"My dear friend," said the clergyman, in a very kind tone, "I wish it were in my power to administer to you the consolations of the Gospel."
"I have nothing to do," she answered, firmly, "with ministers who pretend to preach the Gospel, and support oppression and robbery! Your hands are defiled with blood!—so don't come to me! I am a prisoner, here, and cannot resist. But, when I tell you that I prefer to be left alone, perhaps it may have some effect, even if I am a slave!"
Clayton took out Harry's letter, handed it to her, and said:—
"After you have read this, you will, perhaps, receive me, if I should call again to-morrow, at this hour."
The next day when Clayton called, he was conducted by the jailer to the door of the cell.
"There is a lady with her now, reading to her."
"Then I ought not to interrupt her," said Clayton, hesitating.
"Oh, I suspect it would make no odds," said the jailer.
Clayton laid his hand on his to stop him. The sound that came indistinctly through the door was the voice of prayer. Some woman was interceding, in the presence of eternal pity, for an oppressed and broken-hearted sister. After a few moments the door was partly opened, and he heard a sweet voice, saying:—
"Let me come to you every day, may I? I know what it is to suffer."