horrible cry. Above this hideous effigy was carved the legend: “Middlesex House of Detention”.
Something more than pain came to the old man’s face as he looked and pondered; his lips trembled like those of one in anger, and his eyes had a stern, resentful gleaming. He walked on a few paces, then suddenly stopped where a woman was standing at an open door.
“I ask your pardon,” he said, addressing her with the courtesy which owes nothing to refined intercourse, “but do you by chance know any one of the name of Snowdon hereabouts?”
The woman replied with a brief negative; she smiled at the appearance of the questioner, and, with the vulgar instinct, looked about for some one to share her amusement.
“Better inquire at the ‘ouse at the corner,” she added, as the man was moving away. “They’ve been here a long time, I b'lieve.”
He accepted her advice. But the people
