"Mrs. Yates."
The old woman lifted her head with a suddenness that almost shook the iron spectacles from her face. Her eyes encountered those of the gentleman, and she stood up meekly, like a school-girl aroused from her task, and remained, with her eyes bent on the floor, waiting for the man to pass on. He did not move, however, but stood gazing upon her snow-white hair, her thin old face, and the gentle stoop that had, at last, bent her shoulders a little, with infinite compassion in his face.
"Mrs. Yates, why do you stand so motionless? How is it that your eyes turn so steadily to the floor?"
The old woman lifted her eyes slowly to that calm, thin face. She did not know it, had never seen it before in her life; but it was so seldom any one spoke to her, that a soft glow of comfort stole to her heart as she looked, and two great tears rolled from under her spectacles. Then she remembered that he had asked something.
"In prison, here, we get a down look," she said, with pathetic simplicity.
"But you will look in my face now."
She did gaze at him earnestly; but shook her head and dropped her eyes, for the force of habit was still upon her.
"I do not know you," she murmured.
"Did you then expect some friend?" asked the gentleman.
"I have no friends," was the sad reply.