Down in the depths of those prison mines many a terrible scene took place at which humanity shuddered. Once huddled under ground and sealed in with the massive iron bars that crossed that small trap-door, little care was needed for the safety of the prisoners. So, like wild cattle hustled into a pound, they were left to their own vicious instincts, and those often led to riot and revolt. Sometimes the terrible monotony of this life was broken by a new gang of prisoners, who, shocked and outraged in every manly feeling by the degradation heaped upon them, fiercely resisted the rules which levelled them below the common brutes of the field, and, like wild animals just lassoed on the prairies, turned fiercely upon their tormentors. Cases of horrible cruelty often occurred in the prison; Katharine knew of it only from the fierce noises that echoed through her cell at night, and by the frightened faces that passed before her during the next day. It was enough to shock the most hardened human soul, to know that any of those terrible means of punishment, invented as the curse of our prisons, was in progress. The very idea was enough to drive the blood from Katharine's heart. But she was helpless—had not even the power of protest—all she could do was to turn her pitying eyes on the poor wretch when his sufferings were over, and thus prove that compassion existed even in that terrible place. Usually these scenes of punishment ended in the hospital, then her sweet ministry made itself deeply felt, and many a hard heart yielded itself to her kindness which the most bitter correction had failed to reach.

Something of this kind had just transpired in the prison. A new convict had been sent in from the courts, and his first resistance of the prison laws had been met with unusual rigor. That night Katharine heard low groans, but no cries followed the crack of the lash, which fell so sharply and lasted so long that every nerve in her body quivered and shrunk with that keen sympathy which made the anguish of a fellow-creature her own.

She arose in the morning literally sore at heart, wounded with more tender anxiety than had ever affected her before regarding the man who had borne those awful lashes so bravely. Her duties for a time lay under ground, where much of the prison work was done. She went about them with a heavy heart. The damp, the close atmosphere, and absence of all sunlight deepened the despondency that had seized upon her. In these subterraneous vaults is a vast oven, in which the prisoners' bread was baked, and here her duties for the morning were appointed. A woman stood before this oven casting wood into the red caverns of fire that glowed behind the rolling smoke. The woman paused with a huge stick of pitch pine half lifted to the oven, and balancing it a moment in her hands, she cast it to the earth, and sitting down upon it began to cry.

Katharine advanced that moment, and touched her on the arm.

"I can't—I can't! Whip me, if you like—put me in with him, but I can't do it!"

The woman evidently thought it one of the keepers, who had watched her rebellious movement. Katharine bent over her.

"What is the matter, Jones? It is only I. Can I help you?"

The woman looked up, relieved by the voice.

"No," she said, heavily. "It is the old story. You heard the lash last night—it kept us all awake. It is a new prisoner they are breaking in; a handsome, fine fellow; but he stood them out like a lion, and now—"

The woman paused and looked toward the oven with a sort of terror in her eyes.

"And now—oh! Jane, is he dead?" whispered Katharine. "Did they kill him?"

The woman pointed to a narrow door built close to the mouth of the oven, and whispered—

"He is in there!"

Katharine recoiled.

"In there, and that fire raging so; God have mercy upon us! it is death!" "No, not always; not often, I think," answered the woman; "but I never did this work before. The sweat oven has not been used in my time till now. It's awful!"

A smothered moan, which rose above the roar and crackle of the fire, curdled the very blood in Katharine's veins.

"What is it? What is the horrible thing they are doing?" she cried, wildly. "What is that place?"

"You see the door—how narrow it is—a poor creature can hardly push through. Inside, it is just as narrow; stone walls pressing close up against the wretch, heated from the oven hot as life can bear."

"Oh, my God, my God, is this thing true?" cried Katharine, cowering down, and covering her face with both hands.

"I wont heap on the wood," cried the woman, bitterly. "They haven't the power to make me."

"Hush, hush; some one is coming."

It was a keeper to whom the terrible punishment had been entrusted. Katharine rose slowly to her feet and stood before him, her hands clasped, and the pale anguish of her face revealed by the fire light, which illuminated the darkness all around them.

"What are you women talking about? Go to your work, Katharine Allen."

She could not speak, but fell upon her knees, beseeching him with those wild eyes.

"What is all this about?" said the man, softening his voice.

"She wants you to let that poor man out—that's it," answered the woman, resting both elbows on her knees, and looking up from her seat on the wood. "She knows it aint human to treat any of God's creatures in this way, and wants to tell you so, only them groans has frightened the soul out of her body."

The man looked down at the young creature kneeling at his feet, and a shade of sympathy swept over his face.

"Get up," he said, almost kindly. "I have just come to see about him. This sort of thing don't gibe with my feelings more than it does with yours, but the fellow was obstinate as a mule—wanted a little of the proud blood sweated out of him, and I reckon he's got enough of it by this time."

"Oh, be quick, be quick, or he may die!" cried Katharine, gaining her voice. "How faint the moans are! Open the door! open the door!—hear how his poor hands beat against it!"

"Well, go away—this is no place for you. Run to the well, and have some water dipped up ready. They always make a dive for that first."

Katharine sprang to her feet, and darting across the space illuminated by the oven, made her way toward the well, which gushed out pure and crystalline in the depths of the mine, the only untainted thing in those subterranean regions. An iron lamp swung in the walls of the cavern near this outgush of pure water, which turned all the wavelets it touched to gold.

This was the spot to which the prisoners came when athirst, like cattle to a spring; and to this place, as the keeper truly said, the man who had suffered from the flames of that hot oven would surely come.

Katharine took an iron dipper, which was chained to the stones of the well, and filling it with water, held it till the weight bore down her hand, then she filled it once more from the centre of the well, and again held it ready. This time she had not long to wait, for she saw a human figure coming through the darkness with desperate effort, but slow progress—making futile attempts at speed, and giving broken leaps that brought him reeling and staggering every instant against the sides of the cavern.

Katharine poured out the water, and dipped it up afresh, as if that little effort could make it cooler. She would have gone forward to meet the man, but the chain would not permit it, and thus she stood waiting till he came up. He saw the vessel in her hand, dripping over with a rain of cool drops, and seizing upon it before she could look up, drained it off in wild, greedy haste.

"More! more!" he cried, dropping the dipper, and sweeping the perspiration from his face. "More! more!"

Katharine plunged the dipper into the well again. He would have snatched it from her but she lifted it to his lips. In this position the lamp-light fell upon her face. She dropped the iron vessel from between her two hands, as he fell forward with his face to the earth. She did not breathe—for her life she could not have uttered a sound—but dropping on her knees beside the prostrate man, she lifted his head from the earth. The light lay full upon his face. His eyes looked piteously into hers. She drew him up to her bosom; with the folds of her prison dress she wiped the rain of perspiration from his forehead and left tender kisses in its place; soft words came to her lips, tears swelled into her eyes; she had but one thought—holy thanksgiving to Heaven.

Directly the keeper came up, wondering that his victim should remain so long at the well. "Halloo!" he said, "what is this? I thought you were half dead, my fine fellow!"

Katharine looked up; her face was radiant, and yet a tender pity beamed there.

"Hush!" she said; "he is my husband."

The keeper gave a prolonged whistle that echoed mournfully through the caverns, but Katharine repeated:

"Yes, it is my husband."

Thrasher did not speak, but she felt him trembling in her arms; his head rested more heavily on her bosom; he scarcely breathed.

The keeper felt some gleams of sympathy swelling in his bosom. With him Katharine had always been a favorite. He took compassion on her now.

"Poor fellow! he has had a tough job of it," he said; "weak as a kitten—why, see how he trembles; I'll just go to the warden and have him sent up to the hospital, where you can tend him till he picks up again."

Katharine smiled gratefully, and they were left alone, the woman and her husband. She bent down and kissed him.

"Nelson, my husband, speak one word—say that you know me."

He whispered hoarsely, "Yes, Katharine, I know you."

"And love me yet?"

The proud man was shorn of his strength, and burst into tears. When the keeper returned, her hand was locked in that of her husband. He was talking to her in a feeble voice, broken with grief; telling her things which made even that dark place still darker—of his unfaithfulness and its stern retribution. His heart was broken up, he kept nothing back. His crimes were great, but the record was given in few words, saddening the poor wife, who had been so happy a moment before, in spite of her bonds. She heard him through, wondering that so much of joy should lie underneath these facts, and whispering to herself: "He will be here seven years, and I with him. Oh, how much can be done in seven years!"

The keeper had compassion on them; he led Thrasher away to that portion of the prison devoted to the sick, and there the heaven of Katharine's convict life grew bright, for she saw the path of her duty clear, and knew, in her soul, that a holy work lay in her hands, a work of comfort and regeneration, which should lead her husband into the sunlight again.

She forgave him from the depths of her own pure heart; she forgave him all the wrong he had done, and all the hopes he had destroyed. Her care, her gentleness, and the holy faith that pervaded her words and acts, had its effect on this iron-hearted man. I cannot describe that which is beyond words, or tell how this gentle martyr reached the stern man's heart; but it softened day by day under her patient tending, and when he went back to the dreary duties of those prison mines, it was with a changed aspect. She had taught him, not only how beautiful a thing human love is, but through that most sacred of earthly feelings, led him to the holy source of all love, all honor, all the glory of life.

And so, as the years of their imprisonment wore on, these two people bore their fate with something better than mere resignation. They were content to work out the duties before them, feeling it recompense enough if they could smile on each other in passing down to their places of rest, or exchange a word of comfort and encouragement now and then by the well, where they had first met.

Do not pity these people overmuch; where true love and faith exists, there is little need of compassion. Out of the depths of his penitence sprang up that perfect love which makes a heaven of any place. As for Katharine, was not her prison life made bright and beautiful. What was seven years of toil, hunger, and thirst to her if it redeemed the husband who had been lost?