Through all this I would hear at intervals the drumming noises of the singing downstairs, which sounded in my ears (as the singers were becoming more and more intoxicated) like the swirling and screeching of an ironical requiem for the dying man before he was dead: 

     “Oh bella Napoli, Oh suol beato
     Onde sorridere volle il creato.”

But somewhere in those dead hours in which London sleeps everything became still, and my mind, which had been questioning the grim darkness on the worst of the world’s tragedies (what a woman will do for those she loves), fell back on myself and I thought of the Christian institutions which had turned me from their doors, and then of this “street-walker” who had given up her own bed to me and was now lying in the next room on a mattress on the floor.

I could not help it if I felt a startling reverence for Angela, as a ministering angel faithful unto death, and I remembered that as I fell asleep I was telling myself that we all needed God’s mercy, God’s pardon, and that, God would forgive her because she had loved much.

But sleep was more tolerant still I dreamt that Angela died, and on reaching the gates of heaven all the saints of God met her, and after they had clothed her in a spotless white robe, one of them—­it was the blessed Mary Magdalene—­took her hand and said: 

“Here is another of the holy martyrs.”

I awoke from that dream with beads of perspiration on my forehead.  But I dare not say what confused and terrible thoughts came next, except that they were about baby—­what I might do myself if driven to the last extremity.  When I slept and dreamt again, it was I who was dead, and it was my darling mother who met me and took me to the feet of the Blessed Virgin and said: 

“Mother of all Mothers, who knows all that is in a mother’s heart, this is my little daughter.  She did not intend to do wrong.  It was all for the sake of her child.”

When I awoke in the morning, with the darkness shivering off through the gloom, this last dream was sitting upon me like a nightmare.  It terrified me.  I felt as if I were standing on the edge of a precipice and some awful forces were trying to push me over it.

The London sparrows were chirping on the skylight over my head, and I could faintly hear the Italian criers in the front street: 

“Latte!” “Spazzina!” “Erbaggi freschi!”

In spite of myself (hating myself for it after all the tenderness that had been shown me), I could not overcome a feeling of shame at finding myself lying where I was, and I got up to run away that I might cleanse my soul of the evil thoughts which had come to me while there.

As I dressed I listened for a sound from the adjoining room.  All was quiet now.  The poor restless ones were at last getting a little rest.

A few minutes afterwards I passed on tiptoe through their room without looking towards the bed, and reaching the door to the staircase I opened it as noiselessly as I could.