She walked on down the rapidly filling streets—­for miles, as she thought.  The hurry and rush of the day had begun.  The sense of nothingness in the midst of this great multitude came upon Kitty.  The fear, the excitement began to tell on her:  yesterday she had eaten but little in her pity for Muller.  “Which was very foolish of me,” she said to herself.  “Now I’ve no money to buy anything to eat.  I have acted in this matter without common sense.”  The sun lighted up the yellow leaves of the maples along the sidewalk.  The wind blew strongly up from the rivers.  She passed a stand with some withered apples and stale cakes, and put her hand in her pocket, then with a wistful look went on.

It was late in the morning before she reached her journey’s end.  Showing her paper now and then, she had noticed the curious inquiring look which both men and women gave her on reading it.  She found herself at last under a long gray stone wall pierced by an iron-knobbed gate.  By the side of it a man was setting out on an eating-stand a half-eaten ham, chaffy rolls and pies yellow with age.  The man was an old, cleanly shaven fellow, whose aquiline nose reminded her with a twinge of conscience of Mr. Muller.

“Am I near to this house?” showing her paper.

“Here,” nodding back at the stone wall, cutting his pies.

“This!  What is this place, sir?”

“Moyamensing Prison.”  He finished cutting the pies carefully, and then, wiping the knife, looked up at her, and suddenly came from behind the stand: 

“You’re not well?” pushing a seat toward her.  “Here’s some water.  Or coffee?”

She sat down:  “Oh, it’s nothing.  Only I’ve traveled a long way, and I did not know it was a prison I was coming to.”

“Won’t you have some coffee?  You don’t look rugged.”

“No, thank you.”

“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.”