The bed was hard beyond any experience of hers, the bed-clothes coarse and insufficient, the cell at once cold and stuffy. Sydney was strumming over a new song which stood upon the piano. Any one less courageous than himself would have abandoned the attempt from a conviction of its utter hopelessness; but, though it might for a moment damp his ardour, it could not deter him. On some insane score she fancied she had to state her case in verse. Then she looked up the sweep of pine-trees to the towering sunlit cliffs and the high heaven above and then back to his face. I spent many happy days there. She passed inside and upstairs without a word.
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