It was like the other cages, with barred walls and sheet-iron floors.
Built in one corner of the far end was a strong box of steel, six feet
by four by the height of the ceiling, fitted with a low door. This box
was lined with a row of bunks, one above the other. From one was thrust
a small foot covered with a stocking and part of a skirt; some woman
prisoner was ill, perhaps. Against the wall of this main cage sat two
negro women; one, I learned afterward, had stabbed a man the week
before; the other was charged with theft. The older--the murderess--came
forward when she caught sight of me, thrust out her hands between the
bars, and begged for tobacco.

In the corner of the same cage was another steel box. I saw the stooping
figure of the young girl come out of it as a dog comes out of a kennel.
She walked toward the centre of the cage--she still had the baby in her
arms--laid the child on the sheet-iron floor, where the light from the
grimy windows fell the clearer, and returned to the steel box. The child
wore but one garment--a short red-flannel shirt that held the stomach
tight and left the shrivelled legs and arms bare. It lay flat on its
back, its eyes gazing up at the ceiling, its pinched face in high light
against the dull background. Now and then it would fight the air with
its little fists or kick its toes above its head.

The girl took from the kennel a broken paper box and, returning with it,
knelt beside the child and began arranging its wardrobe, the two
negresses watching her listlessly. Not much of a wardrobe--only a
ragged shawl, some socks, a worsted cap, a pair of tiny shoes, and a
Canton-flannel wrapper, once white. This last had little arms and a
short waist. The skirt was long enough to tuck around her baby's feet
when she carried it.