'Lie still a minute,' she said, 'I will stanch the bleeding with a little gin,' she pulled out a flat bottle. 'It is good gin. I will pour a little on the wound. That can't hurt--so.' But it did hurt. 'Now, my pretty gentleman, for you are a gentleman, though maybe only a gentleman rider and woundily in want of a wash. Take a sip for yourself, don't be afraid. Take a long sip. I brought it here for my man, but he's dead. He died in the night after a fight in the yard here. He got a knife between his ribs,' she spoke of this occurrence as if such a conclusion to a fight was quite in the common way. 'Look here, sir, you've no business in this place. Haven't you got any friends to pay for the Master's side? Now you're easier, and the bleeding has stopped. Can you stand, do you think?' I made a shift to get to my feet, shivering in the cold damp November air. She had a bundle laying on the bench. ''Tis my man's clothes,' she said. 'Take his coat and shoes. You must. Else with nothing but the boards to sleep upon you'll be starved to death. Now I must go and tell his friends that my man is dead. Well--he won't be hanged. I never did like to think that I should be the widow of a Tyburn bird.' She put on me the warm thick coat that had been her husband's; she put on his shoes. I was still stupid and dull of understanding. But I tried to thank her. Some weeks afterwards, when I was at length released, I ventured back into the prison in hopes of finding the name and the residence of the woman--Samaritan, if ever there was one. The turnkeys could tell me nothing. The gaol was full of women, they said. My friend was named Nan. They were all Nans. She was the wife of a prisoner who died in the place. They were always dying on the common side. That was nothing. They all know each other by name; but it was six weeks ago; prisoners change every day; they are brought in; they are sent out to be hanged, pilloried, whipped or transported. In a word they knew nothing and would not take the trouble to inquire. What did it matter to these men made callous by intimacy with suffering, that a woman of the lower kind had done a kind and charitable action? Nevertheless, we have Christ's own assurance--His words--His promise. The woman's action will be remembered on the day when her sins shall be passed before a merciful Judge. Her sins! Alas! she was what she was brought up to be; her sins lie upon the head of those who suffer her, and those like to her, to grow up without religion, or virtue, or example, or admonition.