"Your husband's dead, isn't he?" said Bert.
"Yes, he died many years ago. He was a ship's carpenter at Liverpool. Ah, if you'd seen the home I had when I married—but there! Don't let me think of that. I'm low enough now; but I was once in very different circumstances."
"Did you ever have a brother?" asked Bert, who seemed to be in the mood for asking questions.
"Yes, I'd a brother once, but he turned out a good-for-nothing fellow. He ran away to sea, and broke my mother's heart. Then the ship he was on board of went down, and he with her, and I thought to myself that it was good riddance of bad rubbish; but now—now—I don't know—"
Mrs. Kay's voice faltered; in vain she tried to steady it; then to Bert's consternation her head sank forward on her hands, and she sobbed aloud.
"Oh, Mrs. Kay, what is the matter?" he asked.
"Nothing," she sobbed, "only I'm thinking there wouldn't be much to choose between us now. I never meant to be bad, but things were so against me. My husband died, and my two little children died, and I was left all alone, with no one to care what I did, and so I became what I am."
"There was some One who cared, I suppose," said Bert softly.
But if Mrs. Kay heard his words, she did not understand them. She was ignorant of the love of Jesus, although she could have answered any question as to the doctrines of Christianity. To her Jesus was only a Name, the chief factor in a formula, and her very knowledge of the truth concerning Him seemed to close her heart against Him.
"Mrs. Kay," said Bert, whose love of asking questions was not to be checked, "did you ever know any one of the name of Priscilla?"