red apology, he made a motion as if to
arise, then, remembering that there were no clothes for him to wear, he
sank back again upon the pillow.

"Come," said the man, giving his cane a rap upon the floor, "you must
get up; you have already been here longer than the law allows."

Sandy had been too long accustomed to self-abasement in the world he had
left to question the authority of the man who spoke to him. "I can't
help lying here, sir," said he, helplessly. "I've no clothes to wear."
Then he added: "Maybe if you let my wife come to me, she'd bring me
something to wear. I hear say, sir, that I've died, and that this is
heaven. I don't know why she hasn't come to me. Everybody else here
seems to have somebody to meet him but me."

"This is not heaven," said the man.

A long silence followed. "It's not hell, is it?" said Sandy, at last.

The man apparently did not choose to answer the question. "Come," said
he, "you waste time in talk. Get up. Wrap the sheet around you, and come
with me."

"Where are you going to take me?" said Sandy.

"No matter," said the other. "Do as I tell you." His voice was calm,
dispassionate; there was nothing of anger in it, but there was that
which said he must be obeyed.

Sandy drew the sheet upon which he lay about him, and then shuddering,
half with nervous dread and half with cold, arose from the warm bed in
which he lay.

The other turned, and without saying a word led the way down the length
of the room, Sandy following close behind. The noise of talking ceased
as they passed by the various beds, and all turned and looked after the
two, some smiling, some laughing outright. Sandy, as he marched down the
length of the room, heard the rustling laugh and felt an echo of the
same dull humiliation he had felt when he had marched with the other
guests of the East Haven Refuge to their daily task of paving Main
Street. There as now the people laughed, and there in the same manner as
they did now; and as he had there slouched in the body, so now he
slouched heavily in the spirit after his conductor.

Opposite the end of the room where was the door through which the
friends and visitors came and went was another door, low and narrow.
Sandy's guide led the way directly to it, lifted the latch, and opened
it. It led to a long entry beyond, gloomy and dark. This passageway was
dully lighted by a small square window, glazed with clouded glass, at
the further end of the narrow hall, upon