Laura had never been before in trouble—that is, in other words, she had never been in prison, albeit she had been living by dishonest means for a number of years.
The chaplain had expected to find one of those hardened women who are worse than the vilest of men, and who so often replied to his kind words with coarse invectives or obscene jests.
When he entered the cell he started, for he saw a young woman, pale and beautiful, who was seated on a wooden stool, with one hand, limp and motionless, in her lap—with the other supporting her head, half concealed in her beautiful brown hair.
The chaplain gazed for a moment, wonder-stricken, at the graceful form of the prisoner, who was the very personification of grief and resignation. Her manner was subdued, and it might be said refined.
Mr. Leverall thought there must be some mistake. Surely the fair creature before him could not be a hardened offender. He came at once to the conclusion that the authorities were in error, and nothing could dispossess him of this impression.
Laura Stanbridge had observed his start, and the expression of surprise which sat on his countenance. She was about to play a part, and all her hopes depended upon the skill with which she performed it.
“You are one of the fresh arrivals in this gaol, I believe?” said Mr. Leverall.
She answered by an inclination of her head.
“Charged with shoplifting—is that so?”
“Yes, sir,” she answered; “I am charged, that is all.”