loaf. Conquering his hesitation, he was on the point of going forth, when his landlady came up and told him that a young girl wished to see him. It was Amy Hewett, and her face told him on what errand she had come.
“Mr. Kirkwood,” she began, looking up with embarrassment, for he was all but a stranger to her now, “mother wants to know if you’d come and see her. She’s very bad; they’re afraid she’s”
The word was choked. Amy had been crying, and the tears again rose to her eyes.
“I was just coming,” Sidney answered, as he took her hand and pressed it kindly.
They crossed Wilmington Square and descended by the streets that slope to Pentonville Prison. The cellar in which John Hewett and his family were housed was underneath a milk-shop; Amy led the way down stone steps from the pavement of the street into an area, where more than two people would have had difficulty in standing together. Sidney saw that the window which looked upon this space was draped with a
