One fine, frosty morning, then, when I had lain in this distress just four weeks, the door of my cell open’d, and there appear’d a young woman, not uncomely, bringing in my bread and water. She was the jailer’s daughter, and wore a heavy bunch of keys at her girdle. “Oh, good morning!” said I: for till now her father only had visited me, and this was a welcome change. Instead of answering cheerfully (as I look’d for), she gave a little nod of the head, rather sorrowful, and answered:— “Father’s abed with the ague.” “Now you cannot expect me to be sorry.” “Nay,” she said; and I caught her looking at me with something like compassion in her blue eyes, which mov’d me to cry out suddenly— “I think you are woman enough to like a pair of lovers.” “Oh, aye: but where’s t’other half of the pair?” “You’re right. The young gentlewoman that was brought hither with me—I know not if she loves me: but this I do know—I would give my hand to learn her whereabouts, and how she fares.” “Better eat thy loaf,” put in the girl very suddenly, setting down the plate and pitcher. ’Twas odd, but I seem’d to hear a sob in her voice. However, her back was toward me as I glanc’d up. And next moment she was gone, locking the iron door behind her. I turn’d from my breakfast with a sigh, having for the moment tasted the hope to hear something of Delia. But in a while, feeling hungry, I pick’d up the loaf beside me, and broke it in two. To my amaze, out dropp’d something that jingled on the stone floor. ’Twas a small file: and examining the loaf again, I found a clasp-knife also, and a strip of paper, neatly folded, hidden in the bread. “Deare Jack, “Colonel Essex, finding no good come of his interrogatories, hath set me at large; tho’ I continue under his eye, to wit, with a dowager of his acquaintance, a Mistress Finch. Wee dwell in a private house midway down St. Thomas his street, in Redcliffe: and she hath put a dismal dress upon me (Jack, ’tis _hideous_), but otherwise uses me not ill. But take care of thyself, my deare friend: for tho’ the Colonel be a gentilman, he is press’d by them about him, and at our last interview I noted a mischief in his eye. Canst use this file?—(but take care: all the gates I saw guarded with troopers to-day.) This by one who hath been my friend: for whose sake tear the paper up. And beleeve your cordial, loving comrade “D. K.” After reading this a dozen times, till I had it by heart, I tore the letter into small pieces and hid them in my pocket. This done, I felt lighter-hearted than for many a day, and (rather for employment than with any farther view) began lazily to rub away at my window bar. The file work’d well. By noon the bar was half sever’d, and I broke off to whistle a tune. ’Twas— “Vivre en tout cas, C’est le grand soulas—” and I broke off to hear the key turning in my lock. The jailer’s daughter enter’d with my second meal. Her eyes were red with weeping. Said I, “Does your father beat you?”