“Will you go in with us, doctor?” The chaplain turned to his companion.

“Presently.  There is a man coming up the street I want to see.”

The chaplain motioned her to follow him, casting a curious glance back at her.  They passed up into the long stone corridors, tier over tier, with the lines of square iron doors, each with its slate dangling outside, with a name scrawled on it.  He stopped at one, opened it and drew back, motioning her to enter.

Kitty caught sight of the damp wall of a cell, and stopped.

“Shall I go in with you?” seeing her shiver.

“No:  Mr. Guinness might wish the message kept as private as possible.”

“It is very probable.  The prisoner is very ill, or you could not have a private interview.”

She went in, and the door closed behind her.  It was a moment before she could distinguish any object in the dimly lighted cell.  Then she saw the square window, the cobwebbed walls, and close at hand a narrow pallet, on which lay a woman in a coarse and soiled night-dress.  She was tall and gaunt:  one arm was thrown over her head, framing a heavy-jawed, livid face, with dull black eyes fixed on Catharine.

“Who are you?” she said.

Kitty went straight up to her.  The foul smell made her head reel.  But this was only a woman, after all; and one in great bodily need—­dying, she thought.  Kitty was a born nurse.  She involuntarily straightened the wretched pillows and touched the hot forehead before she spoke:  “I came instead of Hugh Guinness.  You had a message for him.”

“I don’t know.  It doesn’t matter for that,” her eyes wandering.  The soft touch and the kind face bending over her were more to her just now than all that had gone before in her life.  “It is here the pain is,” moving Kitty’s hand to her side.  The pain filled the dull eyes with tears.  “This is a poor place to die in,” trying to smile.

“Oh, you are not going to die,” cheerfully.  “Let me lift you up higher on the pillows.  Put your arm about me—­so.  You’re not too heavy for me to lift.”

The woman, when she was arranged, took Kitty’s fingers and feebly held them to her side.  “It is so long since anybody took care of me.  I sha’n’t live till to-morrow.  Don’t leave me—­don’t go away.”

“I’ll not go away,” said Kitty.

* * * * *

The man whom the prison physician had waited to meet was Doctor McCall.  He had followed Kitty so far, unwilling to interfere by speaking to her.  But when he saw her enter Moyamensing he thought that she needed a protector.  “Ha, Pollard, is this you?” stopping to shake hands.  They were old acquaintances, and managed, in spite of their profession, to see something of each other every year.  McCall ran up to town once or twice through the winter, and stayed at Pollard’s house, and Pollard managed to spend a week or two with him in peach season.