One day, she was sitting in the lodge gazing wistfully up at the sky through the barred window. The turnkey, after watching her some time, said:—
"Thinking of the fields, ain't you?"
"Where are they?" she asked.
"Why, they're—over there, my dear," said the turnkey, waving his key vaguely, "just about there."
"Does anybody open them and shut them? Are they locked?"
"Well," said the turnkey, discomfited, "not in general."
"Are they pretty, Bob?" She called him Bob, because he wished it.
"Lovely. Full of flowers. There's buttercups, and there's daisies, and there's—" here he hesitated, not knowing the names of many flowers—"there's dandelions, and all manner of games."
"Is it very pleasant to be there, Bob?"
"Prime," said the turnkey.