“Yes”—­and he passed on.

“A wretched life, isn’t it,” said Nurse Jennings, “this hunting for criminals?  This same man, Mr. Hobson, after a hunt of months, found one in my ward with a bullet through his chest.”

“You know him then?” asked Sister Teresa, with a tremor in her voice.

“Yes—­he’s a Scotland Yard man.”

“And you say he was looking for some one on board and didn’t find him?”

“No, not yet, but he will find him, he always does; that’s the pity of it.  Some of these poor hunted people would lead a different life if they had another chance.  I tried to save the one Hobson found in my ward.  He was quite frank with me, and told me everything.  When people trust me my heart always goes out to them—­so much so that I often do very foolish things that are apt to get me into trouble.  It’s when they lie to me—­and so many do—­making one excuse after another for their being in the ward —­that I lose all interest in them.  I pleaded with Hobson to give the man another chance, but I could do nothing.  Thief as he was, he had told the truth.  He had that quality left, and I liked him for it.  If I had known Hobson was on his track I’d have helped him in some way to get off.  He stole to help his old mother, and wasn’t a criminal in any sense—­only weak-hearted.  The law is cruel—­it never makes allowances—­that’s where it is wrong.”

“Cruel!—­it’s brutal.  It is more brutal often than the crime,” answered Sister Teresa in a voice full of emotion.  “Do you think the man your friend was looking for here on board will escape?”

“No, I’m afraid not.  There is very little chance of any criminal escaping when they once get on his track, so Mr. Hobson has told me.  If he is on this steamer he must run another gauntlet in New York, even if he is among the emigrants.  You know we have over a thousand on board.  If he is not aboard they will track him down.  Dreadful, isn’t it?”

“Poor fellow,” said Sister Teresa, a sob in her voice, “how sorry I am for him.  If men only knew how much wiser mercy is than justice in the redemption of the world.”  Here she rose from her chair, and gathering her black cloak about her crossed to the rail and looked out to sea.  In a few minutes she returned.  “Let us walk out to the bow where we can talk undisturbed,” she said.  “The constant movement of the passengers on deck, passing backward and forward, disturbs my head.  I see so few people, you know.”

When they reached the bow, she made a place beside her for the Nurse.

“Don’t misunderstand what I said about the brutality of the law,” she began.  “There must be laws, and brutal men who commit brutal crimes must be punished.  But there are so many men who are not brutal, although the crimes may be.  I knew of one once.  We had educated his little daughter—­such a sweet child!  The man himself was a scene-painter and worked in the theatres in London.  Sometimes he would take part in the