ious epithet applied to it, but in the old
days, when man's inhumanity to man was less a form of speech than a
cold, merciless fact, the term "Tombs" described an intolerable and
disgraceful condition fairly accurately. Formerly the cells in which the
unfortunate prisoners were confined while awaiting trial were situated
deep under ground and had neither light nor ventilation. A man might be
guiltless of the offense with which he was charged, yet while awaiting
an opportunity to prove his innocence he was condemned to spend days,
sometimes months, in what was little better than a grave. Literally, he
was buried alive. A party of foreigners visiting the prison one day were
startled at seeing human beings confined in such holes. "They look like
tombs!" cried some one. New York was amused at the singularly
appropriate appelative, and it has stuck to the prison ever since.

But times change, and institutions with them. As man becomes more
civilized he treats the law-breaker with more humanity. Probably society
will always need its prisons, but as we become more enlightened we
insist on treating our criminals more from the physiological and
psychological standpoints than in the cruel, brutal, barbarous manner of
the dark ages. In other words the sociologist insists that the
law-breaker has greater need of the physician than he has of the jailer.

To-day the City Prison is a tomb in name only. It is admirably
constructed, commodious, well ventilated. The cells are large and well
lighted, with comfortable cots and all the modern sanitary arrangements.
There are roomy corridors for daily exercise and luxurious shower baths
can be obtained free for the asking. There are chapels for the
religiously inclined and a library for the studious. The food is
wholesome and well prepared in a large, scrupulously clean kitchen
situated on the top floor. Carping critics have, indeed, declared the
Tombs to be too luxurious, declaring that habitual criminals enjoy a
stay at the prison and actually commit crime so that they may enjoy some
of its hotel-like comforts.

It was with a sinking heart and a dull, gnawing sense of apprehension
that Annie descended from a south-bound Madison Avenue car in Centre
Street and approached the small portal under the forbidding gray walls.
She had visited a prison once before, when her father died. She
remembered the depressing ride in the train to Sing Sing, the formidable
steel doors and ponderous bolts, t