And yesterday had been Christmas Day in the metropolis of Christendom.
Hours passed, and the kindly magistrate sat on apportioning punishment, fitting the sentence as it were by instinct.

At two o'clock he rose for a short recess, a hasty luncheon, and then back to his task.
At the end of the long procession came a smitten woman.

Darkness and fog now enveloped the court as the woman stood in the dock.

Her age was given as twenty-eight; her occupation pickle-making.

First let me picture that woman and then tell her story, for she represents a number of women into whose forlorn faces I have looked and of whose hopeless hearts I have an intimate knowledge.
Some men have conquered evil habits, helped by the love of a pure woman, without which they would have vainly struggled or have readily succumbed.