ds--never to give in, but to live and conquer fate.

I determined then and there to live in the future, and never to dwell on
the horrible present or past. Then I remembered the last scene in
Newgate and my promise to accompany my friends step by step, day by day,
in our readings. Finding a Bible on the little rusty iron shelf in the
corner, and this being the fourth day of our sentence, I turned to the
fourth chapter. It gives the story of Cain's crime and punishment, and I
read the graphic narrative with an intensity of interest difficult to
describe. When I read, "And Cain said unto the Lord, my punishment is
greater than I can bear. Behold, thou hast driven me out this day from
the face of the earth," I felt that the cry of Cain in all its intense
naturalness, in its remorse and despair, was my own, and I was overcome.
Laying the book down, I walked the floor for an hour in agony, until
fantastic images came thronging thick and fast to my brain. I realized
that my mind was going and felt I must do something to make me forget my
misery.

I opened the Bible at random and my eye caught the word "misery." I
looked closely at the verse and read:

"Thou shalt forget thy misery, and remember it as waters that pass
away."

I threw the book down, crying with vehemence, "That's a lie! God never
gives something for nothing." Soon I opened the book again and looked at
the context. Those of my readers who care to do so can do the same. The
verse is Job xi., 16. The context begins at verse 13. From that hour I
never despaired again.

The same day I began committing the Book of Job to memory, and worked
for dear life and reason. I became interested, and my interest in that
wondrous poem deepened until the study became a passion. Thus I turned
the whole current of my thoughts into a new channel. Reason came back,
and with it resolution and courage and strength.

I was in Pentonville Prison, in the suburbs of London. All men convicted
in England are sent to this prison to undergo one year's solitary
confinement. At the completion of the year they are drafted away to the
public works' prisons, where, working in gangs, they complete their
sentences.

Of my experience in Pentonville during my year of solitude it suffices
to say that, passing through a great deal of mental conflict, I found I
had grown stronger and was eager for transfer to the other prison, where
I could for a few hours each day at least look on the sky and the