “Yes, he comes. He can't do nothin'!”