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wretched than yourself, in the hope that it will make you well again.’—I remember the words very clearly, because they were so gross, and yet came so close to the truth, that I heard them and blushed. ‘Well,’ she went on, ‘you may look at me, I am wretched enough. All the world may look at me, it is part of my punishment.’ She had grown proud again. I said something to the effect that I hoped my visits might serve to ease the harshness of her punishment, not add to it; and she answered at once—as she had before—that she didn’t need me to comfort her. That she had many friends, who came to comfort her whenever she required it.
    I stared at her. ‘You have friends,’ I said, ‘here?’ She closed her eyes, and made a theatrical kind of pass at the front of her brow. ‘I have friends, Miss Prior,’ she answered, ‘ here .’
    I had forgotten about this. Now, remembering it, I felt my cheek grew cool again. She sat with her eyes quite shut; I think I waited until she had opened them and then I said, ‘You are a spiritualist. Miss Craven told me as much.’ Here she tilted her head a little. I said, ‘So, the friends that visit you, they are—spirit-friends?’ She nodded. ‘And they come to you—when?’
    There are spirit-friends about us always, she said.
    ‘Always?’ I think I smiled. ‘Even now? Even here?’
    Even now. Even there. They only ‘did not choose to show themselves,’ she said; or perhaps ‘had not the power . . .’
    I looked about me. I remembered the suicide—Jane Samson—on Mrs Pretty’s ward, her air turned thick with swirling motes of coir. Is that how Dawes believes her cell to be—teeming, like that, with spirits? I said, ‘But your friends find the power, when they wish to?’—She said they draw it from her. ‘And then you see them, quite plainly?’ She said sometimes they only speak. ‘Sometimes I only hear the words, here.’ Again she placed a hand upon her brow.
    I said, ‘They visit you, perhaps, when you are working?’—She shook her head. She said they come when the wards are quiet and she is at rest.
    ‘And they are kind to you?’
    She nodded: ‘Very kind. They bring me gifts.’
    ‘Really.’ Now I certainly smiled. I said, ‘They bring you gifts. Spirit-gifts?’
    Spirit-gifts—she shrugged. Earth-gifts . . .
    Earth gifts! Such as . . .?
    ‘Such as, flowers,’ she said. ‘Sometimes a rose. Sometimes, a violet—’
    She said that, and a gate slammed somewhere on the ward, and I jumped, though she stayed steady. She had watched me smile, and only gazed levelly at me; and she had spoken simply, almost carelessly, as if it was nothing to her what I thought of her claims. Now, with that one word, she might have put a pin to me—I blinked, and felt my face grow stiff. How could I say that I had stood and studied her, all secretly, and seen her hold a flower to her mouth? I had tried to account for that flower then, and could not; I believe I quite forgot it between last week and to-day. I looked away from her, saying, ‘Well—’, and then, again, ‘Well—’, and finally, with a ghastly kind of sham jollity, ‘Well, let us hope Miss Haxby does not hear about your visitors! She will think it hardly a punishment, if you are here, receiving guests—’
    Not a punishment? she answered quietly then. Did I think that anything could make her punishment less? Did I think that, who had a lady’s life, and had seen how they must live there, how they must work, what they must wear, and eat? ‘To have the matron’s eye,’ she said, ‘forever on you—closer, closer than wax! To be forever in need of water and of soap. To forget words, common words, because your habits are so narrow you need only know a hundred hard phrases— stone, soup, comb, Bible, needle, dark, prisoner, walk, stand still, look sharp, look sharp! To lie sleepless—not as I should say you lie sleepless, in your bed with a fire by it, with your family and your—your