With a pitiful and plaintive look for her wayward sister; for her idle brother; for the high blank walls; for the faded crowd they shut in; for the games of the prison children as they whooped and ran, and played at hide-and-seek, and made the iron bars of the inner gateway 'Home.' Wistful and wondering, she would sit in summer weather by the high fender in the lodge, looking up at the sky through the barred window, until, when she turned her eyes away, bars of light would arise between her and her friend, and she would see him through a grating, too.
'Thinking of the fields,' the turnkey said once, after watching her, 'ain't you ?' 'Where are they ?' she inquired.
'Why, they're--over there, my dear,' said the turnkey, with a vague flourish of his key.

'Just about there.' 'Does anybody open them, and shut them?
Are they locked ?' The turnkey was discomfited.

'Well,' he said.

'Not in general.' 'Are they very pretty, Bob ?' She called him Bob, by his own particular request and instruction.
'Lovely.

Full of flowers.