“I do,” said Harry.

“You will not forget, then, what you have to say; or shall I recapitulate it?”

“There is no need,” groaned Harry.  “I shall remember it forever, be sure of that, and on my death-bed most of all.”  With a wearied look on her wan face, and a heavy sigh, the young girl rose to go.  “Good-night, madam.  We need not speak of this again to-morrow, need we?”

“Surely not, child.  My mission here is done.  The rain is falling still, and that will be a sufficient excuse for my departure.  I had a sick headache to-night—­remember that—­but it will be better after a night’s sleep.”

“Do you sleep?” asked Harry, simply.  “Ah me, I would that I could sleep!”

“Of course I do.  Is it not necessary for Richard’s sake that I should be well and strong?  I could weep all night and fast all day, if I let my foolish heart have its own will.  It is easy enough to grieve at any time; one has only to think to do that.  Sleep, child, sleep, and dream of him as he will be when you have set him free; then wake to work his freedom.  I will tell him that you will do so.  Press your lips to mine, that I may carry their sweet impress back to him.  One moment more.  Do not get your lesson by heart, lest they should doubt you; but hold by this one sentence, and never swerve from it:  ’I gave Richard Yorke the notes with my own hand.’  That is the key which can alone unlock his prison-door.  Good-night, good-night.”

CHAPTER XXVI.

MR. ROBERT BALFOUR.

An author of sensitive organization has always a difficulty in treating the subject of prison life.  If he avoids details, the critics do not ascribe it to delicacy, but to incompetence; if, on the other hand, he enters into them, they nudge the elbow of the public, and hint that this particular phase of human experience is his specialty—­that he “ought to know,” because he has been “through the mill” himself.  This is not kind, of course; but the expression, “a little more than kin and less than kind,” is exceedingly applicable to the critic in relation to his humble brother, the author.  We will take a middle course, then, and exhibit only just so much of Cross Key as may be seen in a “justice’s visit.”

Twenty years ago, the system of treatment of prisoners before trial incarcerated in her Majesty’s jails was not so uniform as it now is.  In some they were permitted few privileges not enjoyed by the convicts themselves; in others a considerable difference was made between the two classes.  The establishment at Cross Key leaned to the side of indulgence.  Its inmates who were awaiting their trial were allowed to wear their own clothes; to write letters to their friends without supervision (though not without the suspicion of it on their own part); and to mingle together for some hours in a common room, where that unbroken silence which pervades all our modern Bastiles,