She was in sore trouble; and earthly trouble turns the heart heavenwards. Yet it was not so with her. The deep languor, that oppressed her, seemed to have reached her inmost soul. Her beads, falling one by one from her hand, denoted the number of her supplications; but, for once, they were preces sine mente dictæ. Her faith was cold, her belief in Divine justice was shaken for a time. She began to doubt and to despond. That bitter hour, which David has sung so well, and Bunyan, from experience, has described in his biography as well as in his novel, sat heavy upon her, as it had on many a true believer before her. So deep was the gloom, so paralysing the languor, that at last she gave up all endeavor to utter words of prayer. She placed her crucifix at the foot of the wall, and laid herself down on the ground and kissed His feet, then drawing back, gazed upon that effigy of the mortal sufferings of our Redeemer. "O anima Christiana, respice vulnera patientis, sanguinem morientis, precem redemptions nostræ." She had lain thus a good half-hour, when a gentle tap came to the door. "Who is that?" said she. "Mrs. Menteith," the gaoler's wife replied, softly, and asked leave to come in. Now this Mrs. Menteith had been very kind to her, and stoutly maintained her innocence. Mrs. Gaunt rose, and invited her in. "Madam," said Mrs. Menteith, "what I come for, there is a person below who much desires to see you." "I beg to be excused," was the reply. "He must go to my solicitor at the 'Angel,' Mr. Houseman." Mrs. Menteith retired with that message, but in about five minutes returned to say that the young woman declined to go to Mr. Houseman, and begged hard to see Mrs. Gaunt. "And, Dame," said she, "if I were you I'd let her come in; 'tis the honestest face, and the tears in her soft eyes, at your denying her, 'Oh dear, dear' said she, 'I cannot tell my errand to any but her.'" "Well, well," said Mrs. Gaunt; "but what is her business?" "If you ask me, I think her business is your business. Come, Dame, do see the poor thing; she is civil spoken, and she tells me she has come all the way out of Lancashire o' purpose." Mrs. Gaunt recoiled, as if she had been stung. "From Lancashire?" said she, faintly. "Ay, madam," said Mrs. Menteith, "and that is a long road; and a child upon her arm all the way, poor thing." "Her name?" said Mrs. Gaunt, sternly. "Oh, she is not ashamed of it. She gave it me directly." "What has she the effrontery to take my name?" Mrs. Menteith stared at her with utter amazement. "_Your_ name?" said she. "'Tis a simple country body, and her name is Vint--Mercy Vint." Mrs. Gaunt was very much agitated, and said she felt quite unequal to see a stranger.