comfortable grave? David Culross had not
walked two blocks before he was seized
with an almost uncontrollable desire to beg
to be shielded once more in that safe and
shameful retreat from which he had just
been released. A horrible perception of the
largeness of the world swept over him.
Space and eternity could seem no larger
to the usual man than earth -- that snug
and insignificant planet -- looked to David
Culross.

"If I go back," he cried, despairingly,
looking up to the great building that arose
above the stony hills, "they will not take
me in." He was absolutely without a refuge,
utterly without a destination; he did not
have a hope. There was nothing he desired
except the surrounding of those four narrow
walls between which he had lain at night
and dreamed those ever-recurring dreams, --
dreams which were never prophecies or
promises, but always the hackneyed history
of what he had sacrificed by his crime, and
relinquished by his pride.

The men who passed him looked at him
with mingled amusement and pity. They
knew the "prison look," and they knew the
prison clothes. For though the State gives