Jane gave her head a contemptuous toss, but the eyes of the old woman were fixed upon her with that keen, mesmeric power which in serpents is called fascination; and spite of her coarse shrewdness, the material of the one woman was yielding itself to the diabolical subtlety of the other. “You must not complain of the prison, Jane Kelly, for it has made a lady of you. Why, your forehead and neck are white as lilies, and your cheeks are like wild roses, only when you look cross one loses sight of the dimples. It’s worth while staying between four stone walls a year or two, if it brings one’s beauty out like that!” “Like this!” said Jane, with another wilful shake of the head, which sent the hair in disorder over her brow and temples. “This is one of the beauties I have gained!” “But it will be thicker and softer, and—” The old woman broke off suddenly, and turned upon her pillow moaning. Jane Kelly arose with an impulse of compassion. “What shall I do for you?” she said. “Something to eat, and a mouthful of water,” moaned the patient, wearily, “I am almost dead!” “Where shall I get food?” inquired Jane. “Water I can find.” “Give me water—a little water—it costs nothing; give that first!” said the old woman, in a feeble moan, true to her great vice, even while hunger was gnawing at her vitals. CHAPTER LXI. MADAME’S GOLDEN CRUCIFIX. Jane took a broken pitcher from the table and went out in search of water. When she returned with the cool moisture dripping through the fracture over her hands, the sick woman aroused herself and sat up in the bed with outstretched hands, and eager, gleaming eyes. As she drank, the chickens in the coop began to flutter wildly against each other, and dart their long necks through the bars with a hungry cackle, that made the sick crone laugh hysterically as she held the pitcher to her mouth. “Give them some, poor dears, they want it badly. It costs nothing, so give them enough. It’s a dreadful thing to be thirsty,” said the poor woman, relinquishing the pitcher and drawing a deep, broken breath. Jane set the pitcher down before the hen-coop, and the poor creatures made a rush at it, darting their eager heads one over the other through the bars, and casting upturned glances as they threw back their bills to swallow the water for which they had been thirsting. The old woman turned herself over to the side of the bed and watched them with a look of keen enjoyment, working her withered and moist lips in sympathy with their tumultuous satisfaction, and talking to them in broken exclamations, as if they had been human beings. “Now,” said Jane Kelly; “tell me where I can get something to eat. You are starved almost to death, and I am about as well off—haven’t tasted a mouthful since yesterday.” “Something to eat? Oh, yes! one can’t live without eating, and that’s what makes life so expensive. If you had a little money now—”