"Don't be angry with me, mamma Rachael, but kiss me good night, and ask God to make me a better girl."
Instead of kissing her, Rachael Closs fell upon her neck and broke into a passion of tears such as Clara had never seen her shed before.
CHAPTER XII.
THE OLD PRISONER.
In America again. Yes, fate has swept most of the characters of our story across the ocean; but one remains behind to whom the kind heart must turn with more solemn interest than the young, the beautiful, or the lordly can inspire.
No changes had fallen upon that bleak, gloomy prison, whose very shadow, as it lay across the dusty road, streamed out like a pall. Human crime brings human misery, and that, crowded together and stifled under the heel of the law, is a terrible, most terrible thing.
In the midst of this desolation, that old woman had lived and suffered fourteen years, without a complaint, without once asking for the freedom, which would have been so sweet to her, even of her God. She had sinned deeply—how far, she and the Almighty, who knows all things, alone could tell; but she had borne her punishment with much humility; in her quiet way, had made her presence in that dreary place a blessing to those more wretched than herself.
During that long, weary time many a poor prisoner had felt the comfort of her presence near her sick couch and her grave. Kind looks had cheered other desponding souls when words of compassion were forbidden to her lips.
One day this woman sat at her task sewing on some heavy prison garments. A skein of coarse thread hung about her neck, and a steel thimble was upon her long, slender finger, where it had worn a ring about the nail with incessant use.
She did not look up when the matron entered the room, but worked on, with steady purpose, not caring to see that strange gentleman who came in with the matron, and stood looking kindly upon her.