'I knew you,' she said to one, 'long ago in Hog's Lane: you lived in the Old Bell Alley: we were girls together. Come into my cell and I will find you something more to put on; and your hair wants to be combed and put up, doesn't it? And your face would look so much better if it were washed. Come with me----' and so on with one after the other: not the least case being the girl who had laid information and committed perjury against her. It was what Jenny said--though the saying was then too hard for me. They are women: as are all men and women, whether we call some Yahoos or not: they are women: there is not such very great difference between the greatest lady and the lowest woman: both are women: both are ruled by the same irresistible forces of love. Some day, perhaps, some gentlewoman will put the part of the Christian religion--I mean the Law of Charity--into practice. It is strange that a woman who was not a Christian, and had no religion, should first teach me that Charity means more than the giving of alms. 'Let me,' said Jenny, 'do something for these poor creatures while I am among them. That will not be for long. Then they will fall back again into their own ways.' 'But, Jenny, you are spending all your money.' 'An actress never wants money. When I get out of this place I have made up my mind what to do. I will not return to Drury Lane: I will go over to Dublin. That is the strange country with hills and woods which I see before me always. It is Ireland. I will go on the Dublin stage. As for the money, I brought with me all there was in the house when I left it: and all my jewels--but they are not worth much. These women have had some of the money, and the turnkeys have had some, and Mr. Dewberry has had some: and I think there is not much left.' The question of money pressed hard because I had none, and as yet no new situation, and when Jenny was released she would certainly want money to carry her on. She laughed, seeing my seriousness. 'Oh! Will--Will,' she said. 'You are a musician and yet you are anxious about money. But you were born in the City. Now in a theatre nobody thinks about money. When the money is plenty it is freely lent: when there is none it is freely borrowed. Believe me, Will, I shall want no money: I never have wanted money. Did I ever tell you, Will, my own fortune? An old gipsy woman told me. "What others envy she shall have: what she would have she shall lack. She shall pass through dangers without harm: she shall be happy in the end. Yet not in the way she would most desire." That is a strange fortune, is it not? Now I am in the midst of dangers, yet nothing will do me harm. What do I most desire? What do all women most desire? You were born in the City, Will, where they do not study the human heart. Therefore you know not. The old woman was a witch, as they all are--all the gipsy women--so far I have had what others envy--and--alas! Will, I still lack what most I desire.' 'What is it, Jenny?'