By a dull light from a curtained window, Stowell saw who the poor demented creature was. It was Mrs. Collister. Little as he desired it, he had to pick her up and take her home.
"Come, mother," he said, raising her to her feet.
She looked into his face with awe, and permitted herself to be led away by the hand like a child. A group of boys and girls who had gathered round told him where she lived and that she was the mother of the woman who was to be "hangt" in the morning.
Just then the people, a man and his wife, with whom she lodged, came hurrying up, saying they had left her in bed while they went into their yard on some errand and on returning to the kitchen they had missed her.
In a few moments they were all at the open door of the house, a tiny place two steps down from the street, with a lamp burning on the table.
Finding the light on his face Stowell said Good-evening and hurried away, but not before the man and his wife had seen him.
"That must be the young Dempster," said the man.
"It was his father," said Mrs. Collister.
"But his father is dead, woman," said the wife.
"It was his father, I tell thee," said Mrs. Collister, and they let her have her way.