In the case of the Prisoner now waiting for execution, no person
applied to the authorities for permission to see her. I myself
inquired if she had any relations living, and if she would like
to see them. She answered: "None that I care to see, or that care
to see me--except the nearest relation of all."

In those last words the miserable creature alluded to her only
child, a little girl (an infant, I should say), who had passed
her first year's birthday by a few months. The farewell interview
was to take place on the mother's last evening on earth; and
the child was now brought into my rooms, in charge of her nurse.

I had seldom seen a brighter or prettier little girl. She was
just able to walk alone, and to enjoy the first delight of moving
from one place to another. Quite of her own accord she came to
me, attracted I daresay by the glitter of my watch-chain. Helping
her to climb on my knee, I showed the wonders of the watch, and
held it to her ear. At that past time, death had taken my good
wife from me; my two boys were away at Harrow School; my domestic
life was the life of a lonely man. Whether I was reminded of the
bygone days when my sons were infants on my knee, listening to
the ticking of my watch--or whether the friendless position of
the poor little creature, who had lost one parent and was soon to
lose the other by a violent death, moved me in depths of pity not
easily reached in my later experience--I am not able to say. This
only I know: my heart ached for the child while she was laughing
and listening; and something fell from me on the watch which I
don't deny might have been a tear. A few of the toys, mostly
broken now, which my two children used to play with are still
in my possession; kept, like my poor wife's favorite jewels, for