THE PRISON


WHILE poor little Clotelle was being kicked about by Mrs. Miller,
on account of her relationship to her son-in-law, Isabella was passing
lonely hours in the county jail, the place to which Jennings had
removed her for safe-keeping, after purchasing her from Mrs. Miller.
Incarcerated in one of the iron-barred rooms of that dismal place,
those dark, glowing eyes, lofty brow, and graceful form wilted down
like a plucked rose under a noonday sun, while deep in her heart's
ambrosial cells was the most anguishing distress.

Vulgar curiosity is always in search of its victims, and Jennings'
boast that he had such a ladylike and beautiful woman
in his possession brought numbers to the prison who begged
of the jailer the privilege of seeing the slave-trader's prize.
Many who saw her were melted to tears at the pitiful sight,
and were struck with admiration at her intelligence; and, when she
spoke of her child, they must have been convinced that a
mother's sorrow can be conceived by none but a mother's heart.
The warbling of birds in the green bowers of bliss, which she
occasionally heard, brought no tidings of gladness to her.
Their joy fell cold upon her heart, and seemed like bitter mockery.
They reminded her of her own cottage, where, with her beloved child,
she had spent so many happy days.

The speculator had kept close watch over his valuable piece of property,
for fear that it might damage itself. This, however, there was no danger of,
for Isabella still hoped and believed that Henry would come to her rescue.
She could not bring herself to believe that he would allow her to be sent