“Dis am Mas Alfred own chile” she exclaimed to Harry and the old gentleman, “and who would thought dat him would be libin’ here.”

“I supposed it was your master’s child, my good girl,” observed the Doctor, and then added, as he rose from his seat, “you can stay here with him until dark, when you had better return home; meanwhile, I do not wish you to let Mr. Wentworth know that his wife and child are in this city, nor do I wish you to take him out of this cabin.  Come Harry,” he continued, “let us go now and see the mother; she will be able to give us full details of her unfortunate life and to inform us of the cause for which she is in prison.”

Leaving the cabin, the two gentlemen re-entered the buggy and drove to the Mayor’s office.  Finding him absent, they proceeded to his residence, and, after briefly narrating the tale of Mrs. Wentworth and her family, requested permission to visit her.

“Certainly, my dear sirs,” replied Mr. Manship, such being the name of the Mayor, “take a seat while I write you an order of admittance.”

In a few minutes the order to admit Dr. Humphries and his companion in the female’s ward of the prison was written.  Returning thanks to the Mayor, the two gentlemen started for the prison, and on showing the permit, were ushered into the cell occupied by Mrs. Wentworth.

“Good God!” exclaimed Harry, as he looked upon the squalid and haggard form of the broken hearted woman, “this surely cannot be the wife of Alfred Wentworth.”

Mrs. Wentworth had paid no attention to the visitors when they first entered, but on hearing her husband’s name pronounced, rose from her crouching position and confronted the speaker.  The name of the one she loved had awoke the slumbering faculties of the woman, and, like a flash of electricity on a rod of steel, her waning reason flared up for a moment.

“You spoke my husband’s name,” she said in a hoarse tone, “what of him?”

“He is my friend, madam,” replied Harry, “and as such I have called to see you, so that you may be removed from this place.”

“Thank you,” she answered; “yours is the first voice of charity I have listened to since I left New Orleans.  But it is too late; I have nothing now to live for.  Adversity has visited me until nothing but disgrace and degradation is left of a woman who was once looked upon as a lady.”

“There is no necessity for despondency, my good madam,” observed Dr. Humphries.  “The misfortunes which have attended you are such as all who were thrown in your situation are subject to.  Our object in coming here,” he continued, “is to learn the true cause of your being in this wretched place.  Disguise nothing, but speak truthfully, for there are times when crimes in some become necessity in others.”