The man led him down the corridor and a flight of steps to the visitors’ room, which was barred like a cell. Through the grating Jurgis could see someone sitting in a chair; and as he came into the room the person started up, and he saw that it was little Stanislovas. At the sight of someone from home the big fellow nearly went to pieces⁠—he had to steady himself by a chair, and he put his other hand to his forehead, as if to clear away a mist. “Well?” he said, weakly.

Little Stanislovas was also trembling, and all but too frightened to speak. “They⁠—they sent me to tell you⁠—” he said, with a gulp.

“Well?” Jurgis repeated.

He followed the boy’s glance to where the keeper was standing watching them. “Never mind that,” Jurgis cried, wildly. “How are they?”

“Ona is very sick,” Stanislovas said; “and we are almost starving. We can’t get along; we thought you might be able to help us.”