He passed before the prison.
At the door hung an iron chain attached to a bell.
He rang.
The wicket opened.
"Turnkey," said he, removing his cap politely, "will you have the kindness to admit me, and give me a lodging for the night?"
A voice replied:--
"The prison is not an inn.
Get yourself arrested, and you will be admitted."
The wicket closed again.
He entered a little street in which there were many gardens. Some of them are enclosed only by hedges, which lends a cheerful aspect to the street.
In the midst of these gardens and hedges he caught sight of a small house of a single story, the window of which was lighted up.
He peered through the pane as he had done at the public house.
Within was a large whitewashed room, with a bed draped in printed cotton stuff, and a cradle in one corner, a few wooden chairs, and a double-barrelled gun hanging on the wall. A table was spread in the centre of the room.
A copper lamp illuminated the tablecloth of coarse white linen, the pewter jug shining like silver, and filled with wine, and the brown, smoking soup-tureen. At this table sat a man of about forty, with a merry and open countenance, who was dandling a little child on his knees.
Close by a very young woman was nursing another child. The father was laughing, the child was laughing, the mother was smiling.