ood God! 'tain't nothin' with the child?" She shook the
other in sudden anger. "Speak, Kate, can't you?"

"Will is dead," said Kate, slowly, thus urged. "It's nine weeks come
Sunday that he fell out o' the winder and was kilt. They buried him
from the Morgue. We thought you knowed."

Stunned by the blow, the woman had sunk upon the lowest step and
buried her face in her hands. She sat there with her shawl drawn over
her head, as one by one the neighbors went inside. One lingered; it
was the one they had called Kate.

"Mame," she said, when the last was gone, touching her on the
shoulder--"Mame!"

An almost imperceptible movement of the head under its shawl testified
that she heard.

"Mebbe it was for the best," said Kate, irresolutely; "he might have
took after--Tim--you know."

The shrouded figure sat immovable, Kate eyed it in silence, and went
her way.

The night wore on. The streets were deserted and the stores closed.
Only the saloon windows blazed with light. But the figure sat there
yet. It had not stirred. Then it rose, shook out the shawl, and
displayed the face of the convict woman who had sought refuge in Mrs.
Kane's flat. The face was dry-eyed and hard.

The policeman on the beat rang the bell of the Florence Mission at two
o'clock on Sunday morning, and waited until Mother Pringle had
unbolted the door. "One for you," he said briefly, and pointed toward
the bedraggled shape that crouched in the corner. It was his day off,
and he had no time to trouble with prisoners. The matron drew a corner
of the wet shawl aside and took one cold hand. She eyed it
attentively; there was a wedding ring upon it.

"Why, child," she said, "you'll catch your death of cold. Come right
in. Girls, give a hand."

Two of the women inmates half led, half carried her in, and the bolts
shut out Bleecker Street once more. They led her to the dormitory,
where they took off her dress and shawl, heavy with the cold rain. The
matron came bustling in; one of the girls spoke to her aside. She
looked sharply at the newcomer.

"Mamie Anderson!" she said. "Well, of all things! Where have you been
all this while? Yes, I know," she added soothingly, as the stranger
made a sign to speak. "Never mind; we'll talk about it to-morrow. Go
to sleep now and get over it."

But though bathed and fed and dosed with bromide,--bromide is a
standard prescription at the Florence Mission,--Mamie Anderson did not
get over it. Bruised and sore fro