“As you like,” said the jailer, turning the harsh key in the lock and opening the door wide enough to admit Dinah. A jet of light from his lantern fell on the opposite corner of the cell, where Hetty was sitting on her straw pallet with her face buried in her knees. It seemed as if she were asleep, and yet the grating of the lock would have been likely to waken her.
The door closed again, and the only light in the cell was that of the evening sky, through the small high grating—enough to discern human faces by. Dinah stood still for a minute, hesitating to speak because Hetty might be asleep, and looking at the motionless heap with a yearning heart. Then she said, softly, “Hetty!”
There was a slight movement perceptible in Hetty’s frame—a start such as might have been produced by a feeble electrical shock—but she did not look up. Dinah spoke again, in a tone made stronger by irrepressible emotion, “Hetty... it’s Dinah.”
Again there was a slight startled movement through Hetty’s frame, and without uncovering her face, she raised her head a little, as if listening.
“Hetty... Dinah is come to you.”
After a moment’s pause, Hetty lifted her head slowly and timidly from her knees and raised her eyes. The two pale faces were looking at each other: one with a wild hard despair in it, the other full of sad yearning love. Dinah unconsciously opened her arms and stretched them out.
“Don’t you know me, Hetty? Don’t you remember Dinah? Did you think I wouldn’t come to you in trouble?”
Hetty kept her eyes fixed on Dinah’s face—at first like an animal that gazes, and gazes, and keeps aloof.
“I’m come to be with you, Hetty—not to leave you—to stay with you—to be your sister to the last.”
Slowly, while Dinah was speaking, Hetty rose, took a step forward, and was clasped in Dinah’s arms.