"Oh, yes, ma'am, I understand it now. I have seen gentlemen often mad

after women. I suppose little Katy, then, is his child."

"Oh, no, Bridget, you are all wrong. She is not his child."

"Oh, well, ma'am, then, I suppose, she is somebody's else child. And if

her mother is an interesting woman, I don't see as there is anything so

very wrong about the matter. What am I all wrong about, ma'am?"

"Little Katy is dead."

"Oh, is she? I am sure then I am very sorry. Can I do anything about

helping to get her ready to be buried?"

"No, she was buried long ago. You may see her grave some day in

Greenwood Cemetery."

"I don't see, then, what was the gentleman's great hurry, if nobody is

sick and nobody to be buried."

"Perhaps the mother is sick--perhaps in want--perhaps some unknown

power has drawn him to her assistance. I have seen stranger things than

that. This is a strange world."

"Indeed it is, ma'am. And there is a strange noise in the street." And

she looked from the window.

"What can it be, Bridget, there is a crowd around our area fence, and

see, there is a woman under the steps by the basement door. Go down and

see what is the matter. Are you afraid? Well then, I will go with you;

it is somebody that a parcel of brutal men and boys are persecuting. No

matter who, or what she is, she is a woman, and should be protected."

So down they went and she said to them, "Oh men, men, where is your

manhood, thus to hunt a woman through the streets? Have you forgotten

that mothers bore you in pain into this world? Have you no daughters, no

sisters, are you savages--wolves--is this a lamb or stricken deer, that

ye trail by her bloody track?"

"No, ma'am," said a bull pup looking boy, "she is drunk, and we is just

having a little fun with her, that is all."

God of mercy! Didst thou make man in thine own image, and yet leave him

void of that heavenly attribute--mercy! Why, "a merciful man is merciful

to his beast," and yet these images of their Maker hunt this poor woman

through the streets of a Christian city, as savages hunt tigers through

the jungles of Africa--for fun. What for? "She is drunk." A potent

reason, surely. Who made her so? How came she drunk? Who is she, what is

she? No matter, she is a woman, in distress at a woman's door, and she

must, she shall be protected. There is a commotion in the crowd. The

human blood-hounds are about to lose their prey--They want more _fun_.

"Bring her out Bill, never mind the women--it is none of their

business--bring her out and let us see her run again. She is a real

'2.40' nag."

And they shouted and screamed like so many wild Indians.

What but savages are they? True they had white skins and Christian

clothes, and spoke the language of a civilized nation, and dwelt in "one

of the first cities in the world." Yet they pursued a poor, young,

helpless female, like a hunted hare through the streets, and now press

hard upon her two protectors; one a delicate, sickly lady, the other a

timid servant girl, with a cry to Bill, the leader, to "bring her

out"--to drag her by force from where she has sunk down upon the very

threshold of a house which she hopes may offer her protection, yet she

dares not ask it. Shame has overcome her, she buries her face in her

hands as she sits crouched up in a corner, but neither looks up nor

speaks. The crowd press forward, the servant shrinks back, the lady

stands firm, with a determination to protect or perish.

Can she do it? What can a woman without strength, do against a pack of

loosened blood-hounds, already licking their chops with delight at the

sight of their prey?

"Drag her out, some of ye, down there, why don't ye," screamed a human

tiger, in the rear of the crowd; "don't mind that woman, she is no

better than the gal. Let me in and I'll bring her."

A strong hand is laid upon the poor girl's arm, and for the first time

she looks up, but ventures not a word. The look was enough. It appealed

to a woman's heart for protection--an appeal that never failed. How can

she protect the helpless with her feeble strength, against the brutal

force of rum crazed men and vicious boys, who shout, "drag her out, drag

her out."

Will they do it? They heed not the appealing look of their victim--their

object of sport--_fun_--fun for them, death to her. They heed not the

appealing words of her who would protect. God help you, poor soul, you

have drank wine--you are drunk in the streets at midnight--you have none

but those who are as weak as yourself, to save you, poor, timid,

stricken fawn.

"Drag her out, drag her out." How it rung in her ears! How those

terrible words went down into her soul!

Succor is at hand.

There was a shout, a yell, a horrid scream of anguish, a few hurried

oaths, a pushing, shoving, care-for-self-only struggle among the crowd,

as a shower of smoking water fell among them, and they were gone.

The lady turned her eyes, and there stood Mrs. McTravers, in her night

cap, pail in hand, her effective engine of war.

"Oh, Mrs. McTravers, how could you scald them?"

"Didn't they deserve it, the brutes?"

"Yes, yes; no, not so bad as that. I am afraid you have put out their

eyes."

"Oh, never fear that. Didn't I timper it, like 'the wind to the shorn

lamb,' just warm enough to wash the faces of the dirty spalpeens, and

give them a good fright? How the cowards did run. What were they afraid

of? I had spent all my ammunition in the first volley. This is nothing

but cold water, and that never hurt anybody. It is a pity the scurvy

dogs did not use more of it every day, and nothing else. They would

never chase poor girls through the streets, if they drank nothing but

water."

"Come, young woman, you can get up now and go home, if you have any to

go to, and if you have not, what are you going to do with yourself?"

"Why, Mrs. McTravers, we will take her in and put her to bed, and let

her sleep till morning."

"Take her in? What, take a common street-walker in to disgrace your

house?"

"Indeed, my dear, good, kind lady," said the object of their

conversation, now for the first time speaking. "I am no street-walker--I

am not what you take me for. Do not--pray do not, force me to go into

the street again to-night. Let me lay here on the door-sill till

daylight."

"Never! It shall never be said I refused to give shelter to one of my

own sex in distress, no matter what she is or has been. Mrs. McTravers,

she must have a bed in the house to-night."

"I should like to know then where you will find it. Every bed in the

house is full."

"I will give her mine then, and sleep myself on the floor."

"No, no, no, let me sleep on the floor--on the hearth--on the stones

in the back-yard, rather than go in the street again, but I won't sleep

in your bed."

"Well, well, come with me to my room. I will make you a bed on the

floor, and you shall sleep there."

"Sure, sure, Heaven will bless you; and if you knew all you would

forgive me, for I am not so bad as you think I am, or as that woman

thinks I am."

"Oh, never mind what she says, she has a good heart after all. Come,

come along with me."

"Did you ever see the like of it. She is going to take that thing to her

room, a miserable tramper; I dare say the house will be robbed before

morning. I will pick up the spoons, and lock all the closets, before I

go to bed again. Dear me, did anybody ever see such a woman as that? She

never sees a woman in rags, but she wants to pull off her shawl, and

give her. I dare say, she won't let this girl out of the house to-morrow

till she has all her draggled clothes washed and fixed up, and may be

then will send for a carriage to take her away. It is a great plague to

anybody to have such a tender heart. It is all the time getting them

into trouble.

"There, now I believe the silver is all safe, but mercy knows what will

become of this night's adventure. So much for getting drunk. What does

anybody want to get drunk for? There was McTravers, the brute, always

getting drunk. I am sure, I love a little bitters to clear my throat in

the morning, and a glass or two of wine at dinner, and a little hot

stuff as I am going to bed, but as for getting drunk--bah--I hate

anybody that gets drunk. Oh, dear, this night air, I wish I had not

wasted all the hot water on the drunken dogs, for I do feel as though I

wanted a dram now, and no more water--what will I do? I must take a

little cold, or I shall not sleep a wink to-night. Bah, how I hate

drunkards."

What for, Mrs. McTravers, why should you hate your own manufacture?

Let the reader reflect; there is a night before him.

When the curtain rises, we shall see what the author saw last night.

CHAPTER XV.

LITTLE KATY'S MOTHER.

"A true devoted pilgrim is not weary,

To measure kingdoms with his steps."

When Mrs. McTravers told me that Mrs. De Vrai had sent a message for me,

I was too weary to measure steps along a few blocks; but when I read

those three little magic words, weariness had gone. Bridget thought so

too. "He is gone, ma'am." Yes, he was gone, gone abroad at midnight with

a merry heart.

"A merry heart goes all day,

Your sad one tires in a mile."

A mile was soon told, and I felt no tiring. Up this step and that,

peering at the blind numbers on the doors; how could I tell one from the

other? The almanac said there should be moonshine at this hour, the

clouds and rain put in their veto. No matter, the almanac had said it,

and that was enough for the gas contractors. If the moon chose to get

behind a cloud, it was none of their look out. They would not light

their lamps, though darkness, thick, black darkness, spread over the

earth. Why should they? It was not in the bond. So the traveller plodded

on in the dark. How could one see the numbers? Not by city light, but

by city license. Here burns a "coffee-house" lamp, where rum alone is

sold. More improvident than his city fathers, this one lights up his

lamp, of dark, rainy nights, whether the moon is in the almanac, or city

fathers' brains. His number is plain enough. 'Tis an even number--I am

on the wrong side of the street. Now, cross over, and here is, 47, 49,

51, 53--this must be it, and yet it cannot be. It is a neat, two story,

brick house, with basement and attic, in a row of the same sort, in a

clean, wide street.

It is a very unlikely place for such a home as we have seen, for the

home of Little Katy's mother.

How, are we deceived again? It must be in the number; perhaps we can not

see it rightly by the dim glimmer of the grog-shop lamp. It is the first

glimmer that ever came from such a place to any good.

There is no bell, but there is an old-fashioned iron knocker upon the

door; shall I use it; what if it wakes up some strange sleeper and

brings a fever-heated night-capped angry head out of the upper window,

with hasty words, perhaps cross ones of "who is there?" I have no

familiar "it's me," to answer. No one will say, "wait a moment, dear,

and I will open the door."

All is still within. It were a pity to disturb the quiet sleepers for

nothing, nothing but the gratification of idle curiosity; to make the

inquiry if--if--Mrs. Mrs.--what was her name? Now that is gone--faded

from my memory as easily as it was washed away from that paper. Whom

could I inquire for? Should I inquire for "Little Katy's Mother?" I

should in all probability be told to go across the street and inquire

there, where I got my liquor, upon which to get drunk. Or else, perhaps,

to go home and inquire if my "mother knew that I was out;" or told that

she might happen to wake up, and find her green gosling of a son

gone--gone out in the street to inquire after little girls' mothers--no

doubt she would be much alarmed. It was well that the moon was veiled,

or else the man in it would have seen how sheepish I looked as I sneaked

down the steps, with a weary step, that could not have gone the half a

mile without tiring.

How I did rejoice that no watchman was in sight to see how crest-fallen

I went away and stood up in the shade of a lamp post! A few minutes

afterwards, I would have given gold for the sight of a brass star.

What for? Why did I not go home? What prompted me to keep watch at that

lamp post? My object in coming had failed. I had acted upon the

momentary spur of a nervous temperament, heated into a state of

excitement by what I had seen in the early part of the evening,

connected with some of the scenes of the last few weeks' exciting life,

which had driven me, without consideration, to start off chasing an

ignis fatuus, in the swampy, Jack o'lantern producing air of this city,

and it had led me here and left me leaning against a lamp post. Was ever

poor wight led into a deeper bog? "Go home," reason told us. If the lamp

post had been a repelling magnet, I should have gone. It was the

contrary, and I could not break the attraction.

That iron lamp post may possess a very strong magnetic power, yet it is

hardly possible, or probable--nay, it is very improbable that it was

that power which had drawn me hither and kept me waiting "coming

events."

They do "cast their shadows before," for the shadow, and then the

substance of a man came round the corner. Like half of those who walk

the streets at this hour, he was drunk. Just then there was a moving

light in No. 53. The intoxicated night-walker caught the sight of it

just as he came opposite the lamp post, and he stopped and laughed one

of those horrid laughs, which give the blood a chill and send it with a

pang and fluttering fear to the heart.

The last sad remains of a gentlemen--no--a roue, stood in the dim light

of a lamp which had been to him the guide to ruin.

"Ha, ha, ha, my old bird, you are astir I see. It is a long time since I

have seen you, but I have caged you at last. You would not speak to me,

ha, in Broadway, but I tracked you home, and now I am going to roost in

the old nest, or I will blow you out of your fine feathers, my lady.

Won't let me in? Won't let me in? Then I will break in. Hold, here comes

a star. I'll keep dark while it shines." Back he went around the corner,

the star went carelessly onward down that way, and I went

eaves-dropping. I was impelled to do it. I saw a light come in the front

room and heard voices, and felt that there was some strange connection

between this house and that man, and perhaps myself, and that the

mystery must soon be solved.

The blinds were closed, but the sash was up. I stood close under the

window, and the voices dropped down upon my ear through the slats, clear

and distinct as though I had been in the room.

The light-bearer with a noiseless step, as though afraid of awaking some

sick sleeper, approached a bed, shading the light with her hand.

It was no use. The timid start easy. There was a rustling-sound, as

though some one started up from an uneasy pillow and sleep-disturbing

dreams.

"Will he come?"

That voice, those words. Do I dream, or are there spirits near? Oh, how

familiar--how painfully familiar--reminiscential of things past. What

can it mean? But one voice ever spoke those words in that tone, and that

voice will never speak again. The dreamer is in the street. It is my

brain that is disturbed. Hark! Again! I heard aright.

"Oh, no, he will not come. Why should he? What am I to him? Yet I wanted

to see him a moment. It seems as though it is he only who can protect me

from that dreaded man. Oh, Phebe, Phebe, what should we do if he were to

come here to-night? He has sworn to have revenge upon me for leaving

him; yet how could I live with a man who threatened my life every day in

his drunken fits? Long after I went to Paris, he wrote to me that he

would rob me of my child--his child, if he died in the attempt. I long

thought--nay, hoped that he was--that is, that he never would return

from Cuba. I heard of him in the dungeons of the Moro, and now he is

here."

"Yes, ma'am, I is sure he is here. Dat am de fact. Jis sich man, stout,

red face, black hair, and such eyes. I is sure he is a wicked man."

"Only when he is drinking."

"Well, dat all de time wid some folk."

There was a groan of anguish in the bed.

"But, Phebe, you describe his looks just as I saw them to-day. Have you

seen him?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am--thought I wouldn't tell you though--but it come out

when I didn't know him."

"Where? Has he been here? Has he tracked me home?"

"Why, you see, ma'am, when I goes to the door to let Agnes Brentnall

out, I sees him over the way, by de lamp, and when she goes down the

street, he walks after her, and dat am last I see of him dis night."

"Poor girl, then she is lost. If ever he fixes his basalisk eye upon her

beauty, how can she escape. Poor girl--God protect thee--man will not."

There was a sobbing that told of tears--tears that told of a kind heart,

crushed by a cold and careless world.

Then I was about to enter, but something said, "not yet," and I stepped

down into the shadow by the high steps, till the footfall I heard upon

the pavement should go by.

It did not pass--it came directly up to the door, familiar as a burglar

with its night latch key. Why had they not bolted the door? It opened

as though to one who had a right to enter. The intruder--it was the

dark-visaged man I had seen five minutes before--closed the door gently

after him without latching it.

There was a thin lace curtain before the window, through which, as I

looked in between the slats of the blind, I could see him as he

approached the bed. Phebe had left the light and gone into the back

room. The lady had buried her face in the pillows--nothing but her raven

locks, hanging loose in her neck, were visible. The villain looked at

her for a moment, then, satisfied that she was asleep, he reached over

her, and lifted a beautiful little girl from her side.

"Mother! mother!"

The light shone in her face--the mother started at the appealing cry

for help--sprang up--Heavens, what do we see? It is little

Sissee--Little Katy's sister and her mother!

What a sight for that mother! The man she so much dreaded--the man who

had so disturbed her dreams--with her child, her last, her only child,

in his strong arms, and no one near to protect, to save.

She sprang towards him, and fixed her feeble hands in his hair. Of what

avail? He flung her from him reeling, fainting, across the room. The

noise brought the faithful Phebe from her couch--too late. The mother

saw her child disappearing in the dark passage--she heard her screams

for help--she heard no more. One look of his terrible eye, as he bore

away her struggling child, was enough to kill one of a stronger form

than hers. One look of satisfied revenge--revenge of a man upon a

feeble woman, and his hand is upon the door. One step more and he is in

the street. One step more and he fell, beneath a blow of a stout cane in

a strong man's hand, and lay trembling across that threshold, quivering

like a bullock felled by the butcher's blow.

[Illustration: A NEW YORK STREET SCENE.--_Page 341._]

"Here, Phebe, take the child; take care of the mother; tell her all is

safe; the Lord watches over the truly penitent; he will protect; he will

save."

I dragged the unconscious mass of human flesh down upon the pavement,

and struck three sharp blows upon the stones, with the broken

cane--broken in avenging a feeble woman. It was answered right and left,

up and down, and again repeated. I peered into the darkness for the

coming succor.

Will it come? Will it come in time? For a strong hand has seized my only

weapon, now he has it in his. There is a momentary struggle--the

prostrate man is up and the other one down.

A large Bowie knife, the midnight prowler's fashionable weapon, is

gleaming at my throat. A moment more, and all my debts were paid and

duties done.

Moments fleet fast, but all too slow for the assassin's knife, when it

is not the will of Him that giveth life, that life should fail. The

knife fell, but not with a blow--it fell from a broken arm.

The watchman's club had done the work. The watchman had heard the call,

and had come in time to save the avenger and punish the assassin.

"Take him away. You know me and where to send when I am wanted. I have

another life to save inside this house."

What was said or done need not be told. The reader is dull of divining

power, if he does not already know. I cannot tell. I only know that I

awaked from a short nap, next morning, in an easy chair, with a sweet

little girl, some three years old, clinging her arms around my neck and

nestling her cheek up to mine. Had mortal ever sweeter dreams?

"What time is it, Phebe?"

"Don't know dat, sir; sun up yonder."

"Is it? And she sleeps quietly? Very well, let her sleep. I will send a

doctor, on my way home, to look at her. Good by. Bon jour, Sis. One more

kiss, there."

"You will come again, when mamma wakes up?"

"Yes--Good bye."

CHAPTER XVI.

AGNES BRENTNALL.

"Every inordinate cup is unblessed, and the ingredient is a

devil."

So it proved that night to Agnes Brentnall. But who is she? That we have

yet to learn.

We have only heard the name once, during the conversation, between

Madame De Vrai and the black woman, Phebe, overheard in that

eaves-dropping midnight scene described in the last chapter, unless this

Agnes is the same one that we saw in a previous midnight scene, Perhaps

it is, for now we remember there was a Phebe in that. At any rate that

name, from both of these night scenes, had become deeply impressed upon

my mind, as belonging to a beautiful girl, followed in the street by a

night-prowling wolf, with a canine instinct which snuffs in the breeze

the far-off scent that leads him to some wandering female.

Mrs. De Vrai had said; "Then she is lost."

What had become of her? Had the woman-devouring monster consumed the

innocent girl and come back for more prey? He will prey no more, soon;

he has met his deserts at last. The stony walls of the Tombs' prison,

will hold him safe, and when he recovers from his broken arm, the law

will have its course. He will make a good Sing Sing worker in stone. It

will not break his heart, for it is as hard as the stone he will hammer.

But what of poor Agnes? Would that I knew. Did she fall before his

basalisk eye? Such thoughts were upon my mind as I entered the door of

the house I called my home, after such a night of strange adventures as

I have just made the reader acquainted with.

"Where have you been?" was the anxious question that met me as I

entered.

"What in the world took you out and kept you out all night? Did you find

that woman? How is she? Is anything the matter? I do think you might

write quite a romance out of your adventures."

There is no occasion to write romance, it is only necessary to give the

real pictures of life--real scenes as they occur in New York, to make up

a volume more strange than wildest romance.

"Where have I been? Where I saw strange sights. Where it does seem as

though some mysterious influence led me, to meet with another

adventure."

"You might have had one at home, sufficiently interesting, I should

think. A young girl, wickedly made drunk, for the basest

purpose on earth--'tis a horrid tale--you shall hear it by and

by--unprotected--alone in the street, at midnight--staggering to and

fro, chased like a dog by a crowd of boys and half-drunken men, taking

refuge in our basement area, within ten minutes after you left the

house."

"You took her in? Yes, yes; I see, I see--a heavenly deed produces a

heavenly smile."

What was it shot through my brain? A thought. A strange thought. What

could have sent it there. Is it true? We shall see.

"What is her name?--where is she? You have not sent her away?"

"You shall see--come up-stairs. She is not up yet. She has been

distressingly sick--she is better now, almost well, though very feeble.

The doctor says, she was poisoned."

"No doubt, if drunk, of course she was. Every drop of

drunkenness-producing liquor is poison, of the most subtle kind--slow,

but sure."

She was still in bed. Her kind protector had furnished her with a clean,

white bed-gown and cap, and a prettier face, indicating about sixteen or

seventeen years, never looked up smilingly from a downy pillow.

"She is very pale now. She vomited terribly all the latter part of the

night. Her color will soon come again."

"Oh, yes, ma'am, I feel quite well now. Do let me get up and dress

myself, and go home--I cannot bear to be a trouble to you any longer.

Oh, sir, she has been a mother to me--more than a mother--if I had such

a mother----."

"Well, well, my girl, never mind now. You cannot get up yet. You must

keep quiet to-day. To-morrow, we will see you safe home."

"Oh, sir, I cannot possibly wait till to-morrow. What will Mrs. Meltrand

think?"

"She shall know all about it before night."

"Oh, no, no, no! not all, not all! I should die with shame."

"Well, then, only that you have been to see a friend, and was taken very

sick."

"Yes, I have been to see a friend, a dear friend, a poor unfortunate

woman. Indeed, I must get up. She is sicker than I am, and besides, I

promised to go, too, and see a friend for her. It is a gentleman that

she thinks a great deal of, sir,--one who was very kind to her when she

was very bad, and lived very miserably, and she thinks he was sent by

Providence to save her from total ruin. That, sir, was before her little

daughter died. Did you ever read about that, sir? it was published in

'the New York Tribune.'"

"I do not know; that paper publishes so many stories. I read the most of

them. Then, you want to see Mr. Greeley. You need not go there for that,

you can----"

"Oh, are you Mr. Greeley, then?"

"No, but I shall see him soon, and I will tell him what you want. If it

is to assist some poor distressed widow, you may depend upon it, he will

do all he can afford, for he is a good man; his worst enemies

acknowledge that."

"No, sir, it is not Mr. Greeley, that I am to go and see, it is another

gentleman in the office of his paper."

"Who is it? What is his name? I know all of the gentlemen in that

office; I can take your message to any one of them, and will do so with

pleasure. Is it Mr. Dana? he is the next principal editor to Mr.

Greeley."

"No, that is not the name. I cannot recollect it, now. But he is one of

the editors."

"One of the editors! Why, my girl, that paper has a dozen editors.

Perhaps, it is one of the assistants. Is it Mr. Cleveland?--no--Mr.

Snow?--no--Mr. Fry, Mr. Thayer?--no--Mr. Ripley?--no--Mr. Ottarson?"

"No, I think not, but that sounds something like it."

"Why, my dear girl, there are a hundred men, editors, reporters,

compositors, pressmen, book-keepers, and all, in that office; now, how

are you going to find one that you do not know, and say you have

forgotten his name?"

"May be I shall recollect it when I get there. Don't you know how names

come back to us sometimes? Do you never forget names?"

"Often, but I never forget faces. I have seen yours before, but I have

forgotten where, just as you have forgotten that gentleman's name."

"Oh, sir, have you? well, I do not remember your face, but it does seem

as though I had heard your voice, and, perhaps, if the room was not so

dark, I should know you. The lady said, I must keep it dark, and sleep

this morning. It is no wonder that I should forget everything, I was so

badly frightened last night."

"Well, I don't see how you are to find which one you wish to see, among

so many, unless you can recollect his name."

"Oh, that will be easy enough, sir. I will ask one of the gentlemen. I

am sure any one of them will tell me, for I am sure they are all

gentlemen, real gentlemen."

"I do not see what it is that you are to inquire for, or who, or now to

find, out which one, or anything about it."

"Oh, sir, it is the one that wrote that little story about her

daughter."

"Her daughter?"

"Yes, sir, Mrs. De Vrai's daughter."

A light began to dawn in my mind, and I said carelessly, "her daughter?"

"Yes, sir, her daughter. Little Katy, in that pretty story of Hot Corn.

She is Little Katy's mother, sir, and she wants to see the gentleman

that wrote that story. She did not know his name until yesterday. She

thought it was Mr. Greeley, and he was out of town, and she had never

seen him since Little Katy was buried, and she had moved away from where

she used to live, without letting him know where she was. Yesterday she

found out her mistake, and sent Phebe--you laugh--do you know Phebe?"

"Yes, yes, I know Phebe, and I know you now; I know you for a

kind-hearted, good-natured girl. Your name is Agnes."

"Oh, yes, sir, has Mrs. Morgan told you."

Now the reader is surprised. Yes, it is Mrs. Morgan--Athalia. It was she

that faced the crowd of savages that cried "drag her out." It was she

that took poor Agnes in and gave up her own bed, and nursed and watched

her all night, and sent for a physician for her. It was Agnes, the girl

that you have seen in the picture with the negro wood-sawyer, and at his

home when Phebe divided her bed to give the poor girl a lodging. There

is some goodness yet in human nature. It was Phebe that Agnes went to

see, while nursing Mrs. De Vrai. It was the latter for whom she was now

so anxious to get up out of her sick bed, that she might go and tell the

gentleman who wrote the story of "Little Katy," that Little Katy's

mother was almost dying to see him. It was by that token that she would

find him.

"Did Mrs. Morgan tell you my name."

"No, she has not told me; you told me that a long time ago."

"Me, sir? Do you know me, sir?"

"Yes, better than you do me. You have forgotten the gentleman that

stopped you in the street one night with old Peter?"

"Oh, dear me; yes, no, not forgotten, but I did not remember. Oh, oh,

how singular that I should come right here to this house, where you

live, and this dear good lady lives. Oh, I wish I was good; but I am not

a good girl. Oh, sir, has this lady told you how bad I was last night?

But it was not all my fault, sir. If you only know, what a poor

unfortunate girl I have been--but sir, upon my word, I have not been

what folks call a _bad_ girl."

"We believe you. There, don't cry, keep yourself quiet to-day, and we

hope to see you quite smart this evening."

"Oh, do let me go and find that gentleman, for Mrs. De Vrai. If you only

knew what a good lady she is now, now she don't drink any more. But I am

afraid she won't live very long. She has got a dreadful cough. And she

was worse last night, for she saw somebody in the street

yesterday--some man--a bad man--I believe they are all bad--no, no, I

don't mean all--but a good many of them."

"I am glad that the sight of bad men in the street, don't make every

lady sick who sees one; if it did we might turn the whole city into a

general hospital. But what about that man?"

"I don't know what, but she was dreadful 'fraid of him, and that he

would come where she lives."

"So he did, but he will not come again, soon."

"Then you know him, too?"

"Yes. And that is not all I know. I know you left Mrs. De Vrai's last

night about half-past nine o'clock, on your way home; that soon after

you started you were overtaken by a stout-built gentleman, with black

hair and black whiskers, who said, 'Good evening, Miss, how did you

leave Mrs. De Vrai, this evening?'"

"Mercy on me, his exact words. Did you hear them? I am sure I did not

see anybody else near us at the time."

"No, I did not hear him--was not in that part of the city."

"He has told you then. I am sure I never did."

"No, neither have told me."

"What then?"

"What then? why, then you answered, 'Oh, sir, are you acquainted with

Mrs. De Vrai?'"

"So I did; why how strange that you should know it all."

"And then he began to talk to you about the danger of such a pretty girl

going home alone--"

"Yes, sir, and then he offered me his arm; and, and, and I thought as he

was a friend of Mrs. De Vrai's I might take it, and he said so many

pretty things that----"

"That you were deceived by a villain, and----"

"Oh, sir, for mercy sake don't tell all before this dear good lady, she

who saved my life last night. Don't tell all."

"Why, Agnes, I cannot tell all. How do you suppose I know all?"

"I don't know, sir, but I am sure you do. What is it makes you know it;

is it what they call animal magnetism, or what is it? Are you a medium?"

"Yes, I hope so; a medium of glad tidings, that will bring great joy to

the world. But not a spirit medium, as they are called."

"I don't know then how you know all about me, but I am sure you do."

"No, I do not; I never saw you but once before, in my life--never heard

of you since except to hear your name mentioned once last night, and

that you had been at Mrs. De Vrai's in the evening, and that that man

followed you from there, and I guessed his wicked purpose."

"Yes, yes, wicked indeed."

"I know nothing more. I do not ask you either to tell more, yet I

believe it would be a relief to you to tell it, and that it will be a

burden off of your mind."

"Yes, yes, it will, it will; but I am afraid that you will not believe

me, or that you will despise me, or laugh at me for being so simple, to

be so deceived by a stranger; but then how could I tell that he was a

bad man, and the streets so dark?"

Poor child, could she have told any better if it had been as light as

noonday, that the soft-spoken, smiling gentleman, with his sweet words,

only used them to cover up a heart full of bitterness and lying deceit?

"And so he told you he was an acquaintance of Mrs. De Vrai's, a friend,

and then he offered you his arm."

"Yes, sir, and I thought I might take it--that it was so kind of

him--for he told me that he was just going in to see her when he saw a

lady come out, and he thought he would step along and ask her if Mrs. De

Vrai was up, and how she was this evening, and if she had gone to bed,

he would not disturb her; perhaps too, he might be of service to a

friend of hers, by walking home with her. And then he asked me a great

many questions about Mrs. De Vrai, how long she had lived there, and who

lived with her, and who else lived in the house, and about little

Sissee; he asked such a heap of questions--if she was pretty, and how

big she was, and where she slept, and where her mother slept, and oh! I

cannot tell you how many things; and then he told me how he knew her in

Paris, and what a pretty little girl she had--that was Katy, sir,--and

then I told him that Katy was dead, and then--but I did not think of it

then--he did not seem a bit sorry about it, while I could not help

crying, only thinking about it--and that she should die just then too,

when her mother was going to be a good mother, and when some good men

were just going to begin to be good to her. Oh, sir, it was sad, very

sad for her to die then, was it not? But I suppose it is all right--that

everything is for the best--Mr. Pease says it is. Do you know Mr.

Pease--has Mr. Pease ever told you about her; has he told you how Mrs.

De Vrai used to live in the Five Points, and how little Katy used to

sell hot corn?"

"No, nothing, but never mind that now. You were going to tell us about

the stranger you were walking and chatting with so cosily."

"So I will."

"Yes, so I was. But when I talked about Little Katy's death, I got off

my story. Well, sir, we walked on towards Broadway, and he said we would

go through Canal street, it was lighter there, and so it was, a good

many shops were open, and all the places where folks go to drink, and

the ice cream saloons were open, and there were such crowds of pretty

girls walking arm in arm with nice gentlemen, looking so proud and happy

with their beaux, and I suppose I looked just so, too, for I could not

help thinking how poor I had been, and now how well dressed I was, and

that I had a beau, too; and when I saw others going in to get ice cream

and good suppers, I almost wished--well, I did feel tempted and I

suppose all girls do, who see such things; and I suppose he must have

guessed what I was thinking of, for he said, 'we won't go into any of

those public places, there is a nice place just round the corner--real

genteel--it is the ---- Hotel--we will go there and have some ice cream

and good cool ice water--you don't drink anything else?' said he, sort

of inquiringly--'no, sir, not now, I have taken the pledge,'--'so have

I,' says he--'that is right--all girls ought to take the pledge.' So we

turned up Broadway, and then I should think just round one corner, but I

don't know certain, it was so light, and so many finely dressed

gentlemen round the door, and one of them said, 'look there, Jim, what a

pretty girl De V. has got; and that made me blush, and feel so confused

I did not know which way I went, and so I clung to his arm, for I

thought with him I was safe, and the first that I knew, we were standing

close behind some ladies and gentlemen going in at a door--I saw

'private door' on it, and did not quite like that, but I did not exactly

know what it meant, and hung back a little, and then he spoke so

sweetly, and said, 'don't be afraid,' that I thought it was all right,

or else what would so many ladies and gentlemen go there for? So we went

in, and the gentleman says to the nice-looking waiter, in his clean

white apron, 'No. 6, Bill.'

"'No. 6 is occupied, sir, but I will give you another room--all right.'"

'All right.' What could it mean? What could it mean that most all the

ladies I saw, wore thick, close veils, so that nobody could tell who

they were, old or young, ugly or pretty? But I had not much time to

think, for we walked very fast through the passage, between I don't know

how many little private supper rooms, and pretty soon we went into one

ourselves. There was a table, four chairs and not much else in the room.

The waiter made the gas light burn bright and then stood a moment for

his order.

"'What shall it be, Miss--I do not recollect your name.'

"How should he? I had never told him, he never knew it. I answered,

'Brentnall.'

"'Oh, yes, Miss Brentnall, what shall we have?'"

How easy poor, weak girls are flattered. It was the first time, perhaps,

she had been thus addressed. What would she have? She did not know.

"I was hungry, real hungry, and, so I told him, when he insisted upon

it, that I was so; and then he said, how fortunate that two hungry

persons should happen to meet, and that they had come to such a good

place, where they could get everything that the heart could wish. Did I

like crabs--soft crabs--then we would have a supper of soft crabs. 'And

I say, Bill, while they are cooking, bring some ice water, a chicken

salad, and, let me see, you drink nothing but water, I drink no liquor,

no wine. Are you fond of Heidsick?' I could not tell--I did not know

what Heidsick was, only that it was some kind of drink that the fellows

used to call for at that house where you saw Peter help me to get away

from. I thought it was some kind of soda water, it used to sparkle and

foam so, when they poured it out, but I would never taste it then; I

wish I had not now. I would not, only that the gentleman said it was

like water.

"'It is a sweet, pleasant French drink,' said he, 'not a drop of spirit

in it--about like ginger pop, or soda water--you will see how it flies

when I draw the cork.'

"It did fly and foam and sparkle, as he poured it out, and looked so

good. He handed me a glass with such a smile, how could I refuse? How

could I know I should break my pledge by tasting? It tasted so good,

how could I help drinking. The salad was very good, and that made the

drink taste better still, and so we eat and sipped, and sipped and eat

with a silver fork. It was delightful.

"After a while the crabs came, and then we eat them--how good. Was it

any wonder that so many come here to eat, and drink 'Hiedsick?' And then

the rooms were so quiet. Still, the partitions are very thin, for I

overheard a woman in the next room say to a gentleman, 'now quit that,

or I will tell my husband. You had better not do that again.' And then I

heard a little scuffle, and then she said, 'Are you not ashamed of

yourself?'"

Why was she not ashamed of herself? She would have been "mortified to

death" to have her husband know that she was in that room, eating late

suppers and drinking wine, at least, once a week. No wonder she wore a

thick veil. She was yet a little ashamed, for fashion's sake, ashamed to

be seen going into a private room, at ten o'clock, at night, with a

_cavalier servante_. She is on a quick voyage to a shameless harbor, and

will soon arrive there--perhaps, just such a harbor as the home of Elsie

Morgan, where the rats harbored with her in the same cellar; or the home

of little Katy, and her mother in Cow Bay. She would have been ashamed

to have her husband know, that under pretence of going to visit a sick

friend, she had come with _a friend_ to sup in a "private room," in a

"fashionable eating-house." So, too, would that husband have been

ashamed to have his wife know, that under pretence of going to call on

an old friend at the hotel, he was actually, at that moment, enjoying

himself with that friend in the next room, and that that friend was a

friend of his wife, too--the fashionable Mrs. Smith, whose husband is in

California, toiling to earn money, which he remits to her, which she is

using to procure a divorce from him, that she may marry a man she is

already playing the harlot with, and whom she will fool in the same way

she does her present poor simpleton of a husband. In fact, she is

already fooling her paramour, for she is here with another man; and that

man is the husband of a lady, whom she addresses as her "dear friend."

Ah, well! _C'est la vie_ in New York.

"So we sat and talked, and eat and drank, a long time, for time went

merrily on, and at last he poured out the last of the good bottle, and

we were just going to drink it and go, for I said, 'I must go home, I

have a good mile to go yet,' and he said, 'Oh, I will see you safe

home.' So as I was lifting the glass, he caught my arm, and said, 'Stop,

there is a fly in it;' and he took my glass and began to look about for

something to take the fly out.

"'Oh, this will do.' And he took a little folded piece of paper out of

his pocket, and stooped down a little under the table, as though to

throw it on the floor."

"What for?"

"Do you think he could have put anything in the glass out of that piece

of paper, just in the moment he had it? I thought there was a bitter

taste. I wish I had thought so at first. But I drank it, and then

started to go home. When I got in the street, I did not know which way I

went. I should have gone up Broadway, but we did not. Everything seemed

so strange. I felt as though I could fly almost. I never felt so before.

I clung to his arm, I could not walk without it. I felt as though I

could almost hug him. And then he put his arm around my waist; I am sure

I would not have let him do that if I had known what I was about; and so

we went on, I do not know how far, or which way, but it could not have

been a great way, and then he went up to a great fine house, with a

silver plate on the door, with a name on it in great letters, it was

Phillips or Brown, or something, only one name--just as though they were

ashamed of the other, or else did not want to be known, or something. I

said, don't go in there, what will the folks think? and he said, 'Oh,

this is a friend of mine lives here, a very nice lady, and we will stop

and rest a little while, and then I will go home with you. I guess the

Hiedsick has got in your head a little, and we will go in here and wait

awhile, till you feel better.' Well, I did feel as though I could not go

home, until I got over my dizziness, and when he said, he knew the

folks, and that they were nice people, I thought I would go in a few

minutes. So he rung the bell, and then a woman came and opened a little

blind in the door, so that she could see who was there, and then he

said, 'Open the door, Leta,' and then she said, 'Oh, is that you?' and

then I knew he was acquainted there, and in we went, and he whispered

something to her, and then she called the servant girl and told her to

show the gentleman up to No. 6. There it was, No. 6 again. And there it

was again, for she said, 'there is a gentleman and lady in No. 6 now; I

will give them another, all right.' I am sure, I never shall hear that

word again without believing it means all wrong. But I scarcely knew

right from wrong; I just held to his arm, and went wherever he led me.

It was a very nice room that she showed us in. There were beautiful

pictures on the walls; I could not see very well what they were, but I

thought they looked like some I had seen once before, such as I am sure

never should be hung up anywhere. There was a great mirror, and

marble-top tables, and washstand, a very rich carpet, and such a

splendid bed, and chairs and rocking chairs, one of which I sat down in,

for I felt so tired and sort of sleepy; and then he told the servant to

bring in some water, and when it came, he poured out a tumbler full, but

I do believe it was half wine, and I drank it down, and then I felt, oh,

I never can tell how I felt, or what happened after that; but I know

more happened, and that more was--was--what I never can tell."

"Villain, black-hearted villain; who laid his snares for a poor,

simple-hearted girl, to work her ruin. I wonder that you ever got away,

ever got out of that house. How did you do it?"

"When I came to a little, I ran down stairs as fast as I could go, and

he ran after me, and cried, 'Stop her,' and two other women ran out in

the hall to do it, but just then the door was opened, and two gentlemen

were going out, and I ran right into the arms of one of them, and he

carried me clear out, in spite of them, and then the other one said,

'Let her go, she is drunk--now run.' I did run and they hallooed, and

then the boys took after me, and, oh, dear, you know the rest."

CHAPTER XVII.

THE INTELLIGENCE OFFICE.--AGNES.

"All things are pure to those who are pure."

"Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile."

Perhaps some of my readers have been sufficiently interested to inquire,

"Who is Agnes, and what of her?" Perhaps there may be some, who, like

Mrs. McTravers, think she is not a proper character to introduce into a

respectable family, coming as she did from a house which gives an air of

taint, spoiled, lost, ruined, to every character that is found within

its walls. I am aware that there is room for suspicion, but suspicion is

not proof. In the case of Athalia, her acknowledged sin is no more proof

of moral turpitude than any other act of a deranged mind. A lunatic may

kill, yet it is not murder. A drunken husband may beat his loving wife,

and love her still. It was not the man who struck the blow, it was the

demon Rum! It was not Athalia who lost her virtue, it was the worse than

demon who robbed her--intoxicated her--destroyed her reason--enslaved

her mind--but he did not, could not, destroy her virtuous, benevolent

heart. Her conduct toward Agnes, is alone sufficient to prove this. And

if she had known as much as I did of Agnes, that there might be some

ground of suspicion against her, it would have made no odds; she would

have taken her in and taken care of her in the same way, if she had

known that she was a great sinner; that is the true way to work

reformation; and then she would have said, "Go, daughter, and sin no

more."

But she knew nothing against Agnes; even after I had told her of the

trunk, she said, all may yet be right. She was unwilling to believe that

all was wrong. How triumphantly she met me as I came home in the

evening--how a woman does love to triumph over us in a good cause,

proving herself what she is in all the purest qualities of the

heart,--our superior.

"I told you so," said Athalia. "I knew there had been some base

deception, some wickedness practiced towards that poor girl to inveigle

her into that house. Come up stairs, and you shall hear her story from

her own lips; she is quite smart now, and able to sit up and talk, and

looks so pretty--she is pretty, and that has been the great cause of her

trouble. But she is a good girl; I have heard a good deal about her

to-day, besides what she has told me. Phebe and Peter, have both been

here, and such a meeting, oh! it would have done your heart good to have

been here, and to see these poor blacks' conduct towards this girl,

after I had told them the story of her adventures last evening: they

hugged her, and kissed her with as much affection as though she had been

one of their own; and then Peter went to see the lady where she had been

living, at the place he got for her, the next day after your first

interview with her, and the lady was terribly alarmed about the poor

girl, and so she would not let Peter come back until she had the

carriage up, and then she took him in--only to think, such a sweet,

nice, pretty lady did not feel herself in the least disgraced to ride

with a poor, old, negro wood-sawyer in her fine carriage, to visit a

poor sick servant girl. And so she came, and such a time! why, if she

had been her own child, she could not have been more affectionate. And

then Agnes told us her story, and then I told Mrs. Meltrand, that is her

name, about Mrs. De Vrai, and how that same man, who treated Agnes so

badly, tried to steal Mrs. De Vrai's little girl, and then she said,

'how singular,' and then of course I said, what is so singular?"

"Ah me, it is a long story, and would not interest you, but I was robbed

of a dear little girl, fifteen years ago, in England, by just such a

man, in just the same way, but it could not have been this man, his name

was Brentnall."

"Brentnall, why that is my name," said Agnes.

"Your name, why you never told me that before."

"No, ma'am, you never asked me, and I did not suppose that you cared to

know anything about me, only that I was a good girl, and did your work

well, and answered to the name of Agnes."

True. How little interest we all take in our servants; they come and go

and we never know that they have any name but one that is most

convenient to call them by, and we take no interest in them, hardly

enough to know that they possess souls as precious as our own.

"And so, your name is Brentnall, what was your father's name?"

"I don't know, ma'am, as I ever had any, or mother either."

"But you must have had both."

"Oh yes, I suppose I must, to have been born, but I mean I never saw

any."

"Where did you live, and who brought you up?"

"I lived with an uncle, near Belfast, and came over with him and his

family, and every one of them died of ship fever on the voyage, and when

I landed here in this great city, I was utterly alone, and almost

penniless. Oh dear!"

"And then Mrs. Meltrand, said, 'Oh dear,' and she went away feeling sad.

I do wish I knew what it could be in that name that made her feel so

sad. Some reminiscence connected with the loss of her little girl, I

suppose. It is very sad, to lose a child by death, it must be very much

more sad to have one stolen away, and never know what becomes of it,

whether dead or alive; and if the mother should meet her own child in

the street not to know it; but dear me, how I am running on while you

are eating your supper, as though you had nothing to think of but the

things that interest me so much. But if you have been able to eat while

I have been talking, come up to my room and see my protege and hear her

story."

So we went up, and found the invalid almost recovered, looking so sweet,

for she looked grateful, and that, when it beams out like the sunlight,

will make any face look beautiful.

"I told you," said Mrs. Morgan, "about her landing here penniless and

alone, and I want she should tell you--there now, there is the bell, how

I do hope that is uncle--yes it is--it is; do you hear him talking to

Bridget? that is his step, now--"

Now the door opens, and now she is in his arms, and now there are more

questions than answers:--

"When did he arrive? How did he find things out West? Has he been to

supper? What is the news?"

"Now you are a perfect woman, you are enough to confuse a whirlwind. Sit

down, and be quiet, and I will tell you all that you need to know. But

first tell me who is this young lady; you forgot to introduce me."

"So I did, but of course she knows by this time that you are my uncle,

and you will know directly all about her, for she was just going to tell

part of her story, and I shall tell the rest before you go to bed."

"I will warrant that. Perhaps you would like to hear mine, and where I

have been since I arrived."

"Yes, indeed, do tell me, and why you did not come right home?"

"I have been to jail, since I arrived; locked up in the criminal cells.

It is a little singular too, how I got there. It is all owing to the

newspapers."

"Owing to the newspapers, uncle, I do not understand how the papers

should get you in prison."

"Very well I do. I saw an item in one of them this evening, about the

arrest of a person whose name struck me very forcibly as being that of a

man whom I once knew in Europe, and who I was very anxious to see, for I

felt the deepest interest to know what had become of his wife. For him

I cared nothing, I knew he was a villain, and felt rejoiced to think he

had met his deserts at last; but his wife was a sweet good woman, a

victim of unfortunate circumstances all through her life, and when I saw

her last I had reason to fear that she was falling into a course adopted

by many, many others, of drowning sorrow in wine. But I shall not tell

my story now; I will sit down and hear yours."

"Well then, Agnes, tell what you did after landing."

At the sound of her name, Mr. Lovetree gave a little start, and said,

"Agnes! oh, pshaw!" and sunk back again in his easy chair, as though he

had been affected by the name, and thought it very foolish that he had

been so. Agnes, said: "Indeed, ma'am, I don't think the gentlemen will

be at all interested to hear anything about me."

"Yes, yes, I have promised them."

"Well, then, after my uncle died, and all my friends, I felt dreadful;

it is dreadful for a young girl to be left all alone in a strange

country. So when the ship landed, or rather when she came to anchor, the

people from shore came aboard, and I saw how many of the poor emigrants

had friends to welcome them, and that I had none; it was then that I

felt the dreadful loneliness of my situation, and I sat down and cried,

for I could not help it, and then a man came and spoke to me very

pleasantly, and asked me where I wanted to go, and all about it, and

then I told him all my troubles, and then he said it was the luckiest

thing in the world that I had met with him, for he was an emigrant

agent, appointed by law, and he would take charge of me and take me

ashore to a boarding-house, and do everything for me. And then he asked

me how much money I had, and I told him that I had but a few shillings,

of my own, but that I had three gold sovereigns that were my uncle's--he

had more, a great deal more, when he died, but somebody must have taken

it away--and that was all I had in the world besides their chests of

clothes and things. And then he said, that it was very lucky for me that

I had that, for he would have to pay half a guinea head-money for each

passenger, no matter how many were dead, and then he would have to pay

the custom-house duty, and the wharfage and the cartage, and the week in

advance for the board, and that would take all the money and more too,

but he would pay that and hold the things until I could pay him back. So

I gave him the money, and he got the chests, all but my trunk, I would

keep that, and took them ashore, and took me to a boarding-house, and

that was the last I ever saw of him, or the money or chests either, he

had robbed me of all of my poor uncle's things, and my three gold

sovereigns; so the landlady said, and he never paid her a cent of board.

I did not know what to do; I was willing to work, but how should I find

a place. The landlady said, I must go to the 'Intelligence office.' I

thought I should like to go somewhere to get intelligence of the man who

had run away with my things, or any other intelligence that would be of

any benefit to a poor stranger in this great Babel of a city. And I

asked her to tell me the way to the 'Intelligence office,' and I went

there. It was a great room, divided into two parts; one was full of men,

and the other of girls, sitting on long benches. I went in and sat down

among them, and I suppose, I looked sad--I felt so, and I felt worse

when I heard some of the girls snickering, and overheard them say,

'there is a green one.' If that was an 'Intelligence' office, I thought

it a very queer way of giving it to one so much in need of it as I was.

After a while, one of the girls came and sat down by me, and spoke

kindly, and asked where I came from, and a good many questions; I was

almost afraid to answer her, for fear that she was 'an emigrant agent,'

too, and had some plan to cheat me, or practice some deception, but I

became convinced in a little while that she meant kindly; and then I

told her all about myself. Then, she said, that I must get my name

registered. I did not know what that was for, but I went up to the

bookkeeper, and told him my name, and age, and where I came from, and

what I could do, and he wrote it all down in a book and then told me to

give him half a dollar, and when I got a place I must give him another

one; I did not know what for; he gave me no intelligence about how I was

to get a place, but he told me to go and sit down again. So I did, all

that day and all the three next days, waiting for somebody to pick me

out of the lot. Every hour, somebody came and looked over all the girls,

for all the world just as I have seen the people do in the pig-market,

at an Irish fair, until they found one that would suit. One objected to

me because I was 'green;' another, because I had never been at service

in this country; another, because I had no recommend; and then a girl

whispered to me, and told me she knew a man who would write me just as

many recommends as I wanted, for a shilling a piece. If that is the way

recommends are made, I don't see what good they are. At last, after

being looked over day after day, like a lot of damaged goods, a lady, at

least, I thought she was a lady, selected me the very first one, and for

the very reason that twenty others had rejected me--because I was too

good-looking. When she found that I had no friends in this country, and

no father or mother in the world, she seemed still more anxious to have

me, which I thought so kind of her, and then she told me that the work

would be very light, only some rooms to take care of, and wait upon

company a little, and she knew I should like the place; I thought I

should; I did at first, but, I don't want to tell, before the gentlemen,

why I did not like to live there; this one knows already."

"Well, well, you need not tell, we understand all about it. You have

been treated just as a great many poor girls without friends have been

treated before in this city; and you got just as much intelligence, and

just as much profit from your application to the 'Intelligence office,'

as a great many others have done before you."

Now, it was Athalia's turn to tell her uncle all that she knew about

Agnes, and then he told about his visit to the prison.

"I found," said he, "the very man I expected, or rather hoped, it might

be, and it is well that I acted upon the impulse of the moment, for if I

had not, I should have been too late. It is the doctor's opinion, that

he will not live till morning. It seems that he got into some

difficulty with the police last night, and one of them, to prevent him

from stabbing another man, broke his arm."

There was a little start of surprise on my part, and that of Mrs.

Morgan; but we made no interruption, and Lovetree went on with his

story. We thought, though, we could not help that.

"I expect he had been drinking hard, for he tore off the bandage from

his arm in the night, and when the keeper opened his cell this morning,

he found him almost dead with loss of blood and vital prostration. He

cannot live. They had aroused him, and I found him quite rational when I

went in, and was immediately placed beyond all doubt as to the identity

of the man, for he called me by name the moment he saw me."

"I am glad you have come," said he, "I can trust you, and I want to make

a clean breast of it before I die. My wife and child--my last one--are

in this city, and when I am gone, I want you to go and see her, and tell

her, that I shall never trouble her any more; she will be glad to hear

it, for she saw me last night, and I left the old lady somewhat in a

fright. I cannot tell you the exact number, but I can tell you so that

you can find the house easy enough. It is in W-- street."

"Oh, dear, I cannot stand it any longer," said Mrs. Morgan.

"Cannot stand it? I don't see anything that you cannot stand. You

surprise me."

"Not half as much as you surprise us. We know all about it. It was him,"

and she pointed to me, "that knocked the ruffian down; it was him that

he was about to stab when the watchman broke his arm; and it is she,

uncle, Mrs. De Vrai, his wife, who is the mother of Little Katy; now,

you know all about it; we know all about it."

"No, not all, for he told me, that he believed his other wife was in

this city, also, married here, and he wanted that I should look her up,

too; and tell her where, perhaps, she may find her child."

"Tell her," said he, "that I left it with my brother, near Belfast, an

Irish farmer, by the name of William Brentnall."

"William Brentnall!" said Agnes, her eyes opening with wild surprise.

"I do think," said Mr. Lovetree, "that I have lost my senses, or else

some of the rest of you have. First, one, and then the other, fairly

screams out some exclamation as though I were a conjurer, and you could

cot comprehend my words or actions. Have you done now, shall I go on?"

"Yes, yes, uncle; I am dying with curiosity, and as for Agnes, she looks

the very picture of wonder."

"Indeed I feel so."

"Well, I don't understand why, but I suppose I might as well proceed.

'Tell her,' said he, 'that he is well known and easily found, and that I

left the child with him, telling him that it was mine, and that its

mother was dead.' Then I was a little surprised, for I thought his name

was De Vrai, 'but that,' he said, 'was an assumed one, the name by

which he married the woman that I knew, because he dared not marry her

by his own name. Then, I asked him what was her name, who I should look

for, and who she should inquire for, to find her child? Then he took a

little card out of his pocket, as though he would write her name, and

then he seemed to recollect his broken arm, and said, with a groan, 'my

writing days are over, and all my days nearly.' Then, he told me, to

take the card and write, and so I did, here it is--'this is the mother's

name, and this is her daughter's, upon the truth of a dying man--tell

her so, beg her to forgive and forget the dead.'"

"What are the names? Do tell us, uncle."

"Mrs. Meltrand--Agnes Brentnall."

Now there were at least two screams and one, "Oh how wonderful!"

Then Agnes said, "Mrs. Meltrand my mother!--that is wonderful!"

Then Mr. Lovetree looked surprised; all around him seemed to be a mass

of mystery. Others began to see through it, he was now in the dark.

Athalia explained. There was one point that she was not quite clear

upon, and she asked her uncle if Agnes was really De Vrai's daughter, or

only Mrs. Meltrand's?

"His own. Mrs. Meltrand, was his lawful wife when he married Mrs. De

Vrai."

"Oh my God! then Agnes is his own child."

None spoke--what each thought sent a thrill of icy horror to every

heart. All groaned or wept, none could speak. There are moments in life

of speechless agony, when the mind is completely horrified, when

anything that breaks the silence comes as a relief. It came now in the

sound of the door bell. It was a messenger to Mr. Lovetree. It brought

relief to aching minds. It was very short. It only said, "he is dead."

It is perhaps wrong to rejoice at the death of a fellow creature, but we

could not feel regret.

After the first flush of excitement was over, a note was written to

Agnes's mother, simply stating that if she would call at Mrs. Morgan's

at her earliest convenience, she would meet with an individual who could

tell her of her long-lost daughter. She made it convenient to come

immediately, though it was then ten o'clock at night.

It is not reasonable to suppose that she could keep away till morning,

particularly as she had heard a word or two at her first visit which

left her mind uneasy.

I drop the curtain upon the scene when the mother acknowledges and

receives to her arms her long-lost daughter, while I go to carry comfort

to the heart of Mrs. De Vrai, the ill-treated wife--the widow of a

villain--the mother of his child, soon to be an orphan.

What a load it lifted from her crushed heart, when I told her those

three little words--"he is dead."

"Then my child will be safe, at least from his evil influences."

What a dreadful thing it is for a wife to feel upon the death of her

husband that she is safe herself, that her child is safe, more safe

among strangers than with its own father.

Why should she feel so? Why does she feel so? The answer is still

shorter than that which gave her relief--which told her that her child's

father was dead. That was composed of three words, this of one. That one

word is--Rum!!

It was that which made a villain of him, a double villain to two wives

and the children of both. It was that which made him attempt the

greatest wrong that a father can do to his own child. Poor Agnes!

It was that which drove Mrs. De Vrai step by step from the paths of

peaceful, youthful innocence, comfort and affluence, to--but I will not

name the intermediate steps--to that wretched abode where the little

girl who sold Hot Corn, and slept in the rain upon the cold stones,

breathed her pure life away in prayers to that mother not to drink any

more of that soul and body destroying rum.

It was that mother, who, upon her death bed, prayed me to tell the world

the fruits that the traffic in rum produces. "Tell them to look at me,

at my history, or a brief view of it; its details would fill a volume.

Tell mothers to watch their daughters. Tell those who bring up children

in hotels and public houses, that they are rearing their daughters to

one chance of virtue, against ten of sin and woe. My mother was left

early a widow, with a competence to raise her two daughters 'at home,'

yet she seemed to delight in the excitement incident to a life in a

hotel or great boarding-house. As children, we were petted and spoiled;

as misses, we learned all that girls usually learn in such

boarding-schools as fashionable mothers send them to; as young ladies,

we were the flattered of fops and roues, and our mother allowed us to

be in a constant flirtation at home, or out every night to parties,

balls, soirees, theatres, concerts, and then to saloons, late suppers,

and wines, and--oh dear!--what if I had had a home and a mother to keep

me out of temptation; but I had not, and I met with the fate almost

inevitable.

"Among the boarders at the hotel, where we stopped at Saratoga, was an

Englishman, who claimed, and I believe rightly, to be one of the

nobility, for he wrote his name, Sir Charles R----, and had a well-known

coat of arms upon his seal, which he used publicly. Of course, I was

flattered, proud, vain of the attentions of an English nobleman, young,

handsome, full of money, and ardent in his professions of love, which I

have no reason to think of otherwise than as sincere; I was seventeen,

tall, straight, handsome form, face, and figure, and always dressed with

taste. My eyes were black; cheeks, rosy; and hair like the wing of a

crow. I was well bred, and well read, and could talk and sing to

captivate. So could he, and we were both equally affected. When we left

the Springs, he came with us to New York, and put up at the same hotel.

Then I was innocent. Oh, mothers! mothers! how long can you answer for

the innocence of your daughters who go to fashionable eating and

drinking saloons, and leave them after midnight, with their young blood

on fire, and in such a state of mind that they hardly know whether they

go home to rest in their own room, or in some of the thousand traps for

the unwary, in almost every street in the city?

"Oh, mothers, mothers, every one,

With daughters free from sin,

How can you look so coldly on

The ways from virtue daughters win?

"Late suppers and wines, and constantly seeing others, who should set

the young better examples, going the road that ruins virtue, had its

effect. If I had been properly restrained by my mother, had been kept at

home nights, and never learned to sip fashionable intoxicating drinks,

my mother would not have mourned 'a girl lost.'

"A few months after my first acquaintance with Sir Charles, I was living

with him in a richly furnished house, in Eighteenth street, shamelessly

passing as his wife, and treated as such by our acquaintance, although

they knew that I was not. It was here that Katy was born, and received

her first impressions of home and a fond father's love. Here I lived

away my young womanhood in fashionable dissipation, and then Sir Charles

died suddenly, and without a will. He had always said, he would make a

will, and give his vast property to me and our child. But he put it off,

as many others do, one day too long. Why do men defer this duty? A

sacred duty to those they leave behind them, of their own flesh and

blood. I knew, as his wife, I had rights; and I went to England to try

and obtain them. I left my elegantly furnished house, which cost, I

don't know how many thousand dollars to furnish, for my mother and my

sister, and an uncle to occupy while I was gone. I found all the

property in the hands of Sir Charles's brother, and he was unwilling to

give up the share that rightfully belonged to his wife and child,

because he said, we could not recover it by law. He did not say why, my

conscience did. As a compromise, if I would give him a general release,

he offered five thousand pounds. I would have taken it, but I had

employed a lawyer, and he hooted at the idea; he looked for more than

that for his fee when he recovered the full amount. I told him that I

had no marriage certificate, and that the minister who married us was

dead. So he was; Sir Charles was dead. I did not tell him that no other

ever blessed our banns. I told him, that numerous persons would swear

that they had heard him call me wife, and Katy his child. He said, that

would do. I did not know that our opponents could produce as many more

to swear, that they had heard Sir Charles say, that it was only a

marriage of convenience. So, for an uncertainty of five hundred thousand

as a mere prospect, I refused the certainty of five thousand, and went

to law. The evidence stood so balanced that the judge could not decide.

'Let the wife be sworn. Let her say, upon her oath, that she was married

to Sir Charles, and the case will be given in her favor.'

"There was a chuckling laugh just behind me, the tones of which went to

my heart, and I fainted. It was De Vrai. He had known me in this city,

and persecuted me with his importunities while Sir Charles was living. I

had turned him off with a promise, all too common, 'when Sir Charles is

dead.' Then he renewed his importunities, and I told him, to wait a

respectful time. He followed me to England, and still pressed me, and I

still put him off. He had hinted several times that if I recovered the

suit, he well knew that he should lose his. It was him that furnished my

opponent with a clue to the proof that we were never married. It was him

that laughed in my ear when the case rested upon the question, whether I

would swear that I was married or not. For a moment, for the sake of my

child, I was tempted; that laugh recalled me partially, and I was

carried away in a litter, and the case adjourned. For aught I know it

still remains adjourned.

"De Vrai followed me to my hotel. I was in a state bordering upon

distraction. With a foolish pride, to keep up appearances, as the wife

of Sir Charles, I had exhausted all my means, and run awfully in debt. I

had written to my uncle, in New York, to sell my furniture at auction,

and send me the money. After a long delay I got five hundred dollars,

and a very short letter, saying, that was all the nett proceeds. I felt,

I cannot tell how. I knew I was cheated, and wrote a bitter letter back.

Then, my own friends, those who had fawned around the rich mistress of

Sir Charles, cast off the poor woman struggling to recover something for

his child. In this she failed, because that child was not born in

wedlock.

"I was now poor indeed. What could I do, alone in a strange land? I knew

that De Vrai had no affection for me, only such as one animal has for

another, but in my despair I married him.

"His means of living were derived from the same source that hundreds of

well-dressed gentlemen derive theirs from, in this city. He was a

gambler; a genteel gambler. Such as you may find in every hotel in New

York, in every public place, dressed in the very best style, living in

the most expensive manner, with no trade, occupation, or exercise of

mind or skill, except the skill of cheating at card playing.

"At first, we lived pleasantly; but pleasures with such men are

short-lived, and must be often changed. If successful in business--that

is what they call their nefarious employment--they are all smiles and

affection to wife and children; but if 'luck is against them,' they are

the most unhappy men in the world, and make everybody else unhappy

around them. As for enduring conjugal affection, I believe the

excitement of a gambler's life renders them incapable of feeling its

influence. I can scarcely tell how the months passed which I lived with

that man, for I drank wine to excess every day. Not to become

intoxicated; only just fashionably excited. We lived in the best style

of hotel life, often at the expense of the proprietors.

"A little before Sis was born, De Vrai met with 'a run of luck,' and we

took a cottage out of town, and lived very comfortably for a year, upon

the proceeds of that 'windfall.'

"What that run of luck was, may be guessed at from the following extract

from a morning paper:--

"SUICIDE.--An American gentleman was found dead in his bed, at

his lodgings, this morning, and it is supposed he died from

poison, administered by himself, in consequence of immense

losses at the gaming table, not only of his own money, but a

sum which he had received in trust for a widow and orphans, in

America. It is said, that he owes his losses to the wretched

practice of drinking to intoxication, and that he was fairly

robbed while in this condition, by a companion of his, one who

made great pretence of friendship. He leaves a beautiful young

wife, 'quite destitute,' 'tis said."

"I did not know then that this companion of his was my husband. I found

that out afterwards, and that he was more than robbed.

"Soon after that event, De Vrai brought the widow of his victim to live

in our house. I was the wife--she the mistress. I was blind at first,

but I soon had my eyes opened. Opened not only to that fact, but that

that wife had stood behind her husband's chair while he played with the

villain who robbed him, and gave the signal of what cards he held; and

afterwards, when he became sober enough to realize his ruin, she

proposed that they should take poison, and die together.

"The result need not be told, only that he died and she lived.

"When I made these discoveries from an overheard conversation, I ordered

the vile woman from my house.

"'My house, my house, ha, ha, you poor simpleton. Every article in this

house and every cent of money that you or your husband has on earth

belongs to me, and these are the papers.

"'Now if you behave yourself you can stay here, if not, you will have to

tramp, both of you.'

"She shook the papers in my face, and laughed at my look of fear and

astonishment. To finish my agony, when I began to talk something about

the rights of an English wife, she coolly told me that she had just as

good a right to my husband as I had, for he had one wife when I married

him, and that rendered my marriage a nullity. What a shock for a

wife--to hear that she is no wife, or if she is, the wife of a robber,

adulterer, and murderer.

"I heard all this with a sort of indifference foreign to my very nature.

It was well that I did, for it enabled me to perfect my plans, and carry

them out with a degree of coolness worthy of a better purpose. I had

been promising for some time to visit a friend for a week, and I set

about packing up for the journey at once. I said not one word to De Vrai

of what I heard, nor gave him one look of reproof. Fortune had made me

acquainted with the secret hiding-place of the money this guilty pair

had obtained from their poor victim, and I did not feel any compunctions

of conscience in taking it from them. In three days afterwards I was in

Paris. Here I lived a few months a wretched life of dissipation, and

then De Vrai, tracked me to my hiding-place and I had to fly once more;

this time across the ocean.

"I had five hundred dollars when I arrived in this city. What might I

not have done with that sum, if I had used it prudently? What I did do,

I must tell, that it may be a warning to others. It would be a source of

consolation to me if I knew that the follies of my life could be

illuminated and set up as a beacon light to my fellow creatures, to save

them from the quicksands of dissipation upon which I have been

wrecked--wrecked by my own folly and foolish pride.

"It was pride, foolish wicked pride, that led me to go to a fashionable

hotel, and put up, with my two children and nurse, as Madame De Vrai,

from Paris. How soon five hundred dollars melt away, even with prudent

living, at a New York hotel. I did not live prudently. I drank to

excess, gave late suppers, and gambled. This could not last long, though

many hundreds of the dollars worse than wasted in those few weeks, were

won from others equally guilty of this besetting wickedness and folly

with myself. Such a life could not last. My first step down was to a

cheap lodging in Crosby street. I cannot tell how I lived there. I only

know that my valuables, my clothes, everything went to the pawnbroker,

and I went to that wretched hole where you first saw me in Cow Bay, from

whence I drove my poor little Katy out in the streets at midnight, to

sell Hot Corn. It was there that my poor child died. It was there that

you received her dying blessing, and I her dying forgiveness for all the

wrongs that I had heaped upon her poor innocent head. It was then by her

death that I was awakened to consciousness and I felt and saw my own

deep soul and body destroying degradation. It was through her death and

translation to a home in heaven, that I have obtained a hope that my

Father may forgive what my child has forgiven, and that, I may yet see

her again. It was Him, it must have been Him that opened your ear to

that little plaintive cry of 'Hot Corn,' that rose up through your

window on its way to the home of angels watching over a child whom her

mother had forsaken.

"It was His power--no earthly power could have aroused my mind from its

lethargy, that awakened me one moment before it was too late. It was a

bitter trial, but nothing else but the death of that sweet child would

have been sufficient to save her wicked mother; I cannot mourn her loss,

because I feel that she is now so much better off than while singing her

nightly cry through the streets, of 'Hot Corn, Hot Corn, here's your

nice hot corn!' Speaking of singing, have you seen the new song, just

published, called 'The Dying Words of Little Katy, or Will He Come?"

"Oh it is beautiful. Here it is, do read it:--

"Here's hot corn, nice hot corn!" a voice was crying!

Sweet hot corn, sweet hot corn! the breeze is sighing!

Come buy, come buy--the world's unfeeling--

How can she sell while sleep is stealing?

"Hot corn, come buy my nice hot corn!"

All alone, all alone, she sat there weeping;

While at home, while at home, her sister's sleeping,

"Come buy, come buy, I'm tired of staying;

Come buy, come buy, I'm tired of saying,

Hot corn, come buy my nice hot corn!"

Often there, often there, she sat so drear'ly

With one thought, for she loved her sister dearly:

Did'st hate, did'st hate--how could she ever,

How could she hate her mother?--never.

"Hot corn, come buy my nice hot corn!"

Often there, often there, while others playing,

Hear the cry, "buy my corn," she's ever praying.

"Pray buy, pray buy, kind hearted stranger,

One ear, then home, I'll brave the danger;

Hot corn, come buy my nice hot corn!"

Now at home, now at home, her cry is changing!

"Will he come, will he come?" while fever's raging.

She cries, she cries, "pray let me see him;

Once more, once more, pray let me see him.

Hot corn, he'll buy my nice hot corn!"

"Will he come, will he come?" she's constant crying,

"Will he come, will he come?" poor Katy's dying.

"'Twas he, 'twas he, kind words was speaking

Hot corn, hot corn, while I was seeking

Hot corn, who'll buy my nice hot corn?"

"Midnight there, midnight there, my hot corn crying,

Kindly spoke, first kind words, they stop'd my sighing.

That night, that night, when sleep was stealing,

Kind words, kind words--my heart was healing;

Hot corn, he'll buy my nice hot corn!"

"Will he come, will he come?"--weak hands are feeling!

"He has come, he has come--I see him kneeling--

One kiss--the light--how dim 'tis growing--

I thank--'tis dark--good bye--I'm going--

Hot corn--no more shall cry--hot corn!!!"

Drop a tear, drop a tear, for she's departed,

Drop a tear, drop a tear, poor broken hearted,

Now pledge, now pledge, the world is crying,

Take warning, warning, by Katy's dying,

"Hot corn, who'll buy my nice hot corn?"

"The music of this, as it is arranged for the piano, is one of the

sweetest, plaintive things you ever heard."

"And besides that, there are a good many other songs and tales, so Agnes

tells me, already written, which never would have been if my poor child

had not been called away from her home of misery here on earth to one

made for the innocent and good beyond the grave. Who knows how much good

all those songs and stories may do in the world, to save others from the

road which I took to destruction!"

"Oh, if the wretched, awful misery occasioned by rum, which I alone have

seen, could be pictured to the world, it does seem to me that no sane

man or woman could ever look upon the picture and live, without becoming

so affected that they would foreswear all intoxicating beverages for

ever afterwards."

"Oh, sir, I know that I am now on my death bed, and I feel as though I

was talking from the spirit world, and I do pray you to tell my fellow

creatures, one and all--tell my own sex who are just beginning this life

of temptation, degradation, sin, shame, woe, and death, what it brought

me to, what it will bring all to, sooner or later, who, indulge as I

did, first in wine, and, finally, in anything, everything that could

sink reason into forgetfulness."

Reader, have I obeyed that dying injunction?

CHAPTER XVIII.

JULIA ANTRIM, AND OTHER OLD ACQUAINTANCES.

"Should old acquaintance be forgot?"

"There is a lost sheep returned to the fold."

If those who would reform the vicious, knew the power of love and kind

words towards the poor fallen creatures who abound in our city, and how

much stronger they are than prison bars, how much more powerful than

handcuffs, fetters and whip lashes, we should soon see the spirit of

reformation hovering over us like the guardian angel sent to save a city

that should be found to contain only five righteous persons.

My readers may remember the slight glimpse they had of the face of Julia

Antrim, on two occasions--once as a street walker, only thirteen years

old, dressed in borrowed clothes, or rather in garments furnished by one

of the beldams who keep the keys of our numerous city pandemoniums,

where innocence is entrapped, and virtue sold at a discount; and again a

year or two later, when the fiend who said "our trade," laughed to see

her dragged out of one of the underground dens where demons dwell, where

rum is sold and souls destroyed, on her way to prison, and the

termination of a career, to which one half, at least, arrive at, who

take the first step--false step--in the same road.

In the morning she was "sent up:" a short phrase which means

imprisonment for six months in the city penitentiary. Penitentiary!!

What is a penitentiary? A place of repentance and reformation.

Ours is a place to harden young offenders, or rum-made criminals--to

make them worse rather than better. It made Julia Antrim worse. It was

the work of the missionary, and the benevolent heart of Mr. Lovetree,

and the kind words of Mrs. May and Stella, that effected what dungeons,

fetters whips, and harsh language could not.

"Oh!" said Mrs. Morgan to me one evening, "such a story as my uncle has

been telling me; do tell him, uncle, about one of those 'Five Point

girls,' rescued from one of those miserable dens."

"You remember the girl," said he, "that you saw dragged out of the

cellar for picking her paramour's pocket? Come with me and you shall see

her and hear her own story. Athalia, come put on your hat and go with

us. You know how glad Mrs. May and Stella always are to see you."

They were so this evening. Stella was in the front shop busy with her

pins and needles, threads and tapes, and all the numerous little

articles of necessity which go to make up an assortment, for which she

had a demand that not only kept her busy, but also a fine bright active

little boy. He is on the road to wealth and manhood now. He was on the

road to ruin once. He was the son of a drunken father, who taught him to

"prig" and sell the stolen articles for rum. The reader has seen him

before. Would you like to know where? Turn back to page 30--look at

that picture of the fireman rescuing two children from the flames. This

bright boy is the child of drunken Bill Eaton. How Stella's eyes did

sparkle as she saw us enter; far more than they would to see her best

customer, for now she saw her best friend, her kind patron, who gave her

the means to gain good customers.

"Oh, mother, mother, here is Mr. Lovetree and Mrs. Morgan, and that

other gentleman!"

Then Mrs. May's eyes sparkled, for "she was so glad to see us"--she was

always glad to see us. She was very busy in the little back shop,

working away, and she had two very neat-looking industrious girls at

work with her. We have seen both of them before. One of them for the

first time on the steps of the Bank of the Republic, clothed in a poor

dirty ragged dress, with that same little boy, sickly and pale, leaning

upon his sister for support, and keeping her company as the two wandered

through the streets, making midnight melodious with that ever pealing

summer cry, of, "Hot corn, hot corn, here's your nice hot corn, smoking

hot, smoking hot, just from the pot, all hot, hot, hot!"

She will sing, it no more. She is in a better situation now for a little

girl than midnight street rambling; that is not the best school for

young girls--we have seen how near the brink of ruin it led Sally Eaton.

She was rescued just in time--just before she was lost. Two great

calamities fell upon her in one night. Her father was killed, and her

mother's house was burned, leaving the poor widow and her two children

in the street, naked, except one garment, amid the crowd that came to

look upon what she then thought the wreck of all hope. It proved her

greatest blessing; for in that crowd were those who took her in, and

clothed and fed, and sent her children to school, and taught her girl

how to work; and, finally, placed her as a help to another widow, where

she will soon learn and earn enough to help herself. The other girl, who

is now working with her old companion, was once her street associate in

rags and wretchedness; afterwards, her envied, because better clothed,

acquaintance. We saw her too, upon the same evening that we

first saw the little Hot Corn girl driven away from her hard seat

upon those cold stone steps--less cold than the heart of the

great world towards its outcast population. We saw her again, just

where we then knew that her course of life would lead her--to

intoxication,--wretchedness--crime--prisons, and--no, she stopped just

short of death, and returned to virtue, industry, and happiness.

After the heartfelt, happiness-giving congratulations of Mrs. May,

Stella, Sally Eaton, and "Brother Willie," were over, I turned to a

nice, modest-looking young girl and said, "and who is this? What is your

name?"

"Julia Antrim, sir."

Did I dream? No, I did not dream, I looked upon sober reality. It was

the poor outcast, whom I had seen dragged away from the underground

abode of all that is bad, to "the Tombs," and from whence she went to

"the Island," and as I heard, from there, at the expiration of her

noviciate, to one of the lowest, most degraded, worse than beastly,

abodes of those who have only the form of humanity remaining. So I told

her I had heard, and she replied,

"True--where else could I go? I could go nowhere but there. I came out

of prison with only the clothes they gave me there, with my hair

cropped--branded, to tell all the world to beware of me--that I was a

'prison bird.' If I desired, and I really did, to return to a virtuous

life, the door was for ever closed against me. I went back to Mrs.

Brown's, the woman who had first tempted me, with fine clothes and

jewelry, to sin--to that house where I lost all that a poor girl has on

earth--her virtue--where I had sinned and profited, as the term is, by

sinning; where I had left piles of rich clothing, and pretended friends.

I knocked at the door, once so ready to open for my first admission, and

that too was closed in my face with an oath, a horrid, wicked woman's

oath, bidding me to go away or she would send a policeman--I knew the

policeman would do her bidding--to take me away as a common street

vagrant, coming there to disgrace a 'respectable house.' I went away,

dispirited, broken-hearted, and sunk down into that wretched abode in

Anthony street, where I was found by Mr. Pease, and actually compelled,

much against my will, to go to the Five Points House of Industry, where

I was washed, and clothed, and fed, and sobered, furnished with work,

and, above all else, taught to love God and pray, and, for the first

time in more than two years, to feel one moment of happiness.

"When I was with those wretches in that miserable hole where Mr. Pease

found me, I really thought that my heart had got so bad, that it could

not, would not, ever be good again.

"How I did use to curse and hate everybody that was good. That good man

who saved me at last, I hated worse than all others. All who are like

what I was then, hate him and fear him more then they do all the prisons

and police in the city. If somebody would publish the truth, or only

half the truth, of what I alone know of the crime and misery about the

Five Points of New York, and how much good all the good men have done

who have devoted themselves to the reformation of those wretched human

beings, I do think that everybody with a good heart would buy the book,

and thus contribute a mite to aid the good work--a work that saves from

a life worse than death, scores of children and young girls, lost to

every virtuous thought or action; lost to all hope in life or eternity.

"Oh, sir," and she seized me by the hands in her energy, "you can

write--Stella has told me how you can write--that you have written some

powerful stories; pray write more, more, more; the world will read, and

it will do a world of good."

"Well, Julia, if I write, I must have characters and names, to fill up

the incidents of my Life Scenes, shall I use yours?"

"Yes, yes, if it will do good, and save others."

"And mine." "And mine." "And mine." "I think," said Mrs. May, "that the

incidents connected with Athalia's life, would alone make quite a

volume; would you have any objection to having them written out and

published, Mrs. Morgan?"

"Perhaps I might consent, if it was well done, if it would serve as a

beacon to save others from being shipwrecked upon the same desolate

shore where I came so near being totally lost; only escaping by the

smallest chance, and by one of the most singular interpositions of

Providence, and through the efforts of one of the weakest instruments.

It is to Stella, first of all that I owe my present happiness. It was

through her that all my friends became interested for me. In fact, if it

had not been for her, my dear uncle would never have known where to find

me."

"Rather give the credit to a higher power; that power which gave him the

kind benevolent heart that beats in his breast; that disposition to

watch over the young and guard the innocent, which led him to take an

interest in my poor child. Let us be grateful to all the humble

instruments of Him who giveth every good and perfect gift to man, but to

Him to whom we owe all of our present happiness, be the final praise."

Now there was a little space of silence; a time for reflection; all were

too full of thought, holy, happy thought, to speak. It is good to think.

The world is generally too much given to act without thinking. Mr.

Lovetree was not. He thought that we had agreed to visit Mrs. De Vrai,

on our way home, "but before I go," said he, "I want to invite you all

to dine with us next Sabbath. I want to see our little party of friends

all together, for a certain purpose."

"Uncle always has a little surprise to play off upon his friends. I am

afraid this is not a pleasant one, or else he would not have chosen

Sunday."

"I chose that," said he, "because I know how difficult it is for the

laboring poor to give a day from their working time, for any kind of

recreation. I assure you that this will be a pleasant surprise, though

not an inappropriate one for the day, for I intend to have a minister

with us to ask a blessing upon our food."

"Oh," said Stella, "I can guess it."

Young girls are always ready to guess as she did. She guessed it was to

be a wedding. She guessed that Mrs. Morgan was going to be married. Then

the others guessed so too. Mrs. Morgan guessed not. She was sure she

could not get married without somebody to have her. Of course not. But

Stella thought that "somebody" would not be very hard to find. She knew

a gentleman that liked her well enough to marry her.

At any rate, that the party was to be a wedding one was pretty well

settled. Whether the bride will be Athalia or not we shall see. So then,

after lots of "good night" and "do come again soon," we parted, and went

on our way to visit the sick and dying victim of fashionable

dissipation, which led her through a rapid career of a few happy months,

and then through years of woe, from wine at dinner, to "cobblers" at

late suppers, and bitters in the morning; till an appetite was acquired

which could only be satisfied by constant libations of anything that

would intoxicate, procured by any means, however debasing, till she

ceased to be a lady; almost ceased to be a woman; quite forgot that she

was a mother; else how could she have driven that poor little innocent

child out upon the streets, murky and damp, with her cry of "Hot Corn,

hot corn, all smoking hot!" while the poor child was chilly, cold, and

starving?

Poor girl--poor little Katy! Thy mother loves thee now. Look down from

thy blest abode--it is thy mother calls, it is thy voice she hears, and

she answers, "Yes, yes I will come."

"She is better, sir," said Phebe, as we entered the door. "She has been

sitting up a good deal, and she talks of going over to your house

to-morrow, Mrs. Morgan; she says she must go out, and take the air, or

she never will get well."

This was pleasant news, and it quite elated Mrs. Morgan. Mr. Lovetree

gave one of his peculiar expressions of countenance as soon as he saw

her, which told as plain as though he had spoken it, that she never

would go out again but once, that would be a ride which all must, none

are willing, to take.

We were all very much delighted to find Mrs. Meltrand and Agnes, with

Mrs. De Vrai. Mrs. Meltrand, ever since she had first seen her, had

fallen in love with little Sissee, the sweet little Adaleta, and this

evening Mrs. De Vrai, had made her a final promise, that if she should

not get well, Mrs. Meltrand should have her for her own; and she had

promised to adopt her and make her as much her child as though she was

really so.

"But what is the use of talking? I don't feel any more like dying than

you do. I am almost well. My cough has quite gone."

But a bright crimson spot upon each cheek had not gone, and that told

its own tale. Adaleta was delighted with sister Agnes. She could hardly

bear to part with her. She will not, but her mother must. How little any

one would have thought, as we parted that evening, leaving the invalid

so cheerful and full of hope, that we had parted for the last time. No!

not the last time--may we hope for one more meeting? Let us now retire

to our chambers and prepare for that meeting. Let us say to the reader,

as we said to the poor sufferer, "Good night. God be with you!"

CHAPTER THE LAST.

All things must have an end.

Where there is true friendship, there needs no gloss to our

deeds, no hollow welcome to real friends.

"By and by" is easy said; it means an uncertain time, but it comes at

last. It came to Mrs. De Vrai, only a few hours after our last parting.

Phebe came with the early morning to say, "She is gone, sir; gone to

meet her poor child in the hope of the penitent. After you went away,

she lay and talked and talked about you, all of you, and Mrs. Meltrand

and Agnes, and how happy she should be if she was a going to die, to

think that her child would have such a good mother and sister, and so

many real friends; and how different it would be with herself now, here

and hereafter, as well as her child, than it would have been if she had

died in her former residence of wretchedness, sin, and woe. Then I asked

her if she would take her medicine and go to sleep, and she said; 'by

and by, not now; I feel so well, so happy, I can almost fancy that I see

my poor little Katy in heaven among the angels. I often see her here in

the room when I am laying with my eyes closed, but not asleep; and I

often think I hear her dying words, "Will he Come!" and I say "yes, he

has come; the Saviour has come, my child, to your mother." Then she

says, "then come, mother, come and live with us;" and I answer, "by and

by." By and by, Phebe I shall go, but not yet, I am going to get well

now.'

"So I went and lay down in the back room, and I heard nothing of her,

though I got up and looked at her a good many times, but she seemed to

be sleeping so sweet, I thought I would not wake her to take her

medicine--the doctor said I need not. In the morning I got up, and

looked in the room, and there was Sissee sitting up in the bed, trying

to open her mother's eyes; then she would put her arms around her neck

and kiss her, but there was no kiss in return. Then she sat back and

looked at her a minute, and then called--'Phebe, Phebe, mamma does not

speak, oh Phebe, is mamma dead!"

Yes mamma was dead. She had died as calm and free from pain and full of

joy as when she said "good night" to her friends. She had died full of

anticipation that she was going to live to get well; that she would not

join the spirit of Little Katy now, but by and by: by and by she would

come.

Drop a tear, drop a tear, for she's departed!

Wreath a smile, for she died not broken-hearted.

This was on Friday morning. On the Sunday following, the intended party

met at Mrs. Morgan's and partook of an early dinner. "For," said Mr.

Lovetree, "we have a good deal to do this afternoon. In the first place,

some of our friends are disposed to be united in the holy, the blessed

bonds, that bind the sexes together in a union that should be

indissoluble, and productive of nothing but happiness. After that we

have a duty to perform, which though it is generally termed melancholy,

must not be made so on the present occasion. We shall go to deposit the

body in Greenwood, that lovely place of rest for the dead, of one who we

have every reason to believe died a true penitent, and is now with the

spirit of Little Katy, where those who are murdered by the same cause

that produced her death, will seldom ever be found. Our good missionary

is with us, and we will have the wedding ceremony before the funeral

one, because many go from that to the grave, none come from there to the

marriage feast."

Now all began to look around for the happy couple. Mrs. Morgan was

dressed as though she might be a bride, but where was the groom? Mr.

Lovetree whispered to Mrs. Meltrand, for she was there with Agnes and

little Sis, and Mrs. Meltrand said that Frank would be there by the

time.

"Now what Frank is that?" said Stella in a whisper to Mrs. May; "it must

be Frank Barkley; and so it is Mrs. Morgan that is going to be married.

Oh, dear, I am sorry, I was in hopes she would always live with her old

uncle, as she does now."

It _was_ Frank Barkley who was expected. He was an old acquaintance of

Mrs. Meltrand, a little wild in his youth, and came within an inch of

the precipice over which so many young men tumble. Mr. Lovetree had

said, "there is something good in the fellow," and between him and Mrs.

Meltrand, it was developed. He is a good fellow--a sober fellow now--and

he is going to be married. Now the door bell rings.

"There that is him."

Yes, it was him. He was told that all were waiting for him, and he said

"he had come to the minute agreed upon." Poor Stella shed tears. She

cried to think her dear friend, Mrs. Morgan, was about to be married.

She cried without a cause.

Mr. Lovetree said to Frank, "allow me to introduce you to my niece, Mrs.

Morgan."

He started back from her, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. Stella

rubbed hers. She was convinced now that they were not to be married.

Poor Frank looked confused and in doubt. He approached near enough to

Mrs. Morgan to whisper, "Lucy," to which she replied, "Yes," and he

said, "God bless you then," and turned away to meet his bride.

This was Agnes. And he took her by the hand, and led her up to the

minister who was to pronounce them man and wife, and said--"Now, sir, we

are ready." Then a couple, who were to act as bridesmaid and

bridegroom's attendant, took their stations upon the floor. It was the

opinion of all present that they would act as principals in a similar

scene by and by.

Perhaps the reader would like to know who this neatly-dressed, bright

couple are, for he has seen them several times before. It is one of Mr.

Lovetree's oddities that you see them now. You have seen them when they

would not be very fitting guests in a parlor, but they wear

wedding-garments now. This is Tom, who held the cup of cold water to

the lips of the dying Madalina, and this is his reward. The neat, lovely

girl at his side is Wild Maggie--Miss Margaret Reagan. The

fine-looking hearty man that is leading up a well-dressed woman to the

altar--another couple to be married--is one of the former customers of

Cale Jones's grocery. It is Maggie's father. His bride is Mrs. Eaton. We

have seen her and her two children in some of the early scenes of this

volume. We saw them in the street then--we see them in the parlor now.

We see them much better, much happier this time, and we see them just as

we might see all the laboring class, if we could abolish the traffic in

rum from the world. There are two other couples here to bear testimony

to that fact. It was the particular request of Reagan and Maggie that

they should be present to witness and rejoice over the power of the

pledge to save. We have seen both these couples stand up to be married

before the same minister who is now saying the solemn words of the

marriage ceremony to those before him. You may see them as they were

when you first saw them, if you will turn back to the plate facing the

"Two Penny Marriage."

Julia Antrim and Willie Reagan act as attendants upon this last couple,

and Sally Reagan and Stella May, dressed in pure white--dresses of their

own make--with wreaths of flowers in their hair, made by their own

hands--served the company with cakes and fruits and tea and coffee. Then

the carriages came to the door, and all went--not to a tavern, or

drinking saloon for a riot, to commemorate the most serious event of

life, but in all soberness due to the occasion, to consign the remains

of poor Madame De Vrai to her final resting-place on the earth.

It is a pleasant drive to Greenwood Cemetery, and it is a pleasant place

for the tombs of our friends. It is a good place to go to meditate,

among the new-made graves in the fresh-turned earth, and among the proud

monuments of those who have lain long enough beneath their marble

coverings to be forgotten. I did not forget to look, as I passed along,

at the rose bush which I saw planted by a widow at the grave of her

rum-murdered husband. It was growing fresh and vigorously.

Now we stand around the open grave that is soon to be filled by another

victim of a trade that feeds scores and starves millions--that saves one

life and causes a thousand deaths--that consigns youth, innocence and

beauty, equally with old age, to a premature grave. Now we lower this

last victim--still young, beautiful, intelligent, full of sweetness of

disposition and kindness of heart--into her grave. Now we look at the

little cherub, the darling, sweet, much loved Adaleta, her orphan child,

and now at her sister's grave, then at the weeping circle, who stand and

sob as the falling clods bring forth that hollow sound, never heard in

any other place. Now the voice of him who says: "'Tis the last of

earth," "Let us pray," breaks the charmed circle of intense silence.

Why is every eye upturned at the close? Did each listening ear fancy it

heard the sound of an angel's voice in the air, breathing the

words,--"Will he Come?" "Will he Come?"

And did they expect to see the face of Little Katy in the clouds,

looking down upon those she loved, paying this tribute to her mother,

now sleeping by her side in the grave; now with her child in the spirit

land of the blest?

Now the tall corn is waving o'er the mountain and glen,

And the sickle is reaping both the corn and the men;

And the child that was sleeping where the lamps dimly shone,

Like the corn, now is with'ring, in the vale all alone.

"Hot corn!" she was crying, in the night, all alone,

"Hot corn! here's your nice hot corn!" in the grave all alone.

Where the chill rain was falling, sat the poor child asleep;

Where the lights nightly burning, city vigils help keep--

Where the ague was creeping through the blood and the bone

Of the child that was sleeping on the curb-stone alone.

"Hot corn!" she was crying, in the night all alone,

"Hot corn! here's your nice hot corn!" in the grave all alone.

In a dark room lonely, lay the child all awake,

With a voice wildly crying, "Will he come, for my sake?"

Then a good man was praying, while to her dimly shone,

Poor fading light--ceases burning--and with God she's alone.

"Hot corn!" she was crying, in the night all alone,

"Hot corn! here's your nice hot corn!" in the grave all alone.

In the dark grave sleeping, while poor Katy's at rest,

While the wild storm raging, ever sweeps o'er her breast--

While the mourners are weeping for the dead passed away,

Let us pledge by the living that the cause we will stay.

"Hot corn!" she was crying, in the night all alone,

"Hot corn! here's your nice hot corn," in the grave all alone.

A VOICE FROM KATY'S GRAVE.

Among the many poetical effusions which have been elicited by reading

the story of "Little Katy," I think the following, which appeared in the

New York Tribune, will be read with pleasure. It is from the pen of Mrs.

B. F. Foster, of New York:--

With dizzy whirl, on rushed the wheels

Along the City's murky street,

And music's light, inspiring peals

Rang out from folly's gay retreat;

And busy footsteps hurried past,

And human voices, harsh and wild,

Commingling, floated on the blast;

When the shrill accents of a child

Rose mid the din, in tones forlorn,

And cried, "Come, buy hot corn, hot corn!"

Like some sad spirit wafted by,

A stranger to the ways of earth,

Came up that little plaintive cry--

Sweet discord to the sounds of mirth.

Unheeded by the reckless crowd,

There stood a girl, a pale, wan thing,

And 'neath her bosom's tattered shroud

There lurk'd an age of suffering;

While e'en till night approached the morn,

In feebler voice, she cried, "Hot Corn!"

The gas lamp's glare fell on her face,

But lighted not her languid eyes;

And down her pallid cheeks, the trace

Of tears, bespoke her miseries;

With hunger gnawing at her heart,

She shivered, as the night wind blew

Her soiled and ragged clothes apart;

Till all insensible she grew,

And sinking in unblessed sleep,

Forgot to cry, "Hot Corn," and weep.

Alone, so young, how came she there?

To sell hot corn so late at night;

Had she no friends, no home, nowhere

To rest, and hide her from the sight

Of the rude world? No mother? Hush!

That holy name is not the one

For Katy's parent. Woman! blush

For thy lost sister; blush to own

That thou canst ever fall so low,

To plunge thy children into woe.

Within that mother's heart, the light

Of love was quench'd, quench'd by the flood,

The damning flood, whose waters blight

All that is left of human good:

And in her breast that demon reigned,

Who "Give, give, give!" is ever crying;

Demanding still to be maintained,

While all within, around, is dying;

Outpouring in its baneful breath,

Destruction, sorrow, sin and death.

The lips which should have kiss'd away

Her daughter's tears, dealt curses forth;

The hand which should have been her stay,

Was but the minister of wrath;

Blind to her wants, deaf to her prayers,

Regardless of the driving storm,

To open streets and midnight airs,

She drove that little shrinking form,

To earn a dram! In shame and scorn

With famished lips to cry, "Hot corn!"

"Hot corn, hot corn!"--night after night,

More faint and feeble grew that voice--

Still fiercely burned each glaring light,

Still music bade the town rejoice;

The ceaseless footsteps passed along,

Up came the wild discordant tones,

The voices of the thoughtless throng,--

The bounding wheels rolled o'er the stones,--

But midst the din, the rush, the roar,

Poor Katy's cry is heard no more.

In one of those dark, noisome cells,

The wretched call their home, she lies

All motionless; the icy spells

Of death, have closed those weary eyes;

She speaks not now. Alas! how dread!

That calm reproachful silence, when

Beside the wronged and injured dead,

We kneel in vain! Low in that den

Behold the stricken mother cower;

Grown sober in one fearful hour.

She calls her, "Katy, darling!"--peers

Into that pale and sunken face,

She bathes her senseless brow with tears,

Sees on those bruised limbs, the trace

Of her own cruelty;--again

She calls, and prays for one last word,

Of blest forgiveness;--all in vain,

The answering voice no more is heard,

The soulless clay alone is there,

And fell remorse, and dark despair.

Weep, wretched woman, weep! That face

Shall haunt thee to thy dying day;

Nor time from memory erase

Thy child's deep wrongs; for they

Shall scorch into thy guilty breast;

In mad excitement thou shalt hear

Her cries; and midst thy fitful rest,

Shall that pale phantom form appear,

And o'er thy drunken moping, stand

To curse thee with an outstretched hand.

Yet not alone with thee, abides

That curse. Oh, Men, and Christians! can

Ye robe yourself in god-like pride,

And boast your land, the one where man

Is most exalted; yet permit

The Demon Drunkenness to roam

Unfettered through your streets; to sit

By ev'ry corner, ev'ry home--

The weak and wretched to allure

To drink, to suffer, and endure?

In mercy, then, arrest the reign

Of this dread fiend; and Oh! protect

Man from his self-inflicted pain.

Spare the young wife, whose hopes are wreck'd,

Whose heart is crushed, whose home forsaken,

Whose life's a desolated wild.

To infant prayers and tears awaken,

And from the mother save the child.

Hark to that echo!--"Save, oh, save!"

Pleads a sad voice from Katy's grave.

* * * * *

"Pleads a sad voice from Katy's grave--

Save, oh, save!"

Fathers! mothers! sons! daughters! husbands! wives! Christians!

philanthropists! All--brothers and sisters!--hear ye that voice? If ye

do not, then, indeed, are ye deaf. Then have I cried in vain. In vain I

have visited the abodes of wretchedness and sin, to draw materials for

my panorama of "Life Scenes in New York." In vain I have painted you

dark scenes of life, instead of those which shine out in the noonday

sun.

In vain have I endeavored to awaken your sympathies by relations of

tales of woe, or painted vice, as I have met with it in my midnight

rambles, to guard you from its snares, if I have failed to touch that

chord in your heart which brings a tear to the eye, for it is that which

will prompt you to action--to sleepless vigilance, to eradicate from the

world the great cause of such human misery as I have depicted. It is

that which, will prompt you to give, if nothing more,

"Three grains of corn,

Only three grains of corn, mother,"

towards the redemption of the fallen, and protection of those who need a

staff and a guide to hold them back from the precipice over which they

have gone down to ruin.

Reader, if you have not yet done it, do not close the book until you

have paid the tribute of a tear at the grave of

[Illustration: Little Katy]

Transcriber's Note:

Misspellings, archaic spellings, and multiple spellings retained as in

original.