All these comforts were collected there as much for Miss Pendleton's sake as for Sybil's.
The room did not look in the least like a prison-cell, nor was there any legal necessity that it should.
It was late in the afternoon when Sybil and her devoted friend were transferred to the new quarters.
"What is this for?" inquired Sybil, rousing herself a little, when she found she was about to be removed.
"Oh, you know, dear, that we have been sleeping in the daughter's room, and keeping her out of it, and now she wants her own, and so they have fixed up another one for us," said Miss Pendleton, soothingly, as she drew her friend's arm within her own and led her on after the warden, who walked before them with a large bunch of keys in his hand.
"Why, here are all my things!" said Sybil, startled to unusual interest by the sight of her personal effects arranged in the new cell.
"Yes, dear," whispered Miss Pendleton, as she put Sybil gently down into the rocking-chair—"yes, dear. You know Lyon fears that it will be some time before you are able to go home, and these people are too poor to make you comfortable, so he sent these things for them to fix up this room for you."
"Beatrix," said Sybil, putting her hands up to her temples.
"What is it, dear?"
"My head is very bad."