“There,” said she, glowing with exultation and satisfaction, “’Life of a Penitent Girl.’”

Oh; it was a pretty sight.  Their little hearts were all in it.  Their little spirits rose visibly as the work went on—­such beaming eyes—­such glowing cheeks and innocent looks of sparkling triumph to their friend and father, who smiled back like Jupiter, and quizzings of each other to stimulate to greater speed.

In went the sheets, on went the press, out came the tales, up grew the pile, amid quips and cranks and rays of silver-toned laughter, social labor’s natural music.  They were all so innocent and so happy, when the door was unceremoniously opened, and in burst Fry and Hodges, followed by Evans crawling with his eyes on the ground.

The work-women looked astonished, but did not interrupt their work.  Fry came up to Mr. Eden and gave him a slip of paper on which Hawes had written an order that all work not expressly authorized by the law should be expelled from the jail on the instant.

Mr. Eden perused the order, and the color rose to the roots of his hair.  By way of comment Fry put the prison-rules under his eye.

“Anything about printing, or weaving, or watchmaking in these rules, sir?”

Mr. Eden was silent.

“Perhaps you will cast your eye over ’em and see, sir,” continued Fry slyly.  “Shouldn’t like to offend the law again.”

Mr. Eden took the paper, but not to read it—­he knew it by heart.  It was to hide his anguish from the enemy.  Hawes had felled him with his own weapon.  He put down the paper and showed his face, which was now stern and composed.

“What we are doing is against the letter of the law, as your pillory and your starvation of prisoners are against both letter and spirit.  Mr. Hawes shall find no excuse for his illegal practices in any act of mine.”

He then turned to the artisans.  “Girls, you must leave off.”

“Leave off, sir?” cried No. 3 faintly.

“Yes, no words; obey the prison-rules; they do not allow it.”

“Come, my birds,” shouted Hodges roughly to the women.  “Stand clear, we want this gear.”

“What do you want of it, Mr. Hodges?”

“Only to put it outside the prison-gate, sir.  That is the order.”

The printing-press, representative of knowledge, enemy of darkness, stupidity, cruelty; organ of civilization—­was ignominiously thrust to the door.

This feat performed, they went to attack anti-theft.

“Will you come along with us, sir, to see it is all legal?” sneered Fry.

“I will come to see that insolence is not added to cruelty.”

At the door of Mary Baker’s cell Mr. Eden hung back as Hodges and Fry passed in.  At last, after a struggle, he entered the cell.  The turnkeys had gathered up the girl’s work and tools, and were coming out with them, while the artisan stood desolate in the middle of the cell.