Instead of kissing her, Rachael Closs fell upon her neck and broke into
a passion of tears such as Clara had never seen her shed before.

CHAPTER XII.

THE OLD PRISONER.

In America again. Yes, fate has swept most of the characters of our
story across the ocean; but one remains behind to whom the kind heart
must turn with more solemn interest than the young, the beautiful, or
the lordly can inspire.

No changes had fallen upon that bleak, gloomy prison, whose very shadow,
as it lay across the dusty road, streamed out like a pall. Human crime
brings human misery, and that, crowded together and stifled under the
heel of the law, is a terrible, most terrible thing.

In the midst of this desolation, that old woman had lived and suffered
fourteen years, without a complaint, without once asking for the
freedom, which would have been so sweet to her, even of her God. She had
sinned deeply--how far, she and the Almighty, who knows all things,
alone could tell; but she had borne her punishment with much humility;
in her quiet way, had made her presence in that dreary place a blessing
to those more wretched than herself.

During that long, weary time many a poor prisoner had felt the comfort
of her presence near her sick couch and her grave. Kind looks had
cheered other desponding souls when words of compassion were forbidden
to her lips.

One day this woman sat at her task sewing on some heavy prison garments.
A skein of coarse thread hung about her neck, and a steel thimble was
upon her long, slender finger, where it had worn a ring about the nail
with incessant use.

She did not look up when the matron entered the room, but worked on,
with steady purpose, not caring to see that strange gentleman who came
in with the matron, and stood looking kindly upon her.

"Mrs. Yates."

The old woman lifted her head with a suddenness that almost shook the
iron spectacles from her face. Her eyes encountered those of the
gentleman, and she stood up meekly, like a school-girl aroused from her
task, and remained, with her eyes bent on the floor, waiting for the man
to pass on. He did not move, however, but stood gazing upon her
snow-white hair, her thin old face, and the gentle stoop that had, at
last, bent her shoulders a little, with infinite compassion in his face.

"Mrs. Yates, why do you stand so motionless? How is it that your eyes
turn so steadily to the floor?"

The old woman lifted her eyes slowly to that calm,