aughter?''—and then, to
me: ''White has a daughter miss, left in the care of an aunt. But we think the aunt a
bad one—don''t we, White?—and are in fears she will let the little girl go the same
way.''
White said she had had no word. When she caught my eye I turned from her,
and left Miss Manning at her gate and found another matron to escort me to the
men''s gaol. I was glad to go, glad even to step into the darkening grounds and
feel the rain upon my face; for all that I had seen and heard of there—the sick
women and the suicides, and the madwoman''s rats, and the pals, and Miss
Manning''s laughter—it had all grown horrible to me. I remembered how I had
walked from the prison into the clear air after my first visit and imagined my own
past being buckled up tight, and forgotten. Now the rain made my coat heavy, and
my dark skirts grew darker at the hem, where the wet earth clung to them.
I came home in a cab, and lingered over the paying of the driver, hoping
Mother would see it. She didn''t: she was in the drawing-room examining our new
maid. This is a friend of Boyd''s, an older girl, she has no time for ghost stories,
and claims to be eager to take up the vacant place—I should say Boyd has been
so terrorised by Mother she has bribed her to it, for the friend is presently used to
rather better wages. She says, however, that she is ready to forfeit a shilling a month