Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. In the general survey of the prison, taken in the preceding chapter, but little was said of the Lodge. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. “What happened to your parents, Lucy? Is it all right if I ask?” Lucy looked at her with a soft gaze.
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