The lids of the girl's eyes lifted slowly, and she stared at thepanel of light in the wall. Just at the outset, the act ofseeing made not the least impression on her numbed brain. For along time she continued to regard the dim illumination in thewall with the same passive fixity of gaze. Apathy still lay uponher crushed spirit. In a vague way, she realized her owninertness, and rested in it gratefully, subtly fearful lest sheagain arouse to the full horror of her plight. In a curioussubconscious fashion, she was striving to hold on to thisdeadness of sensation, thus to win a little respite from thetorture that had exhausted her soul.

　　Of a sudden, her eyes noted the black lines that lay across thepanel of light. And, in that instant, her spirit was quickenedonce again. The clouds lifted from her brain. Vision was clearnow. Understanding seized the full import of this hideous thingon which she looked.... For the panel of light was a window, sethigh within a wall of stone. The rigid lines of black thatcrossed it were bars--prison bars. It was still true, then: Shewas in a cell of the Tombs.

　　The girl, crouching miserably on the narrow bed, maintained herfixed watching of the window--that window which was a symbol ofher utter despair. Again, agony wrenched within her. She didnot weep: long ago she had exhausted the relief of tears. Shedid not pace to and fro in the comfort of physical movement withwhich the caged beast finds a mocking imitation of liberty: longago, her physical vigors had been drained under stress ofanguish. Now, she was well-nigh incapable of any bodilyactivity. There came not even so much as the feeblest moan fromher lips. The torment was far too racking for such futilefashion of lamentation. She merely sat there in a posture ofcollapse. To all outward seeming, nerveless, emotionless, anabject creature. Even the eyes, which held so fixedly their gazeon the window, were quite expressionless. Over them lay a film,like that which veils the eyes of some dead thing. Only anoccasional languid motion of the lids revealed the life thatremained.

　　So still the body. Within the soul, fury raged uncontrolled.

　　For all the desolate calm of outer seeming, the tragedy of herfate was being acted with frightful vividness there in memory.

　　In that dreadful remembrance, her spirit was rent asunder anew byrealization of that which had become her portion.... It was then,as once again the horrible injustice of her fate rackedconsciousness with its tortures, that the seeds of revolt wereimplanted in her heart. The thought of revenge gave to her thefirst meager gleam of comfort that had lightened her moodsthrough many miserable days and nights. Those seeds of revoltwere to be nourished well, were to grow into their flower--apoison flower, developed through the three years of convict lifeto which the judge had sentenced her.

　　The girl was appalled by the mercilessness of a destiny that hadso outraged right. She was wholly innocent of having done anywrong. She had struggled through years of privation to keepherself clean and wholesome, worthy of those gentlefolk from whomshe drew her blood. And earnest effort had ended at last underan overwhelming accusation--false, yet none the less fatal toher. This accusation, after soul-wearying delays, had culminatedto-day in conviction. The sentence of the court had been imposedupon her: that for three years she should be imprisoned.... This,despite her innocence. She had endured much--miserablymuch!--for honesty's sake. There wrought the irony of fate. Shehad endured bravely for honesty's sake. And the end of it allwas shame unutterable. There was nought left her save a wilddream of revenge against the world that had martyrized her.

　　"Vengeance is mine. I will repay, saith the Lord."... Theadmonition could not touch her now. Why should she care for thedecrees of a God who had abandoned her!

　　There had been nothing in the life of Mary Turner, before thecatastrophe came, to distinguish it from many another. Its mostsignificant details were of a sordid kind, familiar to poverty.

　　Her father had been an unsuccessful man, as success is esteemedby this generation of Mammon-worshipers. He was a gentleman, butthe trivial fact is of small avail to-day. He was of good birth,and he was the possessor of an inherited competence. He had, aswell, intelligence, but it was not of a financial sort.

　　So, little by little, his fortune became shrunken towardnothingness, by reason of injudicious investments. He married acharming woman, who, after a brief period of wedded happiness,gave her life to the birth of the single child of the union,Mary. Afterward, in his distress over this loss, Ray Turnerseemed even more incompetent for the management of businessaffairs. As the years passed, the daughter grew toward maturityin an experience of ever-increasing penury. Nevertheless, therewas no actual want of the necessities of life, though always awoful lack of its elegancies. The girl was in the high-school,when her father finally gave over his rather feeble effort ofliving. Between parent and child, the intimacy had been unusuallyclose. At his death, the father left her a character wellinstructed in the excellent principles that had been his own.

　　That was his sole legacy to her. Of worldly goods, not the valueof a pin.

　　Yet, measured according to the stern standards of adversity, Marywas fortunate. Almost at once, she procured a humble employmentin the Emporium, the great department store owned by EdwardGilder. To be sure, the wage was infinitesimal, while the toilwas body-breaking soul-breaking. Still, the pittance could bemade to sustain life, and Mary was blessed with both soul andbody to sustain much. So she merged herself in the army ofworkers--in the vast battalion of those that give their entireselves to a labor most stern and unremitting, and most illrewarded.

　　Mary, nevertheless, avoided the worst perils of her lot. She didnot flinch under privation, but went her way through it, if notserenely, at least without ever a thought of yielding to thosetemptations that beset a girl who is at once poor and charming.

　　Fortunately for her, those in closest authority over her were notso deeply smitten as to make obligatory on her a choice betweencomplaisance and loss of position. She knew of situations likethat, the cul-de-sac of chastity, worse than any devised by aJavert. In the store, such things were matters of course. Thereis little innocence for the girl in the modern city. There canbe none for the worker thrown into the storm-center of a greatcommercial activity, humming with vicious gossip, all alive withquips from the worldly wise. At the very outset of heremployment, the sixteen-year-old girl learned that she might ekeout the six dollars weekly by trading on her personalattractiveness to those of the opposite sex. The idea wasrepugnant to her; not only from the maidenly instinct of purity,but also from the moral principles woven into her character bythe teachings of a father wise in most things, though a fool infinance. Thus, she remained unsmirched, though well informed asto the verities of life. She preferred purity and penury, ratherthan a slight pampering of the body to be bought by itsdegradation. Among her fellows were some like herself; others,unlike. Of her own sort, in this single particular, were the twogirls with whom she shared a cheap room. Their common decency inattitude toward the other sex was the unique bond of union. Intheir association, she found no real companionship. Nevertheless,they were wholesome enough. Otherwise they were illiterate,altogether uncongenial.

　　In such wise, through five dreary years, Mary Turner lived. Ninehours daily, she stood behind a counter. She spent her otherwaking hours in obligatory menial labors: cooking her own scantmeals over the gas; washing and ironing, for the sake of thatneat appearance which was required of her by those in authorityat the Emporium--yet, more especially, necessary for her ownself-respect. With a mind keen and earnest, she contrived somesolace from reading and studying, since the free library gave herthis opportunity. So, though engaged in stultifying occupationthrough most of her hours, she was able to find food for mentalgrowth. Even, in the last year, she had reached a point ofdevelopment whereat she began to study seriously her own positionin the world's economy, to meditate on a method of bettering it.

　　Under this impulse, hope mounted high in her heart. Ambition wasborn. By candid comparison of herself with others about her, sherealized the fact that she possessed an intelligence beyond theaverage. The training by her father, too, had been of a superiorkind. There was as well, at the back vaguely, the feeling ofparticular self-respect that belongs inevitably to the possessorof good blood. Finally, she demurely enjoyed a modestappreciation of her own physical advantages. In short, she hadbeauty, brains and breeding. Three things of chief importance toany woman--though there be many minds as to which may be chiefamong the three.

　　I have said nothing specific thus far as to the outer being ofMary Turner--except as to filmed eyes and a huddled form. But,in a happier situation, the girl were winning enough. Indeed,more! She was one of those that possess an harmonious beauty,with, too, the penetrant charm that springs from the mind, withthe added graces born of the spirit. Just now, as she sat, afigure of desolation, there on the bed in the Tombs cell, itwould have required a most analytical observer to determine theactualities of her loveliness. Her form was disguised by thedroop of exhaustion. Her complexion showed the pallor ofsorrowful vigils. Her face was no more than a mask of misery.

　　Yet, the shrewd observer, if a lover of beauty, might have foundmuch for delight, even despite the concealment imposed by herpresent condition. Thus, the stormy glory of her dark hair,great masses that ran a riot of shining ripples and waves. Andthe straight line of the nose, not too thin, yet fine enough forthe rapture of a Praxiteles. And the pink daintiness of theear-tips, which peered warmly from beneath the pall of tresses.

　　One could know nothing accurately of the complexion now. But itwere easy to guess that in happier places it would show of apurity to entice, with a gentle blooming of roses in the cheeks.

　　Even in this hour of unmitigated evil, the lips revealed acurving beauty of red--not quite crimson, though near enough forthe word; not quite scarlet either; only, a red gentlyenchanting, which turned one's thoughts toward tenderness--with ahint of desire. It was, too, a generous mouth, not too large;still, happily, not so small as those modeled by Watteau. It wasaltogether winsome--more, it was generous and true, desirable forkisses--yes!--more desirable for strength and for faith.

　　Like every intelligent woman, Mary had taken the trouble toreinforce the worth of her physical attractiveness. The instinctof sex was strong in her, as it must be in every normal woman,since that appeal is nature's law. She kept herself supple andsvelte by many exercises, at which her companions in the chamberscoffed, with the prudent warning that more work must mean moreappetite. With arms still aching from the lifting of heavy boltsof cloth to and fro from the shelves, she nevertheless was atpains nightly to brush with the appointed two hundred strokes thethick masses of her hair. Even here, in the sordid desolation ofthe cell, the lustrous sheen witnessed the fidelity of her care.

　　So, in each detail of her, the keen observer might have foundadequate reason for admiration. There was the delicacy of thehands, with fingers tapering, with nails perfectly shaped,neither too dull nor too shining. And there were, too, finally,the trimly shod feet, set rather primly on the floor, small, andarched like those of a Spanish Infanta. In truth, Mary Turnershowed the possibilities at least, if not just now the realities,of a very beautiful woman.

　　Naturally, in this period of grief, the girl's mind had noconcern with such external merits over which once she hadmodestly exulted. All her present energies were set to preciserecollection of the ghastly experience into which she had beenthrust.

　　In its outline, the event had been tragically simple.

　　There had been thefts in the store. They had been tracedeventually to a certain department, that in which Mary worked.

　　The detective was alert. Some valuable silks were missed.

　　Search followed immediately. The goods were found in Mary'slocker. That was enough. She was charged with the theft. Sheprotested innocence--only to be laughed at in derision by heraccusers. Every thief declares innocence. Mr. Gilder himself wasemphatic against her. The thieving had been long continued. Anexample must be made. The girl was arrested.

　　The crowded condition of the court calendar kept her for threemonths in the Tombs, awaiting trial. She was quite friendless.

　　To the world, she was only a thief in duress. At the last, thetrial was very short. Her lawyer was merely an unfledgedpractitioner assigned to her defense as a formality of the court.

　　This novice in his profession was so grateful for the firstrecognition ever afforded him that he rather assisted thanotherwise the District Attorney in the prosecution of the case.

　　At the end, twelve good men and true rendered a verdict of guiltyagainst the shuddering girl in the prisoner's dock.

　　So simple the history of Mary Turner's trial.... The sentence ofthe judge was lenient--only three years!