“You must not complain of the prison, Jane Kelly, for it has made a lady of you. Why, your forehead and neck are white as lilies, and your cheeks are like wild roses, only when you look cross one loses sight of the dimples. It’s worth while staying between four stone walls a year or two, if it brings one’s beauty out like that!”
“Like this!” said Jane, with another wilful shake of the head, which sent the hair in disorder over her brow and temples. “This is one of the beauties I have gained!”
“But it will be thicker and softer, and—”
The old woman broke off suddenly, and turned upon her pillow moaning. Jane Kelly arose with an impulse of compassion.
“What shall I do for you?” she said.
“Something to eat, and a mouthful of water,” moaned the patient, wearily, “I am almost dead!”
“Where shall I get food?” inquired Jane. “Water I can find.”
“Give me water—a little water—it costs nothing; give that first!” said the old woman, in a feeble moan, true to her great vice, even while hunger was gnawing at her vitals.
CHAPTER LXI.
MADAME’S GOLDEN CRUCIFIX.
Jane took a broken pitcher from the table and went out in search of water. When she returned with the cool moisture dripping through the fracture over her hands, the sick woman aroused herself and sat up in the bed with outstretched hands, and eager, gleaming eyes. As she drank, the chickens in the coop began to flutter wildly against each other, and dart their long necks through the bars with a hungry cackle, that made the sick crone laugh hysterically as she held the pitcher to her mouth.