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“Good-by.” He bowed, his little naked heels put together in most formal manner. Perhaps he ought to be looking after his own fishing tackle. Every one was talking about going fishing nowadays and he’d better see whether his tackle was hanging where it should be, on the wall of the wash-house. William Holm had done nothing at school today but brag of that new fishing tackle of his. “Oh, New York has very little on us up here,” she said. “What with a cold storage plant and an ice factory, we don’t want for anything.” Her attitude recalled his bewildered senses; and endeavouring to assume a tranquil aspect, he bade her rise, and instantly quitted the cell, fearful of the instability of his purpose. His mind was not yet sufficiently hardened by guilt to repel the arrows of conscience, and his imagination responded to her power. As he passed through the long dreary passages from the prison, solemn and mysterious sounds seemed to speak in every murmur of the blast which crept along their windings, and he often started and looked back..