I had been a very little time removed, when I received an unexpected
visit from Thomas, Mr. Falkland's footman, whom I have already mentioned
in the course of my narrative. A servant of Mr. Forester happened to
come to the town where I was imprisoned, a few weeks before, while I was
confined with the hurt in my ankle, and had called in to see me. The
account he gave of what he observed had been the source of many an
uneasy sensation to Thomas. The former visit was a matter of mere
curiosity; but Thomas was of the better order of servants. He was
considerably struck at the sight of me. Though my mind was now serene,
and my health sufficiently good, yet the floridness of my complexion was
gone, and there was a rudeness in my physiognomy, the consequence of
hardship and fortitude, extremely unlike the sleekness of my better
days. Thomas looked alternately in my face, at my hands, and my feet;
and then fetched a deep sigh. After a pause,

"Lord bless us!" said he, in a voice in which commiseration was
sufficiently perceptible, "is this you?"

"Why not, Thomas? You knew I was sent to prison, did not you?"

"Prison! and must people in prison be shackled and bound of that
fashion?--and where do you lay of nights?"

"Here."

"Here? Why there is no bed!"

"No, Thomas, I am not allowed a bed. I had straw formerly, but that is
taken away."