The man by the stove sprang up and rushed forward.

“There, see—­oh, be quick!”

The jailer comprehended the situation at once, unlocked the door, and cut the parts of her clothing which the woman had improvised into a halter.  She soon revived, and cursed him for his interference.  He now watched her carefully, paying no heed to her horrible tongue, until the crazed stage of her intoxication passed into stupor. [Footnote:  The writer saw the cell in which, on the evening before, the woman described tried twice to destroy herself.  He also saw the woman herself, when brought before the police justice.  She had seen twenty-five years, but in evil she seemed old indeed.  According to her story, she was a daughter of the uritans.] To Mildred he said, reassuringly, “Don’t be afraid; you’re as safe as if you were at home.”

“Home, home, home!” moaned the poor girl.  “Oh, what a mockery that word has become!  My best hope may soon be to find one in heaven.”

CHAPTER XXXIV

“A wise judge”

When the interminable night would end Mildred could not guess, for no dawning was visible from her basement cell.  The woman opposite gradually became stupid and silent.  Other prisoners were brought in from time to time, but they were comparatively quiet.  A young girl was placed in a cell not far away, and her passionate weeping was pitiful to hear.  The other prisoners were generally intoxicated or stolidly indifferent, and were soon making the night hideous with their discordant respiration.

The place had become so terrible to Mildred that she even welcomed the presence of the policeman who had arrested her, and who at last came to take her to the police court.  Must she walk with him through the streets in the open light of day?  She feared she would faint on what, in her weakness, would be a long journey, and her heart gave a great throb of gratitude as she saw Eoger awaiting her in the large general room, or entrance, to the station-house.  Nor was her appreciation of his kindness diminished when she saw a man in attendance—­evidently a waiter from a restaurant—­with a plate of sandwiches and a pot of coffee.  Roger came forward, eagerly grasping her hand, and there was so much solicitude and sympathy in his dark eyes that her tears began to gather, and a faint color to suffuse the pallor that at first had startled him.

“Mr. Atwood,” she murmured, “you are kindness itself, and I have not deserved it.  Forgive me.  I will try not to fail you to-day, for your respect sustains me, and I would not lose it.”

“I knew your brave spirit would second all our efforts,” he said in like low tones, and with a bright, grateful look.  “Here, waiter—­come, Miss Jocelyn, it’s by just such prosaic means that soldiers sustain the fight.  You’ll dine at home.”

“Yes, hurry up,” added the officer; “we have no time now for words or ceremony.”