smirches all wiped out, and new life budding into being. It should be the gladdest time of all the year, but somehow, sometimes, like to-day, it—it isn't for me."
"Shall I tell you why?" said Merton quickly, snatching at a lead that seemed opportunely opened for him. "It's that"—he pointed to the high, grey prison wall across the lawn.
She turned slowly and looked. A guard at the corner by the little turret stood motionless, carbine in hand; the dome of the main building, with the topmost row of barred windows just showing over the wall, loomed in the background; on the road, a mounted patrol was riding by.
"Perhaps," she said thoughtfully, facing him again. "Perhaps you are right. I had never thought of that. There is no spring for them, poor heavy-laden souls, no fresh start, no beginning all over again, is there?"
"Miss Rand—Janet," Merton burst out, stepping toward her, "this is no place for you—"
"No place for me?"—her eyes widened as she caught up his words. "Why, what can you mean by that? I've always lived here; I was born here. My mother came here when she was married, and—and died here. Dad has been warden here for twenty-five years."
"Yes"—Merton's voice was eager, passionate—"that is just it. You have been here too long. Your whole horizon has been those four walls; there's been nothing but prison atmosphere around you all your life. Janet, I want to take you away from here, out into the world, anywhere, where you will see new things and people and a different life—anywhere, so that we will
