At half past eight it is time for chapel. The officer watches you take your place in line amongst the other women. They all wear numbered badges like yours, and are dressed as you are. A few, very few, four or five perhaps, out of all the hundreds in the Third Division, wear red stars on caps and sleeves. This is to show that they are first offenders who have previously borne a good character and have someone to testify to that fact. Every now and then the wardress cries out that someone is speaking, and as you march along there is a running fire of criticism and rebuke. "Tie up your cap string, 27. You look like a cinder-picker. You must learn to dress decently here." "Hold up your head, number 30." "Hurry up, 23." In the chapel it is your turn. "Don't look about you, 12." In comes the clergyman. He reads the lessons and all sing and pray together. Can they be really criminals, all these poor, sad-faced women? How soft their hearts are! How easily they are moved! If there is a word in the services which touches the experience of their lives, they are in tears at once. Anything about children, home, affection, a word of pity for the sinner, or of striving to do better,--any of these things they feel deeply. Singing and the sound of the organ make them cry. Many of them are old, with shrunken cheeks and scant white hair. Few seem young. All are anxious and careworn. They are broken down by poverty, sorrow and overwork. Think of them going back to sit, each in her lonely cell, to brood for hours on the causes which brought her here, wondering what is happening to those she loves outside, tortured, perhaps, by the thought that she is needed there. How can these women bear the slow-going, lonely hours? Now go back to your cell with their faces in your eyes. At twelve o'clock comes dinner. A pint of oatmeal porridge and six ounces of bread three days a week, six ounces of suet pudding and six ounces of bread two days a week, and on two other days eight ounces of potatoes and six ounces of bread. After dinner you will leave your cell no more that day, except to fetch water between two and three o'clock, unless it be one of the three days a week on which you are sent to exercise. In that case, having chosen one for yourself from a bundle of drab-coloured capes, and having fastened your badge to it, you follow the other women outside. There, all march slowly round in single file with a distance of three or four yards between each prisoner. Two of the very oldest women, who can only totter along, go up and down at one side, passing and repassing each other.