a dying girl in one of the cells in the smaller dormitory. She's
spitting blood something dreadful, and she's so bad. Bad and all as
some of us are, we're scared the way she goes on. Her language is just
awful! She never comes out to the services, yet she's been here for
months. Says she has no use for 'them hypocrites,' and 'don't want none
of 'em near her.' Says she'll curse 'em if they do come. Say, Mother
Roberts, couldn't you make some excuse to get into her cell? We haven't
the heart to see her deliberately go to hell."

For a few minutes silence reigned, whilst I thought and inwardly
prayed. Then I felt it to be of the Lord to carry out an impression to
walk quietly into her cell as though by mistake, trusting the Divine
Director for results....

Propped up in one corner of her bunk, wrapped in grey blankets,
reclined a hollow-eyed, ghastly-looking girl, gasping for breath. Some
blood was trickling from the corners of her mouth. She glared at me,
tried to speak, but failed. Quickly I took out my handkerchief, dipped
it into the granite ewer close by, and wiped her poor face and mouth;
then she whispered, "Again." Repeatedly this was done, the Spirit of
God all this time impressing me not to utter one word aloud, yet giving
me a wonderful, most blessed realization of his presence and power.
After I had made her as comfortable as surroundings would admit, she
presently slept. Then I quietly tip-toed out; exacted a promise from
her companions not to reveal my identity, which promise they faithfully
kept, though under difficulties; had a conference with Mrs. Kincaid,
the matron; then went away.

I returned the following morning and for four more consecutive days.
Still the dear Lord did not permit me to speak. On Friday afternoon as