"Well, it's not what you've been used to, of course. But hot." He put the water within her reach and drew aside, looking at her now and then. He was used to the pale faces and tears of women at that gate. "Though she's different from them as has friends here," he thought, silencing one or two noisy customers by a look. Presently he came up to her: "You're afeard to go in there alone, young lady?" "Yes, I am. What shall I do?" "I thought as much. Yonder comes the chaplain. I'll speak to him," going to meet two gentlemen who crossed the street. "You wished to see a prisoner?" one of them said, coming up to her. Kitty was herself again. She stood up and bowed with her old-fashioned, grave politeness: "I do not know. It was this that brought me here," handing him the telegram. "Ah? I remember," glancing at it. "Number 243 sent it, you recollect?" to his companion. "But this is addressed to Hugh Guinness?" turning inquiringly to Kitty. "I am a--a member of his family. He was not at home, and I came to receive the message for him." "Will you go in with us, doctor?" The chaplain turned to his companion. "Presently. There is a man coming up the street I want to see." The chaplain motioned her to follow him, casting a curious glance back at her. They passed up into the long stone corridors, tier over tier, with the lines of square iron doors, each with its slate dangling outside, with a name scrawled on it. He stopped at one, opened it and drew back, motioning her to enter. Kitty caught sight of the damp wall of a cell, and stopped. "Shall I go in with you?" seeing her shiver. "No: Mr. Guinness might wish the message kept as private as possible." "It is very probable. The prisoner is very ill, or you could not have a private interview." She went in, and the door closed behind her. It was a moment before she could distinguish any object in the dimly lighted cell. Then she saw the square window, the cobwebbed walls, and close at hand a narrow pallet, on which lay a woman in a coarse and soiled night-dress. She was tall and gaunt: one arm was thrown over her head, framing a heavy-jawed, livid face, with dull black eyes fixed on Catharine. "Who are you?" she said. Kitty went straight up to her. The foul smell made her head reel. But this was only a woman, after all; and one in great bodily need--dying, she thought. Kitty was a born nurse. She involuntarily straightened the wretched pillows and touched the hot forehead before she spoke: "I came instead of Hugh Guinness. You had a message for him." "I don't know. It doesn't matter for that," her eyes wandering. The soft touch and the kind face bending over her were more to her just now than all that had gone before in her life. "It is here the pain is," moving Kitty's hand to her side. The pain filled the dull eyes with tears. "This is a poor place to die in," trying to smile.