In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him. You have changed from the veriest butterfly to a woman—you wear different clothes, you have the air of another world. A wooden balcony in one of the adjoining houses was thronged with ladies, all of whom appeared to take a lively interest in the scene, and to be full of commiseration for the criminal, not, perhaps, unmixed with admiration of his appearance. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate.
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