up the huge, uncomfortable seats to form a circle; they stand round until I get there; they are happy to sit with me, but they don’t know enough to draw up a seat for themselves.  I have found pleasure in this; it cheers my heart.  There is no situation in life, however unpleasant it may be, but has some bright places in it.  I love to cheat Mrs. Mills; I watch my chance when she is not near, and let off the cold air in the radiator until the warm air comes, and then close it.  I add coal to the fire, saying to myself, “This castle belongs to the Province, and so do I. We have a right to all the comforts of life here, and especially so when five dollars a week is paid for our board; let us have a nice fire and bask in its comforting rays.”  I love the heat; if the seats at the grate get filled up, I come back to the radiator.  Perhaps it is warm enough to afford to have the window open a few moments, to let the impure air escape—­just a little of it; then I sit close by it, calling it my kitchen fire-place.  I am regulating the comfort of this ward in a measure, but they don’t know it.

February.—­My dear Lewis has been to see me today.  We chat together as usual; how can he think me crazy?  Dr. Steeves tells him I am, I suppose, and so he thinks it must be so.  He is so happy to see me looking better; he is more loving than ever; he holds my hand in his and tells me he will take me out for a drive when the weather is fine.  And I said, “Oh Lewis, my dear boy, I am well enough to go home with you to your hotel now.”  I so long for some of Mrs. Burns’ good dinners; her meals are all nice, and here we have such horrid stuff.  Dark-colored, sour bakers’ bread, with miserable butter, constitutes our breakfast and tea; there is oatmeal porridge and cheap molasses at breakfast, but I could not eat that, it would be salts and senna for me.  At noon we have plenty of meat and vegetables, indifferently cooked, but we don’t require food suitable for men working out of doors.  We need something to tempt the appetite a little.

No matter what I say, how earnestly I plead, he believes Dr. Steeves in preference to me.  If I should die here, he will still believe Dr. Steeves, who looks so well they cannot think he would do so great a wrong.  When I first began to realize that I must stay here all winter, I begged the Doctor to take me to his table, or change his baker; “I cannot live on such fare as you give us here.”  His reply was, “I don’t keep a boarding house.”  Who does keep this boarding house?  Is there any justice on earth or under heaven?  Will this thing always be allowed to go on?  Sometimes I almost sink in despair.  One consolation is left me—­some day death will unlock those prison doors, and my freed spirit will go forth rejoicing in its liberty.