The captain looked at him with that curious
and distressed wistfulness which was often
habitual with him. "She was only a child,
Tillotson, recollect," he said, pleadingly; "only
a child. And there was great excuse for her,
with only an old woman like me to look after
her. But is it a marriage, or what?" and the
captain hesitated a moment.

"Yes," said Mr. Tillotson, in the same
excited tone. "My dear friend, it has come to
me like a gleam of light from heaven. I am
unworthy of it, indeed; but that angel is willing
to cast her lot with me."

The captain's soft eyes were fixed on him with
some wonder. "Shake hands, my dear fellow,"
he said. "I am very glad to hear good news,
and I know you do everything for the best."

Still there was an affected heartiness in this
congratulation which Mr. Tillotson noticed.
"Speak to me candidly, my dear friend," he
said. "You approve of what I am about to
do? Think how I have been living. I shudder
as I look back to these wretched years.
Life has been a jail for me. When the doors
are thrown open, can you expect the miserable
prisoner to stay in his cell?"

"My dear fellow," said the captain, with real
heartiness, "give me the hand. Don't mind an
old foosterer like me. I am delighted. On
my honour and credit, I am. Why shouldn't
you make yourself happy? Indeed I have often
thought, sitting up in my room of a night, trying
to read my bit of a story-book, what a hard
life it has been for you, Tillotson, all through.
Why you shouldn't look out for some fine handsome
young creature that would make you happy
and comfortable, instead of being like myself,
a good-for-nothing old log, no use to any one.
And, indeed, how nobly you behaved all through.
Like the Romans, 'pon my word and credit;
and indeed, I'm sure, and the creatures the
Spartians; poor Anne couldn't think anything
else."

There was a silence for a moment. Perhaps
this was what was on the captain's mind all
through.

"After all," said he, as if he were pleading
for her, "you know she can't help it, the
creature. Her heart was in the little girl that
is now lying beyond the seas in the foreign
earth. They were brought up together, Tillotson,
and women keep to each other more than
we do. It's only natural, after all, the creatures
telling each other everything, sitting and doing
their little work together, sleeping together.
They can't help it. And I vow to you, Tillotson,
she adored this one as if it were her baby.
Leave it to me. I'll tell her quietly, you know,
and by degrees."

Mr. Tillotson cast down his eyes. The captain,
with the best intentions in the world, had
unconsciously made the step he was taking,
more serious than it was.

Through the rest of that night, the captain
talked with an artificial heartiness that was very
transparent, declaring many times that he hadn't
heard a bit o' news that he was so rejoiced at for
years; that it "would make a man of you,
Tillotson," and "why shouldn't he? Surely
God didn't make his own creatures to be moping
their lives away; and he must say, as fine a
young woman as you'd ask to see;" with more
to that effect. Yet, as if something had struck
Mr. Tillotson, there came an ebb in that hopeful
view he had taken in the morning, and his
spirits began to sink once more, which was but
a signal for fresh exertions on the part of the
captain, who, with that delicate instinct of his in
all matters of feeling, tried hard to comfort and
reassure him. Going away, and putting up his
tall collar about his ears, the captain's eyes
were again bent wistfully on him. "I am very
glad of it. I am indeed," he said. "I am
such an old blunderer. I never knew how to
say what is right. But sure you know that
without my telling you. Good night, my dear
fellow."

        PRISON PHOTOGRAPHS.

THE first thing which strikes a stranger on
entering a prison is the marvellous order and
uniformity of the sad world shut in by
those high dark walls. Everything is managed
as if by machinery, and every one looks as if
merely part of the machinery, with a fixed place
and predetermined line of action, affording no
scope for the exercise of any individuality
whatsoever. A barrack-yard is a place of wild
freedom compared to a prison; yet, even in
this grim, gaunt, iron-ribbed world, there are
times and occasions when human nature is
stronger than mechanical discipline, and when
the native force of character breaks through the
sternest rules, and scatters the most accurately-
adjusted system to the winds. Communications
are held with the outside— how received, and
how sent, being of those prison mysteries for
which there is no apparent solution; prison gossip
circulates, though the strictest silence is
enjoined; letters— called in prison language
"stiffs"— are passed from hand to hand, and
the matrons never see the moment of passing;
friendships are made, secrets told, insults given
and resented, petty thefts perpetrated, concealed,
and betrayed, indulgences obtained, and the
whole organisation of the prison set at defiance,
while still the mechanism goes on, apparently, as
smoothly and impassively as before; and only
those who are behind the scenes see where
the hitch lies, if not the manner of remedying it.

Much of the difficulty of keeping things straight
and square lies with the officers themselves;
some being too stern, and some too lenient,
for the work—that one being a "clincher"
hard to be moved, and this a "soft one" easy
to be duped; these continually threatening
reports, which are never made "till the threats
fall like snow-flakes on the broad shoulders of
the culprits," by which we can easily understand
how great a temptation to repeat and increase
the offence this impunity offers, and