“The children are such dears, Mr. Tryst.  Billy seems to grow every day.  They’re no trouble at all, and quite happy.  Biddy’s wonderful with them.”

“She’s a good maid.”  The thick lips shaped the words as though they had almost lost power of speech.

“Do they let you see the newspapers we send?  Have you got everything you want?”

For a minute he did not seem to be going to answer; then, moving his head from side to side, he said: 

“Nothin’ I want, but just get out of here.”

Nedda murmured helplessly: 

“It’s only a month now to the assizes.  Does Mr. Pogram come to see you?”

“Yes, he comes.  He can’t do nothin’!”

“Oh, don’t despair!  Even if they don’t acquit you, it’ll soon be over.  Don’t despair!” And she stole her hand out and timidly touched his arm.  She felt her heart turning over and over, he looked so sad.

He said in that stumbling, thick voice: 

“Thank you kindly.  I must get out.  I won’t stand long of it—­not much longer.  I’m not used to it—­always been accustomed to the air, an’ bein’ about, that’s where ’tis.  But don’t you tell him, miss.  You say I’m goin’ along all right.  Don’t you tell him what I said.  ‘Tis no use him frettin’ over me.  ‘Twon’ do me no good.”

And Nedda murmured: 

“No, no; I won’t tell him.”

Then suddenly came the words she had dreaded: 

“D’you think they’ll let me go, miss?”

“Oh, yes, I think so—­I hope so!” But she could not meet his eyes, and hearing him grit his boot on the floor knew he had not believed her.

He said slowly: 

“I never meant to do it when I went out that mornin’.  It came on me sudden, lookin’ at the straw.”

Nedda gave a little gasp.  Could that man outside hear?

Tryst went on:  “If they don’t let me go, I won’ stand it.  ’Tis too much for a man.  I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, nor nothin’.  I won’ stand it.  It don’ take long to die, if you put your mind to it.”

Feeling quite sick with pity, Nedda got up and stood beside him; and, moved by an uncontrollable impulse, she lifted one of his great hands and clasped it in both her own.  “Oh, try and be brave and look forward!  You’re going to be ever so happy some day.”

He gave her a strange long stare.

“Yes, I’ll be happy some day.  Don’ you never fret about me.”

And Nedda saw that the warder was standing in the doorway.

“Sorry, miss, time’s up.”

Without a word Tryst rose and went out.

Nedda was alone again with the little sandy cat.  Standing under the high-barred window she wiped her cheeks, that were all wet.  Why, why must people suffer so?  Suffer so slowly, so horribly?  What were men made of that they could go on day after day, year after year, watching others suffer?

When the warder came back to take her out, she did not trust herself to speak, or even to look at him.  She walked with hands tight clenched, and eyes fixed on the ground.  Outside the prison door she drew a long, long breath.  And suddenly her eyes caught the inscription on the corner of a lane leading down alongside the prison wall—­“Love’s Walk”!