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 weary; to dreary places, where the name which a mother gave her child is changed into a number."

There is a large and quiet-looking building, lonely, situated in the outskirts of the city, with high and firm walls, the monotony of which is broken by no ornament except the regular lines of small, curious windows. These look, in fact, rather like the small, deep-set eyes of an old, irascible bachelor than spaces through which the sunlight, which God gave to mankind before anything else was created, can penetrate the darkness within and conjure away the shadows.

Twilight settles upon the large building, and one window after another is lighted. They look like long rows of tired, sleepy eyes, as they shine forth, in a thoughtless, passive manner, through the misty evening air. Do they tell us of the many deadened hopes and stifled aspirations of those who dwell under the roof of this building?

They do. Behind every one of them a spoiled life is slowly dragged along under the benumbing influence of the sombre place, under a code of rules and regulations as rigidly enforced as observed, under a system which induces forgetfulness on one important point above all—namely, that man's acts are not always man's nature.

Prisoner Number 101—name forgotten—is proud of having behaved well. Soon his time will be out, so he will again become an honest member of