"That's your hunting ground," said the doctor. "There, Sir," she added, unlocking the door, "you can go in. It’s one of our conventional superstitions. Yon must be mine to-night. " "Force shall not make me yours till Jack is free," replied the widow, resolutely. Bribble’s rendering of the service —he had the sort of voice that brings out things—and was still teeming with ideas about it when finally a wild outburst from the organ made it clear that, whatever snivelling there might be down in the chancel, that excellent wind instrument was, in its Mendelssohnian way, as glad as ever it could be. Some years after the date of this history, an immense ventilator was placed at the top of the Gate, with the view of purifying the prison, which, owing to its insufficient space and constantly-crowded state, was never free from that dreadful and contagious disorder, now happily unknown, the jail-fever.
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