There was no interesting toil to relieve their unhappy lot, and no distinction was made of the insane, the law-breaking criminal, and the wretched streetwalker or demimondaine. In the courtyard, during the exercise periods, the only talk was of the terms of imprisonment and of the chances of Louisiana. In that gray monotony the ministrations of the charitable Sisters, headed by the saintly Sister Genevieve (who had been born within the walls of the prison), furnished the one bright spot.
“Do not grieve so!” said one of the older inmates who had begged a little needlework, to a novice who was seated on a bench, weeping convulsively with her head in her arms.
“Oh, I can never live such a life as this!” replied the poor girl, giving way to new grief.
“Try to do something or other, ’twill make you forget your troubles.”
“I’ve never done anything in my life––except amuse myself!” replied the ex-grisette.
“That would be precious hard work in this place,” said a third speaker, who had passed several years of the dreary inactions of prison life.
“Well, anyhow, I’ve had my fling!” remarked the newcomer, drying her eyes. “Scores of admirers crowded around me, willing to ruin themselves for my amusement––” she said in a vivacious manner, as she recalled her past triumphs.
“And it all peters down to prison, eating gruel with a wooden spoon,” said the cynical old-timer; “then, some day, we shall be treated as those poor creatures were yesterday––hurried off with a guard of soldiers to see us safe on our weary exile––”
“Does the idea of exile frighten you?”