thin face. She did
not know it, had never seen it before in her life; but it was so seldom
any one spoke to her, that a soft glow of comfort stole to her heart as
she looked, and two great tears rolled from under her spectacles. Then
she remembered that he had asked something.

"In prison, here, we get a down look," she said, with pathetic
simplicity.

"But you will look in my face now."

She did gaze at him earnestly; but shook her head and dropped her eyes,
for the force of habit was still upon her.

"I do not know you," she murmured.

"Did you then expect some friend?" asked the gentleman.

"I have no friends," was the sad reply.

"Does no one come to see you?"

"Years ago my son used to come and his wife, too; but they are both
dead."

"Poor woman!"

She looked up again with a glance of earnest surprise. She was so unused
to pity that the compassionate voice brought a dry sob to her throat.

"Are you content here? Tell me."

"Yes, I am content."

Her voice was low, but inexpressibly mournful.

"I know the crime for which you were committed," said the gentleman,
"and have read the case over. Tell me, were you guilty?"

The old woman lifted her eyes slowly, and replied:

"Yes, I was a guilty woman."

"But were you, before God, guilty of murder?"

She met his eyes steadily. He saw a quiver of pain sweep over her
features, and the thin lips began to stir.

"He is dead, my innocent, my honest son. Nothing can harm him now. I
have not suffered in vain. Before God I was not guilty of murder, but
terribly guilty in taking this crime on myself: but it was to save him,
and I cannot repent, I cannot repent, and in that lies double guilt!"

The stranger searched her features keenly as she spoke. Perhaps he was
prepared for this answer; but the light that came over his face was full
of compassion.

"Have you done with me?" questioned the old woman, in the meek, sad
voice that had become habitual to her. "Perhaps you will not believe me;
but God knows!"

The man turned from her and stepped into the matron's room.

The old woman sat down upon the bench from which she had arisen, took
the coarse needle from the bosom of her dress, where she had fastened it
when spoken to, and threaded it again; but her hand shook a little, and
the thread baffled her confused vision. Then the strange gentleman came
back again, smiling, and with moisture in his eyes.

"My good woman," he said, "put up your work. You di