I was in Lancashire, at our family seat, at the time you mention. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate. “I will take my chance. The major’s hand stilled. . . ’ ‘In a somewhat roundabout fashion, if you ask me,’ came in a mutter from her old nurse, very much in her usual style. If you ask me, you’ll have to beat her regularly if you don’t want to live a dog’s life.
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