don't know what I did do. My
first thought was to prowl around and find the steps and push up one of
the doors, and I prowled and prowled and prowled till I was worn out. The
windows--small windows, too,--are filled up with straw or something in
winter, so that it was as dark as a dungeon; it _was_ a dungeon and
I was a prisoner.

"If I hadn't wanted the apples, or if the light hadn't gone out, or if
Captain Rheid hadn't come, or if he hadn't locked the door! Would I have
to stay till Josie came? And if I pounded and screamed wouldn't she be
frightened and run away?

"After prowling around and hitting myself and knocking myself I stood
still again and wondered what to do! I wanted to scream and cry, but that
wouldn't have done any good and I should have felt more alone than ever
afterward. Nobody could come there to hurt me, that was certain, and I
could stamp the rats away, and there were apples and potatoes and turnips
to eat? But suppose it had to last all night! I was too frightened to
waste any tears, and too weak to stand up, by this time, so I found a
seat on the stairs and huddled myself together to keep warm, and prayed
as hard as I ever did in my life.

"I thought about Peter in prison; I thought about everything I could
think of. I could hear the clock strike and that would help me bear it, I
should know when night came and when morning came. The cows would suffer,
too, unless father had thrown down hay enough for them; and the fires
would go out, and what would father and mother think when they came home
to-morrow? Would I frighten them by screaming and pounding? Would I add
to my cold, and have quinsy sore throat again? Would I faint away and
never 'come to'? When I wrote 'adventure' upstairs by the master's fire I
did not mean a dreadful thing like this! Staying alone all night was
nothing compared to this. I had never been through anything compared to
this. I tried to comfort myself by thinking that I might be lost or
locked up in a worse place; it was not so damp or cold as it might have
been, and there was really nothing to be afraid of. I had nothing to do
and I was in the dark. I began to think of all the stories I knew about
people who had been imprisoned and what they had done. I couldn't write
a Pilgrim's Progress, I couldn't even make a few rhymes, it was too
lonesome; I couldn't sing, my voice stopped in my throat. I thought about
somebody who was in a dark, solitary prison, and he had one pin