Female Depravity
Author: Bradbury, Osgood
Date: 2016-09-27T05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction
Description: Ebook prepared by crutledge@knology.net
Rights: Public Domain

TABLE of CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER I

'O, who can hold a fire in his hand,
By thinking on the frosty Caucasus?
Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite
By base imagination of a feast?
Or wallow naked in December snow
By thinking on fantastic summer's heat?
O, no! the apprehension of the good
Gives but the greater feeling to the wose;
Fell sorrow's tooth doth never rankle more
Than when it bites, but lanceth not the sore.'

IT was a bitter cold night, and the December winds swept through the streets of the city, making the watchmen button their overcoats tighter about their bodies and driving them under the shelter of the buildings that stood upon their beats. The heavens were draped in cold grey clouds, and occasionally a flake of snow would be driven by the wind against the face of the pedestrian who was seeking his lodgings after a day of severe toil and labor. The wind increased as the evening wore away, and the flakes of snow came faster and thicker, borne along by the fury of a Northeaster.

The city clocks had told the hour of midnight, and the streets were almost deserted. The jaded omnibus horses were stabled for the night, and the rumbling of a few carriages were heard in different parts of the city. Many of the saloons on Broadway were still brilliantly lighted and thronged by young men on their way home from the theatres and other places of amusement. Dim lights might also be seen in thousands of low groggeries in filthy streets and lanes, and bloated drunkards, taking their last glasses before they started for their miserable abodes which were called by the endearing name of home. Some wretched women might be seen hovering round the corners of the streets, cursing their fate in the bitterness of their hearts, and not knowing where they should pass the remainder of the night—others, younger and more buoyant with hope and the fines of liquor, still sauntered along the sidewalks to meet some men quite as depraved as themselves, and entice them away to their dens of infamy and shame. But few, however, were seen in the streets, after the theatre-going crowds had returned to their lodgings, and the lights were extinguished in the gaudy oyster saloons and miserable rum-holes of the city.

'I wonder if I have lost my way!' said a young man to himself as he was hurrying along in one of the streets that led into Broadway, and endeavoring to read the name of the street at each corner as he passed. 'It seems to me I did not come this way, I wish I had left my uncle's house at an earlier hour so that I might have taken an omnibus. Grace! how the wind drives the snow! This is indeed as violent a storm as any we have in Canada.'

Thus he communed with his own troubled and confused thoughts, while he was wandering away from the boarding house which he was seeking. He was bewildered and had lost the points of the compass. He was winding his way in the wrong direction, and going further and further from his boarding house. He pressed along against the storm, and hoped to meet some one of whom he might inquire.

Thus he travelled, and, instead of going direct into Broadway, he turned into another street and was going towards the East river. As he hurried along, he saw just ahead a well dressed female who was buffetting the storm as he was. It is said that misery loves company, and the sight of that woman somewhat cheered his heart. Soon he overtook her, for she lagged her steps when she saw him coming.

'A very stormy night,' he said, as he came along by her side.

'You may well say that, sir,' was her reply, looking out from under her bonnet and veil, and showing a countenance by no means ugly. At least it did not appear ugly to him in the gas-light which reflected brightly from the thick falling snow.

'Can you tell me where I can find Warren Street?' he asked. 'I believe I have missed my way.'

'No wonder you have this stormy night,' she answered, 'especially if you are a stranger in the city,' she replied—smiling amid the storm.

'I am a stranger in the city, for I was never here before,' he replied.—'And I came but a few days ago. Will you be so kind as to inform me what course I must take to find Warren Street.'

'Certainly, sir,' was the answer. 'I am going into that street myself, if the storm does not so blind my eyes that I cannot find it. I regret I did not start sooner so that I might have taken a carriage.'

'I feel the same regret,' he said, offering her his arm which she gladly accepted. 'I was not aware the storm was so violent, before I came out into it.'

'I was deceived in the same way,' she said, pressing his arm more closely to her side as a gust of wind came violently round the corner of a street, and almost took them from their feet. 'Had I known the storm was so severe I should have remained all night with the friends whom I was visiting.'

'I, too, wish I had tarried at my uncle's,' he said, beginning to feel some interest in his companion who spoke very pleasantly and seemed quite amiable.

'Then you have relatives in the city?' she continued.

'An uncle who has two children ,' he replied. 'His wife died about a year ago.'

'Of course he will soon marry again,' she said, looking up into his face and smiling. 'Widowers are very apt to fall in love a second time quite as easily as they did the first.'

'Many do, and so do widows I believe,' he added, returning her smile, and feeling as if he had found a very agreeable companion.

'No doubt of it,' she replied, hugging his arm more closely. 'Widows as well as widowers sometimes act likes fools. I wonder if the married state is so wonderfully fascinating.'

'Indeed, I cannot say, having never entered it,' he answered. 'And I judge from your remarks that you have never tried it.'

'Good Lord!' she exclaimed, apparently surprised. 'Excuse me, sir, for making such an exclamation. No, indeed, I have never tried that state, and what is more, I never came in sight of it. I have often thought I should remain in single blessedness during my stay upon earth.'

'Young ladies often change their minds,' he added, smiling. 'And perhaps you may yet do so.'

'It is possible; but the young man who has power to work that change in my mind must be a very clever and handsome fellow,' she said. 'I wonder you have not taken a wife ere this.'

'I could find no young lady to love me,' he answered.

'You must tell that to some body besides me, if you expect to have it believed,' she frankly replied, pressing his arm, and smiling. 'Judging from your looks in the light of these lamps, I give it as my opinion that you will never have much trouble in getting a wife.'

'Now that is downright flattery,' he said, laughing quite loud and almost forgetting the violence of the storm, and his boarding house, which, a few moments before, he was so anxious to find.

'Call it so if you please, nevertheless, it is true,' she quickly added. 'I think you said you were a stranger in the city. From what parts did you come, if I may be so bold as to ask the question.'

'From Canada West,' he replied, 'my object is to see the city, and if I like, to remove here.'

'Well, that is queer,' she said. 'I came from Canada, too,—from Montreal. Strange that two Canadians should meet at this time of the night and in such a storm, too.'

'Have you any connections here?' he asked.

'Not a soul; but I like this mighty city first rate,' she answered. 'I have made several friends and acquaintances since I came.'

He felt anxious to learn what employment she found, or whether she lived on the interest of her money; but politeness forbid him to make the enquiry. It is true, the thought occurred to him that she might not be chaste as the driven snow, and yet it did not seem to him that she was a wanton.—She conversed so well and the tones of her voice were so musical, and her manners so prepossessing and agreeable that he was reluctant to believe she could be a wicked and abandoned girl. When such suspicions entered his mind, he drove them out, and exercised a very charitable spirit towards her.

'How long have you resided here?' he asked.

'About six months,' was her answer; 'So you see I am not a great many removes from being a stranger in the city. A person must live here longer than I have before she or he can learn all the ways of this great city.'

'Do your parents reside in Montreal?' he enquired.

'Alas! sir, my parents are both dead!' she exclaimed, in a trembling voice.

'I hope they left you money,' he added, feeling much sympathy in her behalf.

'Not fifty pounds!' she replied.—'They were once wealthy, but reverses of fortune and the fluctuations of trade made them poor, and almost broke their proud hearts! But thanks to heaven, I have been enabled to get a living with my needle. Dear me, how the wind blows! Don't you think the storm increases, sir?'

'I do, indeed,' he answered. 'I did not suppose they had such storms in New York. They equal our Canada storms in violence.'

'It is seldom they have such a storm as this here I think,' she added.

'How far are we now from Warren Street?' he asked.

'In fact I can hardly tell, I am so bewildered by the storms,' she answered. 'I was thinking and wondering what street we are now in! The storm has so much changed the appearance of things, that I confess I am lost myself. And besides we have been so busy in talking that I had almost forgotten where I was going.'

They now came to the corner of a street and endeavored to read the name of the street on the printed board; but it was so covered with the snow that the name could not be read. After passing along a few rods further they discovered a watchman leaning for shelter against the front of a house.—Approaching this guardian of the night, the young man asked him for direction to Warren Street.'

'Warren Street!' repeated the watchman. 'Why, that is more than two miles down town, and you are travelling directly from it. You ought to have taken a carriage, and not ventured out in this boisterous night, with a lady.'

"I accidently met the lady,' added the young man, in surprise.

"Well, then, she will find you a shelter from the storm without but beware, young man, of the storm within,' said the watchman, in a gruff voice, and smiling amidst the storm.

'Be not hasty in your conclusions, sir,' added the girl, in a sharp, quick voice. 'I too have lost my way.'

'So has the devil as much,' gruffly answered the watchman. 'Be not at all alarmed, young man, she will find you a home for the night.'

'Without joking, sir, will you be so good as to tell me the name of this street?' she asked.

The watchman told her; but added some words which did not fall so agreeably upon their ears. They left the watchman and passed along.

'Now I know where we are, and in yonder house where you see a light an acquaintance of mine lives,' she said. 'We have strayed so far from our course that I shall tarry there to-night, and sir, you can have lodgings, if you please. She is a maiden lady, and keeps boarders. The storm is so violent that you had better not think of going to Warren Street.'

'I don't like to throw myself on strangers,' he replied.

'O, sir, you will like the woman when you see her, and she will very cheerfully accommodate you with lodgings,' she added.

They passed along and soon stood on the door steps. She rung the bell, and a large fat, round faced woman answered the summons.

'Why, Clara Hopkins, is that you?' asked the housekeeper, as the light of the hot lamps shone upon their faces and forms. 'Dear me! you are all covered with snow. It is a terrible night!'

'It is, indeed, and will you keep us here to-night?' asked Clara.

"Surely I will, with pleasure,' replied the woman.

'You are very kind, madam; but I think will try to find my boarding house, if you will give me directions so that I can find Broadway. It I can get into that street I can find my way I think.'

'Don't think of it, Sir,' said the woman. 'The storm is very severe, and you may tarry here in welcome. Walk in, sir, and make yourself at home.'

'Yes, come in,' added the cunning Clara. 'You have been so kind to me that I cannot endure the thought of your exposing yourself to the storm any more to-night.'

'I'm not accustomed to throw myself on the hospitality of strangers,' he said.

'Never mind that, sir, walk in,' added the woman, smiling, and appearing very pleasant and generous.

He could not resist the temptations of the women, especially when they appeared so very kind. He was soon ushered into a brilliantly lighted and well-furnished parlor. Everything wore the aspect of comfort and while the storm raged without, all seemed to be quiet within. He was glad to find a shelter from the storm which he had been buffetting so long.

The reader need not be told that this house was one of ill-fame; but the young man was not so sure of it as the reader is. Clara Hopkins knew that the companion of her midnight walk was not accustomed to city life, and had not yet seen the elephant, and therefore managed accordingly.

Charles Henderson, the name of this young man, was born of English parents and had always resided, until he came to the city, in a small country town in Canada West. His father had been dead about a year, and left him and his mother several thousand pounds. His object in visiting the city was to see if he could not find some profitable business and become a citizen of the great metropolis. His early education had been a good one, and his morals were yet uncorrupted.

His uncle, whom he had visited that evening, was a man of wealth and had retired from business. His name was Robinson. Having followed the seas in his early life and been the master of a merchant vessel, he was known as Capt. Robinson. He had two children, a son and a daughter, the former fifteen years of age, and the latter twelve.—The daughter was a beautiful girl and full of life and animation. The son already began to show symptoms of rowdyism, but continued to keep his father in the dark. His name was Frank.

CHAPTER II

SCENE IN A HUMBLE DWELLING. A CONTRAST BETWEEN TWO FEMALES. ARRIVAL OF ONE WHO IS BENT ON THE DESTRUCTION OF A YOUNG AND INNOCENT GIRL. THE CONTEST.

'THE storm is so violent, I fear the Captain will not come to-night as he promised me,' said Mrs. Rudolf, as she sat in her humble dwelling during the stormy evening described in the previous chapter.

She addressed herself to a beautiful girl who sat near her. This girl's name was Fanny Dumont. She was some over fifteen years of age, and possessed most extraordinary personal charms.

Mrs. Rudolf was a poor woman, and as wicked as she was poor. One of her limbs was much shorter than the other, and she always moved about with the assistance of large cane. Her face was quite freckled, her hair of a reddish hue, and her eyes of a cold, gray color. Her nose was thin and sharp; her cheeks were somewhat hollow and sunken, and her chin quite long, protruding some distance beyond her mouth which was large, and opened back almost far enough to cut her head half off. Her countenance was any thing but pleasant and agreeable, and her voice exceedingly sharp and unmusical. Heaven had bestowed upon this woman a good share of intellect, and her shrewdness and cunning were quite above the common standard. She lived in an obscure and filthy street and occupied a small dilapidated wooden tenement. She was called Mrs. Dumont, but it is very doubtful whether she was ever married. She called herself a widow.

'What Captain?' asked Fanny, looking full into the cold, gray eyes of this ugly woman.

'Why, the gentleman who saw you in Park Place the other day, and gave you the new dress you have on now,' said the widow.

'I don't understand why he should give me a dress,' said Fanny. 'He is the same gentleman who gave me a shilling the other day when I was sweeping the mud from the crossing. And he pressed my hand when he put the shilling into it.'

'O, he is a very nice gentleman,' said Mrs. Rudolf. 'And he likes you, Fanny, very much. He was here yesterday while you were absent, and spoke very highly of you. I shouldn't wonder if he really loves you.'

'Loves me!' repeated the girl, with much astonishment. 'Love me, a poor street sweeper! He is old enough to be my grandfather. No—no, he can never love me, and if he did, I could not love him, he is so old.'

'Nonsense!' said the woman. 'Perfect nonsense! Why, suppose, he should offer to marry you!'

'O, heavens!' exclaimed Fanny, 'I could never think of that!'

'You, must think of it though, I can assure you, Miss,' added this ugly woman, in an angry tone of voice, while she rose from the chair in which she was sitting and hobbled along to the window to look out into the street.—'It is high time for you to think of getting a home. I have supported you ever since you were a year old, and I can't do it much longer. Only think of the number of dresses you have worn out, and how much you have eaten for the last dozen years or more.'

'I know it all; but then havn't I brought you a good deal of money?'—said Fanny. 'Some rainy days when the streets were muddy, I have collected more than two dollars and given to you. And when the crossings did not need sweeping, havn't I begged thousands Of pennies for you? And have not you scolded and sometimes whipped me because I didn't get more money?'

'Yes, and you deserved it all,' replied plied this unfeeling woman. 'I dare say some little girls have collected much more money than you have, and brought it home.'

'That may be, but I think the gentlemen have given me as much, and even more, than they have any one of the other girls,' added Fanny. 'The other girls always complained that I got the most money, and sometimes they abused me for it. O, it is a terrible life to live! I wish you would learn me to use the needle and not send me into the streets any more.'

'Well, perhaps the Captain will take care of you,' said the woman. 'And I wish he would come. Do as I bid you, and you need not beg nor sweep the streets any more.'

'O, I don't like the looks of that man!' said Fanny.

'Don't like the looks of him?' repeated this false-hearted woman. 'You talk like a little fool as you are. Don't like the looks of him! Well, truly. That is talking quite large! I say he is a fine looking man, and should not wonder if he loved you dearly.'

'Good heavens!' exclaimed this good girl. 'He mustn't love me! No—no. He mustn't love me.'

'You are a little fool; to make the best of you,' said the woman, manifesting much anger in her voice and manner, and again hobbling back to her chair by the stove. 'He mustn't love you. Miserable, foolish girl. But he will love you, and you must love him. You were given to me when you were a mere child, and I have full power to make you mind me, and I'm determined to do it.'

And she struck her cane violently upon the floor to give the more emphasis to her words. The color came and went in Fanny's cheeks and her dark lustrious eyes sparkled with unusual brilliancy. Fanny possessed a very kind heart, but she did not lack temper. She was full of real grit; but the fear of the old cripple's cane had generally kept the child's temper down, and made her very obedient and even humble in the presence of her cruel, hard-hearted mistress. True, Fanny's temper had shown itself recently more than was her wont, still she was afraid of this ugly woman and curbed her feelings as much as possible.

This girl had been often tempted by both young men and old, but had never yielded. Her beauty even when covered with rags and mud, had often attracted the attention of libertines, and sometimes enlisted the sympathies of the good and virtuous.

There was one benevolent lady who had often seen her in the streets, and had given her money, and once inquired where she lived; but as yet she had not called at Mrs. Rudolf's humble dwelling.

Another lady, not quite so benevolent, and actuated by different motives, had noticed the girl, and enquired for the street and number where she lived, intending at some future day to call and entice her away.

Both were silent for some minutes. No sounds were heard save the howling of the storm, and the rattling of the old windows and the clapboards of the house.

Fanny's spirit was stirred within her, and her lips quivered; but she dared not show her feelings to her cruel mistress.

No woman could act out the hypocrite better than Mrs. Rudolf. When occasion called she could appear like at humble Christian and devoted saint.—By assuming such appearances she had ingratiated herself into the good graces and favor of many good people, and received many presents from them.—The truth is, what with Fanny's begging and street sweeping and the presents from the charitable, this hypocritical and false-hearted woman always had enough to wear, to eat and to pay her small rent.

She and Fanny gazed at each other in silent thoughtfulness for some time. The latter dared not speak lest she might give utterance to some words that would bring the old woman's cane over her head where it had fallen many a time.

At last the mistress broke the silence, and said: 'You are an ungrateful girl, and deserve a sound thrashing this very minute; but I won't bruise your pretty face until the Captain has seen you in your new dress.'

'Bruise my face and make me look ugly, if that will prevent him from loving me,' said Fanny, in a voice of trembling. 'O, heavens! any thing but his love.'

'Iv'e a good mind to strike you over the head for making such a silly speech,' said the woman, snapping her gray eyes, and raising her cane as if she were about to suit the action to her words.

'Strike, and end my wretched life!' exclaimed Fanny, rising upon her feet, and gazing upon the agitated and ugly countenance of her mistress. 'Strike! Life has become a burden hard to be borne.'

'Sit down instantly and not gaze upon me so insolently!' said the woman, striking the end of her cane violently upon the floor, and stamping her foot.

Fanny remained standing in defiance of this female tyrant's commands.—The girl's temper was up, and she almost forgot to fear the cane. She stood with her dark eyes fastened upon her mistress in one burning gaze as if she would read her inmost thoughts. Mrs. Rudolf's cane trembled upon the floor, and her cold, gray eyes emitted unwonted fire. Evidently she was debating in her mind whether to strike or not; and while she was thus agitated with troubled emotions, a carriage was driven to the door and the Captain knocked for admission.

While Mrs. Rudolf was ushering in the Captain, Fanny hurried into another room, and threw herself upon a bed of rags where she had slept for more than a year. The compliments of the evening were exchanged, and the Captain took a chair by the stove.

'A tremendous storm to-night,' he said, throwing off his hat and running his fingers through his bushy, gray hair.

'It is indeed,' she replied. 'But why didn't you come before? We were almost out of patience.'

'The truth is, I had a nephew from Canada call upon me, and it seemed as if he would never leave. He tarried until nearly eleven o'clock, and how he found his way back to his boarding house is more than I can tell. He is rather green yet, but will learn after a while. Perhaps some street walker acted as pilot for him. And another thing; my son Frank was out quite late for him, and came home somewhat intoxicated. I have never known him so before, and hope it will cure him. But where's my good Fanny. That's her name, I believe.'

'Yes; she was here a moment ago,' replied the woman. 'I will call her soon. I suppose she has gone to her room. But, Captain, how much do you propose to give me? You see I am lame, and heaven knows, I am poor, and Fanny is a beauty, if I did bring her up.'

'There's a fifty dollar bank note,' he said, handing her the bill, and slyly winking. 'If matters work well, you will find out that there is more where that came from. You understand.'

'O, yes, Captain, I understand you, and rely upon your generosity,' she replied. 'You must remember that but few such girls as Fanny are born into this world. Ah, Captain, there's honey in her lips!'

'I think there's more than there is in her mistress,' he replied, laughing.

'You may crack your jokes as much as you please,' she said, 'I can bear them, for I have long been used to such treatment. I don't boast of my personal charms now; but once they won the heart of a man who became my loving husband.'

'May God have mercy on his soul!' replied the Captain. 'But tell me, where did you pick up this Fanny? She's not your daughter, I can swear.'

'You may swear thus safely,' replied the old hag, smiling, and trotting her sound limb. 'Fanny was brought to me by a very handsome gentleman when she was only a year old. I presume he was her father, but I have not seen him since.'

'I suppose he left money with you >

'O, a few cool hundreds,' she replied. 'But that is all gone years ago. I knew the child was handsome, and would some day grow up to be a beauty. And she has.'

'But, her mother!' interrupted the Captain.

'I never saw her, and know not who she is,' answered the woman. 'But I reckon she was a beautiful woman, for the gentleman said Fanny looked like her mother, especially when she smiles.'

'Fanny does smile sweetly, especially when she receives a penny,' he said. 'Come, call her, for I'm impatient for some of that honey you just now spoke of.'

'The girl is not in very good humor to-night' she answered. 'She has got a kink in her which I was trying to straighten out just as your carriage was driven up.'

'Leave the kinks to me,' he said. 'I know all the ropes in such land crafts, and can navigate them. Call her in, and let me gaze into the liquid depths of her sparkling eyes.'

'Yes, and on her rosy lips and fair cheeks,' she said, hobbling off to call the young and innocent lamb to throw her into the clutches of a wolf.

She called three times before Fanny would answer, and the last time she spoke in a high key of voice, which pierced the ear like the shrill notes of the pipe.

Fanny slowly, and reluctantly entered the room. A tear stood trembling in her left eye, and one just before had escaped from her left orb. Her dark hair was somewhat dishevelled, and fell in rich, shining clusters over her beautiful neck and shoulders. The Captain thought he never saw her when she looked so bewitchingly beautiful as she did at that moment.

'Come here,' said the Captain, in his blandest voice.

'I had rather not, sir,' replied Fanny, courtesying quite low, and beseechingly gazing into his fair, round face, as if she prayed him to spare her from any insult.

'Go, Fanny, when the Captain calls you,' said her mistress, in a sharp voice.

'I had rather not,' Fanny repeated, turning her eyes upon the woman, and looking as if she would rebuke her for her sins.

'Don't answer me so,' said the angry woman, in a still sharper tone of voice, and setting her cane smartly upon the floor. 'Be a good girl, and the Captain will treat you kindly as he always has.'

'O, yes, Fanny, I will use you tenderly,' he said.

'Yes, as tenderly as the wolf uses the lamb, as I heard a good woman say the other day,' added Fanny.

'What woman?' anxiously inquired Mrs. Rudolf.

'The one who gave me the dollar I handed to you,' replied Fanny. 'She told me I must beware of wolves in sheep's clothing, and that there were a great many wicked men in this city I must look out for.'

'The hypocritical saint!' said the Captain. 'You mustn't mind, my dear, what such long-faced women tell you. Our city is full of such hypocrites.'

'Yes, indeed, it is,' added Mrs. Rudolf. 'And I have no patience with them.'

'The lady was very kind and gave me a dollar,' said Fanny. 'And she promised to call and see me and you too.'

'I hope she wont keep that promise, but break it; for I have no desire to see her in my house,' said this heartless woman. 'Go to the Captain as I bid you, and not be a fool.'

'Yes, come, and let me have one kiss for that new dress which makes you look so beautiful,' he added.

'No, never!' answered Fanny, gazing down upon the floor.

'Let me never hear those words again,' exclaimed Mrs. Rudolf, stamping her foot, and striking her cane violently upon the floor. 'Don't repeat them.'

'Then he must not ask me for such things,' said Fanny.

'O, come—come, Fanny, don't be so much out of humor this stormy night,' he said, rising up, and approaching her.

Fanny retreated as far as the walls of the room would permit, and there stood as if she was determined to defend herself at all hazards.

The Captain was somewhat surprised at her look of determination and, resolution. Still he did not like to be thrown hors du combat> by such small craft, and again approached her. She dodged under his extended arm, and flew to another part of the room.

'Let me alone, or I will leave the house and perish in the snow storm!' exclaimed this resolute and virtuous girl, while her dark eyes sparkled and her bosom heaved with strange emotions.

Mrs. Rudolf's temper was up, and the Captain began to suspect that his journey through the snow storm would not amount to much except the loss of his bank note. One more unsuccessful attempt he made to fold her in his arms and draw honey from her lips; but she grew more and more wild and resolute, so that he was compelled to give up the chase that evening and seek his house in both anger and regret.

After he was gone Mrs. Rudolf scolded, fretted, flourished her cane, and threatened severe vengeance; but Fanny told her, boldly and frankly if she struck her she would leave her forever.

The mistress began to fear that Fanny's threats might be carried into execution, and she suffered her to seek her miserable bed without any corporeal punishment.

Never had Fanny exhibited such moral courage before. She threw herself upon her ragged bed and wept bitterly ere sleep come to her relief. Captain Robinson sought his own residence, and conscience smote him for his wicked intentions.

CHAPTER III

CHRISTMAS MORNING. A GOOD MOTHER AND HER LITTLE DAUGHTER. FANNY ON HER ERRAND. SHE MEETS GENEROUS HEARTS. WILD NED. CHRISTMAS PRESENTS. AN OLD HYPOCRITE.

THE sun rose bright and clear after the severe storm, and its morning beams glanced over the beautiful chrystallizations upon roofs and trees, and the merry sleigh-bells began to be heard in all parts of the city. It was a joyous morning on the twenty-fifth of December, and Gotham was all alive. Such a beautiful Christmas morning is very seldom seen, and most joyously was it welcomed by millions of hearts.

The reader may ask how did the young Canadian pass the night before this happy morn? Did he tarry for breakfast in the house that sheltered him from the pelting of such a pitiless storm? Did he find the hospitalities such as to induce him to exchange boarding houses? These are all legitimate enquiries, and such as the reader has a right to make, but they cannot be answered at this stage of our chronicles. If answered at all, they must form a scene in another act of this drama of city life.

It is Christmas, and let such events be chronicled as are appropriate to the occasion, and the day. O, how happy are the young and virtuous on such a morning as this? How anxiously they look into their suspended stockings to see what Santa Claus has there deposited for them!

'O, mother, see here, what a beautiful present I found in my stocking this morning!' said a young and beautiful girl to her mother, as she held up both her stocking and the gift. 'O, how glad I am!'

'Santa Claus was very kind to you,' said her mother, smiling, and kissing her daughter. 'I hope he has been as kind to the thousands of poor children in the city who scarcely know whether they shall have any breakfast or not. Don't you pity these poor children?'

'O, yes, mother I do, and would give them breakfasts if I knew where to find them,' was the answer of this kind-hearted little girl.

'That's right, my child, and I hope you will always remember to be good to the poor when you grow up to be a woman,' added this benevolent mother. 'I am going to see that poor cripple woman and the beautiful girl who lives with her you have heard me speak of last evening. She appears to be a very good woman, and is very poor.'

'O, I should like to see that girl you call so pretty,' said the little girl—'Can't I send her some Christmas presents?'

'Yes, you may send her a gold dollar,' replied the mother. 'And perhaps she will call and see you some day.'

The above dialogue took place in a richly furnished parlor between Mrs. Melville and her daughter Emily, who was about six years old. Mrs. Melville was a widow, her husband having died some two years ago, and leaving her a handsome fortune, a portion of which she devoted to charitable purposes.—She was a very handsome and an accomplished woman, well-fitted by nature to grace the higher circles or move among the poor and destitute, and minister to their wants. Little Emily was her first and only child, and a beautiful, bright and sparkling girl she was. Her mother had taught her from earliest infancy to be good and kind to the poor, giving alms in her presence, and teaching her by example as well as precept. Some of Mrs. Melville's friends thought her religion was all centered in ministering to the wants of the poor and distressed, for she was constantly seeking for objects of charity, that she might relieve them with the bounties Heaven had bestowed upon her.

The poor always hailed her presence with delight, and even the bloated inebriate respected her, and fully believed that her heart's desire was to do him good. No one except some who were wicked, and whose hearts were steeled against the charities of life, ever questioned her motives.

This benevolent woman had seen Fanny Dumont when the poor street sweeper's dress was bedraggled with mud half way to her waist, and her bright hair, wet with the descending rain, and matted together, fell in heavy ringlets over her shoulders. Once she questioned Fanny about the story of her life, and learned just enough to excite her interest and sympathy. Twice had she called and bestowed her alms upon Mrs. Rudolf, but Fanny happened to be absent, either begging or sweeping the crossings. Such was the character of the good and almsgiving Widow Melville.

The next morning after Captain Robinson had visited Mrs. Rudolf for the purpose of working the ruin of poor Fanny, the poor girl rose with the sun, but there were none to wish her a 'Merry Christmas.' Mrs. Rudolf turned her cold, gray eyes upon her, but said nothing to relieve the poor girl's heart of the load which was heavily pressing it down. Instead of smiles she met frowns; and the woman's only thought was how she could make the most money out of her fair charge.

'You must now eat a piece of bread, and then go out into the streets and wish every person you meet a merry Christmas, and hold out your hand to receive whatever may be given to you,' said this selfish being. 'It is a bright day, and you must bring home lots of money. Now mind what I say to you. Your actions last night were very bad, and you treated the Captain, shamefully.'

'Not half so shamefully as he would have treated me, if—'

'Not a word out of your head,' interrupted the woman, before the poor girl had finished her sentence. 'Not a single word. I heard enough of your talk last night, and am determined to punish you for it. Begone, and see to it that your pockets are filled with pennies and silver, too.'

'Don't push me too hard, or by heaven I will quit you forever,' replied Fanny, in a tone of voice that convinced the mistress that Fanny meant just what she said.

'Well—well, go along, and see what a good day's work you can do,' said Mrs. Rudolf, in tones somewhat milder, for she began seriously to fear that Fanny might become so desperate as to run away and drown herself in the East River, or seek some other abode.

Fanny took a piece of bread in her hand and went out on her usual mission, but with feelings and emotions quite different from any which had ever agitated her bosom before. She would have left this woman months ago, but for one thing. Mrs. Rudolf had promised to tell her who her parents were when she had seen sixteen summers, and that probably she would see her mother at that time. Such promises were not without their effect upon poor Fanny's mind; for she greatly desired to behold and embrace her mother.

This vile mistress managed her card very adroitly; but as yet she had never been able to induce Fanny to commit any crime, or deviate from the paths of virtue.

Mrs. Rudolf had been looking, and anxiously looking to that period when Fanny's age would make her a fit subject for man's vile passions, and when she could barter the girl's chastity for gold. That time she believed had arrived, and Captain Robinson had been selected as the instrument of the girl's disgrace and infamy; but the first interview had been any thing but encouraging as the reader has already been informed.

Fanny found her way into a fashionable street, but she felt unusually reluctant to wish any one a merry Christmas, or to ask for alms in any other form.

Meeting a fashionably dressed gentleman with a lady upon his arm, she ventured to give them a Christmas greeting.

'The same to you, my good girl,' responded the man, smiling, and giving her a half dollar.

'I thank you kindly,' said Fanny, in a very modest manner.

'Are your parents poor?' inquired the lady.

'I don't know, for I have no recollection of ever seeing my parents,' answered Fanny, in trembling accents. 'I live with a woman who says I shall probably see my mother when I am sixteen years old.'

'That is very odd,' added the lady, feeling surprised at the girl's remark. 'Does the woman use you well?'

Fanny was silent, and made no answer, which circumstance excited the sympathy of the lady, and roused her curiosity to learn more of the poor girl's history.

'Is the woman you live with any relation to you?' asked the lady.

'I don't know that she is; but I have been with her ever since I can remember,' replied Fanny. 'Have you any children?'

'None,' replied the lady. 'How would you like to come and live with me?'

'O, madam, it would please me very much; for then I should not be obliged to beg when the weather is pleasant, and to sweep the street when it rains and the walking is muddy.'

'Good gracious, husband!' exclaimed the lady. 'Is it possible that such a beautiful girl is compelled to sweep the streets and beg?'

'I think I have seen her near the Park, sweeping the crossings,' he replied.

'O, yes, sir, I have been there a great many times,' said Fanny. 'And I think you have given me pennies. I scarcely ever forget his countenance who has given me money. I'm quite sure, sir, you have made me presents.'

'I think I have,' he replied. 'And I am glad now I did so.'

The gentleman now asked her name, and where she lived, which question she answered, and he and his wife passed on; but they could not easily forget the street sweeper.

'I must go and see where this girl lives,' said the wife. 'Some how, I feel a great interest in her. Dress her up fashionably and she would be one of the most beautiful girls in the city.'

'She would, indeed,' he replied.—'Suppose, my dear, we should adopt her as our daughter; for the time has gone by when we can hope to have any children, unless we do adopt them.'

'Nothing would give me more pleasure,' she replied.

'Well, we will think upon it and go and see her one of these days,' he said. 'We could make a fine girl of her; but I wish she was only a few years younger.'

'No matter for that; for she is exceedingly bright, and her heart's impulses seem to be very good,' answered the good wife. 'I wonder what kind of a woman she lives with! We must have an interview with her.'

The happy couple now passed on in silence; but both were seriously thinking of the poor girl, and adopting her as a daughter.

The name of this gentleman was Henry Hapgood. He was a man of wealth and influence, and what is still better, he was a man of good moral principles.

In his earlier years he had been somewhat wild and thoughtful, but his marriage with a very good woman had changed his mode of living and greatly improved his condition in life. His impulses were always good, but they sometimes had driven him in a wrong direction. His wild oats were now all sown, and he was now a steady, sober and good man.

Fanny pursued her way, and occasionally gave a Christmas greeting to those she met. Some gave her a few pennies, and others passed her in silence. As she was wending her way along Broadway and elbowing her passage through the crowds that thronged that great thoroughfare on that joyous morning, she met a young man apparently about her age who seemed to gaze upon her with more than ordinary interest; for he stopped, and jocosely wished her a merry Christmas.

'The same to you,' she quickly replied. 'If were as rich as you appear to be, I would give you a gold piece for your kindness and good wishes, but alas! I am poor, and have no money save what is given to me by kind strangers.'

'You talk like a book, and lay your corns well,' he said, smiling, and then flourishing a small cane he held in his hand. 'I must give you a small coin to remember me by.'

He pulled from his pocket two shillings, and gave them to her with a flourish, and a smile.

'There, my darling, take these small coins, and remember the giver,' he continued. 'If there were not so many eyes about, I would imprint a Christmas kiss upon your rosy lips.'

'O, no, you ought not to do that,' she replied, very modestly. 'I could not allow you to take such a liberty; besides, I'm a poor girl and often sweep the streets for pennies. When you kiss, it must be on one that is your equal in rank.'

'The devil take rank,' he replied. 'When I see a pretty girl I'm bound to kiss her, whether she sweeps the streets or figures in a splendid drawing room.'

'You mean, if she will permit you,' she promptly replied, sweetly smiling, and gazing full into his handsome face.

There was something in the peculiar expression of her eyes that rivetted his attention and excited a deep interest in his heart. He had never before seen a female countenance that enlisted his feelings so much as Fanny's did at that moment.

'You don't undertake to say that you would not permit me to kiss you, if we were away from this crowd, do you?' he asked, while pride sparkled in his eyes, and his heart swelled with peculiar emotions.

'I do, indeed, and hope not to offend when I say so,' she replied.

'Well, your'e a little witch, and a hard customer I must confess,' he said. 'Are you French, English, Irish, or Scotch or American?'

'Indeed, I cannot tell; for I know not who my parents are,' was her answer.

'That's queer,' he answered, smiling. 'Girls generally know their mothers, if they don't their fathers.'

'True; but I know neither,' she replied. 'Alas! I wish I did!'

He asked her name and the street and number where she lived. She readily told him, and thanked him for manifesting so much interest in her behalf.

'Now you have learned my name, will you be so good as to tell me yours?' she very modestly asked.

'O, certainly,' he replied. 'They call me "Wild Ned," but you may call me Edward Morgan if you please.'

'Edward Morgan is a much prettier name than Wild Ned.'

'No matter, if you like Edward Morgan,' he replied. 'Edward Morgan may do himself the pleasure of calling upon Fanny Dumont. Remember, honor bright.'

Thus pompously speaking, he turned away and was soon out among the crowd.

'He is a singular fellow, but fine looking,' thought Fanny, as she bent her steps down Broadway. 'Strange, he should attempt to raise mustaches when he is so young. I think he would look much better, if he would ask the barber to cut off those scattering long hairs upon his upper-lip. I don't like the looks of them; besides, he has his brown hair too much curled for a young man; but I suppose he thinks it adds beauty to his looks. He appears like a smart fellow, but his breath smelt of brandy. O, how many young men ruin themselves by drinking, and old ones, too! There's Mr. Murphy and his wife who lives near our house, O, what. miserable creatures they are! Both get drunk whenever they can get liquor. And their two children are compelled to beg day and night to buy rum for their drunken parents while they havn't half bread enough to eat! I know several other families in the same condition. How I wish I might never see such sights. I am glad Mother Rudolf don't drink. But why do I call her mother? Because she has taught me. Thank heaven she's not my mother, and I wish I could live with some other person. But I must make the best of my lot. Perhaps I shall yet see my mother. O, what a happy day that would be! I wonder if she knows where my mother is! She pretends to know, and perhaps she does. But why don't mother come and see me! That is a mystery.'

Thus communed this poor girl with her own thoughts as she slowly elbowed her way through the crowd. But let us turn to other scenes.

After Fanny had gone out on her Christmas mission, the Widow Rudolf thus mused within herself. 'That girl Fanny grows more and more impertinent every day of her life. True, she has brought me a good deal of money for several years past, but she is getting too old and proud to beg, or to sweep the crossings much longer. I am aware of that, and have governed myself accordingly. Strange she acted so last night when the Captain came to see her, I hoped he would have an easy conquest, but I was disappointed . Perhaps, the little jade has now a lover, and keeps the secret from me. I must investigate that matter, thoroughly.—Ah, the cunning trollop! I will find you out, if you have a lover. But I must proceed cautiously, and so must the Captain, too. It seems to me both united can conquer her. He is very anxious, and no wonder, for she is really a fascinating girl. She must be conquered, and then I shall have money enough. See how the people crowd the streets on foot and in sleighs this fine Christmas morning, and here I am lame and cooped up in this small and meanly furnished room! The world owes me money, and I must have it. But how, unless Fanny can be conquered? She must—she shall yield! I will confine her in the house and she shall not go out at all unless she yields to the Captain. When she is confined so that she cannot run away, then I can safely whip her into obedience to my commands. She was given to me and I have a right to control her; and she shall be controled. The jade! have not I taken care of her ever since she was a year old, and how she requites all these favors? I wonder if her parents are living! It is really strange that I have never heard from them. It is a great mystery. No doubt the gentleman who placed her in my care is her father. Perhaps he may be dead, and her mother knows not where her child is. Surely if she knew she would wish to see her. Sometimes I have thought of advertising in the papers and request a letter to be dropped into the post office if any one wishes to see her daughter; but I will not do that at present, she is now almost a girl grown, and her beauty will bring me money. For years I have been looking for this time, and I will not be disappointed.—Yield she must, or fare worse!'

Such thoughts passed through this vile woman's mind while the subject of them was traversing the city and begging money to gratify her selfish soul.

The morning was not far advanced before a horse and sleigh stopped before the door of this woman's dwelling, and a lady came out with a basket in her hand filled with dainty viands. It was Mrs. Melville, and she came with a Christmas offering to this poor woman. Mrs. > Rudolf expressed much joy at seeing this benevolent lady, and very cordially welcomed her into the house.

'O, madam, I am very happy to see you this fine morning,' said Mrs. Rudolf.

'I am glad to see you looking so well,' replied the lady. 'I have brought you some Christmas presents. The poor must not be forgotten on these joyous occasions.'

'O, madam, your'e very kind,' said Mrs. Rudolf, in one of her most pleasant voices. 'Such deeds never go unrewarded. God is just. And how good He is to put it into your heart to minister to the wants of the poor and distressed. Verily, you will have your reward.'

'It is more blessed to give than to receive,' said Mrs. Melville. 'I never feel more happy than when I am bestowing gifts upon the poor.'

'Would to heaven such women as you were more numerous in this city,' said this vile hypocrite. 'While I am receiving such good gifts my heart bleeds for those who are worse off than I am.'

'I wish I could extend my charities all over the city; but my means confine me to a narrower circle,' replied Mrs. Melville . 'But I'm thankful for being able to do any good in this wicked world.'

'O, how I have wished for the power to relieve the human distress I have witnessed,' said this heartless hypocrite. 'But alas! I am compelled to examine and not to give. And blessed be God I am no worse off; for it is through His goodness that we all have the breath of life.'

'Where is Fanny?' asked Mrs. Melville. 'I want to see that girl.'

'She has gone out to wish the folks a merry Christmas,' replied Mrs. Rudolf. 'The morning was so pleasant that she started on her errand quite early.'

'No doubt she will receive many presents from the generous and kind-hearted,' said Mrs. Melville. 'I have a small gold piece which my little daughter sent to Fanny.'

'I will give it to her with pleasure,' replied the old hypocrite.

The money was given to Mrs. Rudolf, for Fanny; and after some more conversation, Mrs. Melville took her leave.

CHAPTER IV

THE YOUNG CANADIAN. THE WANTON'S CUNNING. A FEIGNED LOVE. THE HAPPY REFLECTIONS OF THE BENEVOLENT. A WIDOWER'S ATTEMPT AT COURTSHIP. THE SURPRISE, &C.

CHARLES HENDERSON, the young Canadian, awoke on Christmas morning, and the sun was darting his rays against the red curtains that hung at the windows of his bed-chamber. He slept late in the morning, for the very good reason that he did not go to bed until early risers were up and dressed. As he turned over in his bed and gazed about the room in a kind of dreamy state, he thus soliloquised.

'That girl has surely fallen in love with me! Yes, the beautiful Clara Hopkins loves me beyond a question! I never saw a young lady before on such a short acquaintance so familiar and loving. I wonder if the girls in this great city fall in love more suddenly than they do in Canada? It would seem so. Perhaps the climate has something to do with it. In Canada where it is so cold, it may be the girls are not so ready to love as they are here. This appears to be a fine boarding house, and I wish I had found it before I engaged board in Warren Street. I suppose I could break off that engagement and come here, if the woman can accommodate me. I reckon Miss Clara would be in favor of such a movement. She alluded to it last night, but did not say much. Madame Sonati appears to be a very intelligent and accomplished lady. Clara says she came from Italy when she was quite small. I have always heard that the Italian ladies are handsome and warm-hearted. This woman must have been beautiful when she was young. How kind and generous she was last night? Clara says she is going to board in this house hereafter; for she likes it better than she does the one she has occupied for the last few months. But it is time for me to rise and dress, I wonder if Clara has risen yet? There are a good many lively boarders here.'

Such thoughts having occupied his mind for a short time, he got up and began to make his morning toilette.—While he was thus occupied, Madame Sonati as she called herself, and Clara were talking over matters below. If the young Canadian could have overheard them, he might have entertained different thoughts; but his eyes were blinded, and Clara had thrown a charm around him which he could not shake off.

'He appears to be a very fine young fellow,' said Madame Sonati.

'Yes; but he hasn't seen the elephant yet,' replied Clara, laughing.—'I don't know how it happened, but the thought struck me last night when you left us alone that I should like to become his wife and forsake my mode of life, or change it, and so I managed accordingly. Now if you will help me to carry out the play, I will make you a handsome present.'

'But has he much money?' asked the housekeeper. 'That's a very important question. Because if he has not money and you wed him, how am I to receive a present?'

'His father is dead and left him a fortune,' she answered. 'I wormed all those things from him last night before we separated.'

'But how did he act?' asked the housekeeper, smiling.

'Rather green, but then I managed him well,' answered this artful girl. 'I sat down beside him and told him how singular and strange our meeting last night was in that terrible snow storm. He listened attentively, and at last the palm of my hand fell on the back of his. I was so much engaged in conversation that I did not seem to mind it; but he did, and felt his Canadian blood grow warm. I said that it seemed to me that our meeting was providential. At length I leaned my head upon his shoulder, and he pressed his head against mine. We sat so for some time, and talked about the city, Canada and other matters, I can assure you I very much interested him.'

'And did he venture to kiss you?' asked the mistress, laughing.

'He did after a long time, and then I told him I supposed I had done wrong in permitting him to go so far,' she replied, while a devil lurked in the corner of her dark eye. 'I assured him no other gentleman could take such liberties with me. In short I was constrained to tell him that I loved him. From the effect it produced upon him I conclude no girl ever told him so before.'

'Probably not,' added the mistress, laughing quite loud. 'And he must be a green horn to believe you.'

'Not so green as you may imagine,' replied the cunning Clara. 'I never appeared more sincere in my life than I did when I declared my love for him, and I gave force and emphasis to the declaration by nervously pressing his hand. I think I shall become his wife, if no one interferes.'

'Well, be sure that he has money before you suffer the knot to be tied,' said this selfish woman.

'Let me alone for that,' said Clara. 'He's a fine fellow, and will make a kind husband.'

'But, I pity him if he takes you for a wife,' added Madame Sonati.

'Why so?' asked Clara, laughing, and snapping her dark eyes.

'Why so,' repeated the mistress.—'Because you would be running after other men. But hush! he's coming down stairs.'

The young man entered the room, and both simultaneously wished him a merry Christmas. Clara ran towards him and imprinted a kiss on his right cheek.

'There, it is no sin to kiss a kind friend on Christmas Morn,' she said. 'At any rate I have done it, and it cannot be recalled. I believe I am a creature of impulse, but I was made so, and how can I help it. I suppose I have gone too far; but, Charles, you must excuse me for the Christmas present.'

'O, certainly,' he replied, kissing her in return. 'Exchange is no robbery.'

'O, dear,' exclaimed Clara. 'I did not intend you should do that, but you were too quick for me. How did you rest last night.'

'Very well considering the time I had to do it in,' he replied, laughing. 'I believe it was rather late before I retired.'

'I shouldn't wonder,' said Madame Sonati, slyly winking, and gazing upon the young man. 'You find this a warmer climate than that in Canada, do you not? I mean excepting the snow storm last night.'

'I think it is,' he replied.

'I believe people are more social in warm climates than they are in cold ones—don't you think so?' asked the mistress.

'To tell the truth, I do,' he replied, smiling, and turning his eyes towards Clara.

'Warm latitudes are favorable to love-making,' she added.

'There, there, Madame Sonati, don't joke on that subject,' said Clara, partially hiding her face as if she was overcome by her modesty.

'I will spare your blushes,' replied the mistress, laughing. Then turning to the Canadian, she continued. 'I think you said you were never in this city before.'

'I never was,' he replied, gazing upon Clara's partially concealed face.

'And how do you like a city life?' she asked.

'Thus far exceedingly well,' he answered.

'Perhaps you may conclude to make the city your permanent abode,' she added, archly smiling.

'It may be so,' he answered. 'I think one can enjoy life here.'

'Indeed this is the very city above all others for the enjoyment of life,' she said. 'I have lived in the country and in other cities, too; but New York suits me better than any other place. I understand your father is dead.'

'He is,' was his answer. And he looked somewhat sober.

'Such is life,' she said. 'Our best friends must leave us or we must leave them. I suppose your father left you well to do in the world.'

'He was considered wealthy when he lived; but his estate would not give a man the name of being rich in this great city,' he replied.

'How much was he worth?' she asked, while Clara's ears were wide open to hear the answer.

'About eight thousand pounds,' he replied.

'Well, I'm sure that is a very handsome estate,' she said.

'It will do with prudence and economy,' he replied.

'The interest on that amount well invested would support a man and wife quite comfortably,' she said.

'Is your mother a healthy woman?' asked Clara.

'Her constitution is quite feeble,' he replied.

'I should admire to see her,' said Clara. 'I have no doubt but she is very handsome. I think you told me last night you resembled your mother.'

'It has generally been said that I do,' he replied.

'Well, Clara, I must confess you are quite full of compliments,' said the mistress.

'It is Christmas and the season for compliments,' she artfully replied.—'And by the way I should admire to have a sleigh-ride.'

'I will give you one with pleasure,' he said.

Thus the conversation continued until they were called to breakfast.

The reader need not be told that the young Canadian that very day changed his boarding house, and become an inmate in Madame Sonati's.

The sleigh-ride came off, and the young man began to enjoy life. In the evening he attended the theatre with his beloved Clara, and every thing went along swimmingly.

Christmas evening came, and the public places of amusement were all crowded to overflowing. The city was all alive and the sleigh bells made merry music in all the principal avenues, while the Widow Melville with her little daughter, Emily, sat in her neatly arranged parlor, reflecting upon the deeds of charity she had that day done. Having visited several poor families and ministered to the wants of the suffering, she felt a calm consciousness that she had done her duty. Perhaps no woman in the city had done so much that day to relieve distressed humanity as she had; and yet she did feel to boast of her good deeds.

Emily had received several presents from her friends, and was happy in counting over and arranging her little gifts upon the centre table at which her mother sat in calm and happy reflection, such as the good only can experience.

Among the presents there was one which Captain Robinson had sent to Emily accompanied by a note to her mother, in which he said he should do himself the pleasure of calling that evening. His acquaintance with this rich and benevolent widow was recent; but he felt that it might become more familiar and perhaps result in matrimony.

Mrs. Melville had received some hints of his intentions; but had not made up her mind to accept his offers should he make any. She knew nothing of his private character, and had not sufficiently scanned it to be satisfied that her condition in life would be improved by a marriage with him. His public character was fair, and he was known to be a > gentleman of wealth and intelligence; but Mrs. Melville had no wish to change her state, unless she knew she could improve her own happiness and enlarge her sphere of usefulness. Besides, she did not feel inclined to have the care of children not her own. Unlike some widows she took a very rational view of the subject, and was in no hurry to plunge a second time into matrimony with any gentleman, however wealthy he might be, or however fair his character might be.

'O, this is a beautiful present Capt. Robinson has sent me,' said Emily, while her bright eyes sparkled, and her young heart beat with pleasing emotions.

At that moment the door bell rang, and the servant ushered in the Captain who had prepared himself for the occasion in his best style. He very well knew the widow was a valuable prize, and he was determined to win, if it were possible. Having a great regard for his own daughter, he very justly concluded that he could not place her under better guardianship than that of the Widow Melville. So far as love was concerned, he knew nothing about it; for his bad passions and habits had so much distracted his mind and corrupted his heart that he was totally incapable of feeling the holy influence of true love.

The moment the Captain entered the room, Emily flew towards him, bearing the present he had given her and expressing much joy at seeing him. He deemed it good tact and policy to find his way to the heart of the mother through her child, and so he covered the little girl's face with kisses, and manifested much love for her. The widow received him very politely and was pleased with his attentions to her daughter. What mother would not have been under similar circumstances.

'You have indeed a lovely daughter,' he said, while he took a chair, holding Emily in his lap, and caressing her very tenderly.

'Emily is a good girl, and I hope she will always remain good,' she answered.

'No doubt she will under your tuition,' he said.

'I try to teach her both by precept and example,' she said. 'If she will only be good to the poor, other virtues will follow in its train.'

'I am good to the poor, dear mother,' said Emily. 'Didn't I send a gold piece to that poor street sweeper, Fanny Dumont?'

'Yes, you did my child, and I gave it to the cripple woman for the good Fanny,' replied the mother.

The Captain suddenly started, as if an arrow had struck his heart; but he soon recovered his balance, and said, 'I am glad to hear, my dear, that you thought of the poor street sweepers, and Heaven will bless you for such thoughts.'

'That Fanny Dumont is really a lovely, beautiful girl, and it is strange her parents have never come to light,' said the widow. 'There is a very great mystery hanging over her birth and parentage. I wish you could see the girl, Captain; for I know you would be pleased with her, and perhaps make her some present out of the abundance God has blessed you with.'

'Very likely I might,' he replied, concealing his feelings as best he could.

'The woman she lives with is really unfortunate, being very lame, and bad looking; but she appears to be a very humble and devout Christian.'

'I hope she is,' he said, wishing to change the subject, and feeling quite uneasy. 'It is rare to have such good sleighing for Christmas as we have had to-day.'

'O, I would like to ride in a sleigh and hear the bells,' said Emily.

'If the snow does not melt away, I will give you a sleigh ride,' he said.—'And your mother, too, if she would like such an excursion.'

'I believe I should not dare venture out so many accidents happens,' the widow replied.

The conversation continued, and the widow again spoke of Fanny and her mode of life, much to the annoyance of the Captain whose self-control was severely taxed to conceal his emotions. Before he took his leave of the good widow, he made proposals of marriage in due form; but she neither accepted nor declined them; but took time to consider them. He went away in hope, and flattered himself that he should win the prize. There was but one barrier in the way he thought, and that was Fanny Dumont. He feared the widow might hear from Fanny, (not from Mrs. Rudolf,) some account of his conduct towards her, as the Widow Melville appeared so deeply interested in the girl's welfare. A guilty conscience is always giving its possessor trouble and perplexity. Who can bear it!

CHAPTER V

A GAMBLING SCENE. STOLEN MONEY LOST AT THE CARD TABLE. THE CONSPIRACY, AND SWINDLING. A DOMESTIC TROUBLE. A FATHER WAITING FOR HIS TRUANT SON. THE SURPRISE. EFFECTS OF DRINKING, &C.

WHILE Captain Robinson was paying his addresses to the Widow Melville, his son Frank, or 'Wild 'Ned' as he called himself, was at a gambling house spending his father's money and drinking to excess. One blackleg was present who had marked Frank as his victim, for he knew how the young rowdy had obtained his money. Frank had always been rather cramped in money matters, for his father did not desire that his son should contract expensive habits, and therefore had always kept his money out of Frank's reach, except a small allowance of pocket change with which he indulged him. The young fellow had not become much of a gambler, for the reason that his funds were limited, and yet he had a strong passion for gaming of all kinds.

Frank knowing his father's notions in relation to such matters, he contrived to conceal his propensities and practices as much as possible from the paternal eye. He always watched his father's movements and knew more about them than the old gentleman supposed or imagined.

The Captain having received a large amount of money the day before Christmas Frank was very anxious to get hold of a portion of it, foolishly believing that he could add to it at the gaming table.

William Saunders, a clerk in one of the largest commercial houses in the city and some years older than Frank, had become quite an adept in the use of cards. Young Saunders was also on terms of intimacy with Frank notwithstanding the disparity of their ages.—Frank was foolish enough to show his money to the young gambler, and boast of it.

He told Frank that he had about the same amount, and they agreed to unite their fortunes for the evening, and play against the two others who were known to have funds.

But alas, for the Captain's son, for young Saunders had formed a conspiracy with the others against his friend.

They played, and at first fortune seemed to smile on Frank and his companion. They won some money, and Frank became much excited with his good luck; but fickle dame fortune soon withdrew her favors from them, and the others began to win. Frank became quite desperate, and pushed the game, while Saunders appeared to be more cautious.

The final result was that Frank was swindled out of all the money he had stolen from his father; and Saunders received the money back which he had lost and one third of his companion's.

It was quite late before the game was finished and Frank was in great trouble, besides being much intoxicated. He feared to go home, and dare not remain from home through the night. His only hope was that his father was still abroad as he sometimes did not come home until near morning.

Having paid his addresses to Mrs. Melville, and feeling somewhat encouraged with his prospects, the Captain sought other amusements, and did not reach home until past midnight. Soon as he entered the house, he ascertained that his son was still absent, and became somewhat alarmed on that account. He sat down in his parlor and waited impatiently for Frank, who was not allowed to keep such hours.

It was nearly two o'clock in the morning before Frank's footsteps were heard on the door-stone. Before the son's arrival the father had become very impatient, and began seriously to think of going out and hunting him up.

Walking home from the lower part of the city had somewhat cooled off the young gambler and brought him to his senses. He indulged the hope, until he put his hand upon the door latch, that his father was out; but he saw him through the window, and his heart sank within him.

He went away flush with money, and now he had come home with empty pockets, a muddled brain, and a vexed soul. He stood some minutes at the door before he dared to enter. His father, having heard his footsteps, rose and met him at the door.

'What under heavens does all this mean?' asked the agitated father.

Frank gave no answer; for he knew not what to say. He trembled in every muscle: not so much because he had staid out so late, but because he had stolen money and lost it in a gambling hell.

'Speak, and tell me why you have been out so late,' demanded the enraged father.

'It was Christmas eve and the hours passed swiftly,' replied Frank, in a tremulous voice.

"Christmas eve, and the hours passed swiftly!' repeated the Captain. 'Have you been drinking that the hours passed so rapidly? Walk in and give me an account of your conduct.'

They went in, and Frank threw himself upon a sofa, for he was sick both in body and soul. His stomach had been overloaded, and the warm air in the room began to make him heave. A law of nature had been violated, and now the penalty must be suffered by the offender. Before he had time to rise or speak his stomach threw its contents upon the carpet, and filling the room with any thing but pleasant odors, and greatly offending the Captain.

'Gracious God!' exclaimed the agitated father. 'Drunk again! A curse be on all liquor! It is liquid damnation!'

Now the Captain was guilty of very many vices, but the sin of drunkenness could not be laid to his charge. That vile habit he had always avoided. He had a negro servant whose name was Ben Bowlegs; at least he was thus called because he was knock-knead.—Ben was a shrew fellow and very humorous. He was once a slave in Maryland, but he ran away from his master, and protection and employment with Captain Robinson.

This negro was much prized by the Captain who treated him very kindly and even regarded his judgment in many matters. It so happened that Ben had been celebrating Christmas with some of his colored friends, and had just returned home from a negro ball.

Hearing the disturbance in the parlor, Ben rushed in to give his assistance.—He knew that Frank was fond of the bottle, even better than the Captain did; for he had more than once concealed his faults from the paternal eye.

'Gad-a-mercy,' exclaimed Ben, as entered the room and saw Frank making efforts to relieve his stomach of the poisonous effects of alcohol. 'Bless my soul! Young master very sick! May be he hab de cholera!'

'No, no,' replied the Captain, impatiently. 'It is the effects of the cursed liquor the young rascal has swallowed this night!'

'O, den he soon get de stuff out ob his stomach,' added Ben, grinning, and showing a fine set of white teeth. 'Liquor in large quanities berry bad for de stomach. Dis child tried him once, and he no try him a'gin, massur."

'I hope not,' said the Captain. 'Come, Ben, you must get the fellow off to his room.'

'Yes, massur, me can carry him away when he done spewing,' replied Ben.

'Done spewing! bah,' exclaimed the father, holding his handkerchief to his nose to keep out the bad oder from his nostrils.

Poor Frank continued to vomit, but he had well nigh emptied the contents of his stomach upon the carpet, and appeared to be in much distress.

'O, dear, I shall die!' muttered poor Frank; 'I'm terrible sick!'

'You no die dis time, young massar,' said the negro. 'You lib good many years yet.'

'Not unless he lets liquor alone,' said the angry father. 'Take him away and put him to bed. I should think he had pretty thoroughly emptied his stomach.'

'Gorry, massar, I tink so from de looks ob de carpet,' added Ben, while he showed the whites of his eyes and an arch smile played round his thick lips.

The negro now began to raise poor Frank from the sofa, when the latter vomited again, and poured the remaining contents of his stomach upon Ben's lap.

'Gorry! where dat come from,' said Ben, pointing his long black finger to the carpet, and placing Frank back upon the sofa. 'Young massa hab a great Christmas supper. He stuff himself berry full; but he must come up, for dere no room for him in de stomach now.'

'Gracious God!' exclaimed the father. 'Strange young men will make such fools of themselves! I'm sick of the sight of such things.'

'And I reckon young massur be sick, too,' added Ben. 'He long remember dis Christmas. Well it no come but once in de year.'

'Surely if young men make such asses of themselves they ought to suffer,' said the Captain. 'Bear a hand now, and carry him aloft, Ben; I reckon he has discharged his cargo.'

'I should tink so,' replied Ben, once more raising the young inebriate, and carrying him to his chamber.

'There, Frank, now, you'll sleep; for dere's nothing in de stomach to prevent you,' said Ben, as he put his young master snugly into bed.

'I hope so, Ben, but I have been awful sick,' replied Frank. 'Do try to excuse me to father. I hope I shall not do so again.'

'Nebber mind, young massar, Christmas only come once in de year,' said Ben.

'I know it, but O, Ben——.' And the young man buried his face in the pillow ere he had finished what he was endeavoring to say.

'But what?' asked the old negro. 'Young massar needn't be afraid to tell Ben any ting. What trouble lay so heavy on your heart, now your stomach be so empty and light?'

'Ben, I have done something worse than getting drunk and staying out late,' said Frank, gazing up beseechingly into the negro's face.

'Perhaps bin wid a white gal and she stole away massar's money,' said Ben. 'Dese white gals will steal a gentleman's money, I know dat very well, for one stole a two dollar bill from me once. Dey be sometimes worse den de colored gals.'

'O, no, not that!' exclaimed the agitated and sorrowing young man.

'Well, den what is it?' anxiously enquired the negro. 'Speak out plain, and not keep dis child longer in suspense, as young mistress, Jane says.'

'O, heavens, I wish I had died,' exclaimed Frank. 'I have stolen five hundred dollars from father's desk and lost it all in gambling this night! O, dear, what shall I do? Father will soon miss his money. And O, Ben, if you would say you took it, I will give you more than that one of these days.'

The negro cast his eyes down upon the floor, and stood in silent astonishment for some minutes, while Frank rolled over in bed, and groaned most piteously.

'O, young massar, me berry sorry that you do sich a ting; but dis child can't tell sich a lie as dat, no how. I should be put in de tombs among white thieves and robbers; but you will not, because it was yer farder's money you took.'

'But what shall I do?' asked the thief and gambler.

'Confess all, and promise nebber to do sich a ting agin,' replied the negro. 'Massar will pardon you on sich confession and promise. I knows his heart. He berry good to young massar. We mustn't let Jane know it, for it would break her heart.'

'No, no, she mustn't know it,' said Frank. 'I wish you would tell father of it now before he goes to bed!'

'Gorry me, dis child doesn't lub to do sich a ting as dat; but to oblige young massar I will do so,' said Ben, suddenly leaving the room, and seeking the Captain who still sat in the parlor, seriously reflecting upon the conduct of his son, and, occasionally glancing at his own.

'Well, how's Frank now?' asked the Captain, as Ben entered the room.

'His stomach is much better, but his mind worser,' replied the negro, assuming a very long face and serious aspect.

'He has come to his senses then, and sees what a fool he has made of himself,' said the father.

'O, yes, massar, he come to his senses berry well,' replied the negro. 'He says he has been berry wicked and is sorry for it.'

'I hope and trust be will not become drunk again,' said the father.

'O, massar, I'm sorry to say de getting drunk is not de worser part of de business,' replied Ben, looking very wise, and solemn.

'What now?' anxiously inquired the Captain, breathing hard, and looking agitated. 'Speak and let me know all! Has the young rascal got into a scrape?'

'Not much out ob de house,' answered Ben.

'And what is the trouble within?' asked the Captain, becoming quite impatient.

'Young massar took some of your money and gamble him all away,' answered Ben.

'My God, and has it come to this!' exclaimed the agitated father, suddenly rising and going to his desk.

He hurriedly unlocked his desk and counted over his money while the negro stood watching every movement. The money was counted over several times before he could be satisfied. At last he threw down a package of bank notes and gazed wildly about the room.—Ben saw a storm was brewing and prepared himself for the worst. The Captain trembled and seemed at a loss to express himself, his emotions were so overpowering.

'Good God!' he at last exclaimed. 'The young rascal has taken five hundred dollars!'

'Just dat sum exactly, for young massar confessed it all, and said he would never do so again,' added the negro. 'O, massar, he be berry penitant and humble!'

'Penitant and humble!' repeated the agitated man. 'Good God! Five hundred dollars in a single night!'

'Yes; but massar must remember it was Christmas night, and he don't come but once in a year,' said Ben.

'Christmas night!' he repeated.—'Once in a year! Heavens! A gambler, and is young, too! Five hundred at a single slap! The young rascal! He'll be lucky if he gets any more money very soon. He shall not have a single dollar for spending money. He'll find out what it is to want money. A gambler, and a drunkard, and spendthrift all in one night! He deserves a prison!'

'And he would get it, if he had stolen de money from any body else,' said Ben. 'I hope massar will parden him dis time; for he promise nebber to do so agin.'

'True, he'll never do so again, for I can swear my money shall be put out of his reach!' added the enraged father! 'Five hundred dollars! And only fifteen years old! That's beginning with a high hand! I'll check him in his career of vice, or I'll have him thrust into prison!'

'I tink, massar, he be a good boy arter dis affair,' said Ben. 'How can his stomach love liquor agin when he hab been so riled up?'

'He shall not set his foot upon the sidewalks again for one week I can promise him,' said the father, growing more and more angry while reflecting upon the loss of his money. 'No, no, he shall not stir out, and none of his companions shall see him! Did he say what blacklegs won his money?'

'No, massar, he said nothing about dat,' replied Ben. 'Dere be blacklegs enough with white faces in the city to ruin scores of young men. I knows some ob 'em, and dis child always shuns 'em as he would a serpent with a forked tongue. O, massar, great many sins are committed in dis great city! Great many white gals distroyed who were innocent as little lambs. And then how they will swear, drink and walk de streets in de nights, seeking for some white men to go home wid 'em! O, massar, dis city be berry wicked. Great many bad men and women in it. But I pities de young white gals, especially, if dey be poor; for de men gib 'em money and lead 'em astray from de path ob virtue.'

'There, there, Ben, your sermon is long enough,' said the Captain; not loving to hear such doctrines preached by a negro or any other person; for his own conscience was quite as much as he could well bear. It often stung him, but his vile passions would overcome it, and lead him on in his vile career.

'Well, massar, I stops here; but will go and see how Frank gets along,' said Ben, leaving his master, and hurrying to Frank's chamber.

The young man was breathing very hard, and seemed to be much distressed. Sleep he courted in vain.

'O, what did father say?' anxiously enquired Frank.

'O, he scold some, and counted over his money, and found you told the truth,' replied Ben.

'Did he threaten to flog me?' asked Frank, in a trembling voice.

'O, no, he only threaten to keep you in de house for a week, and let no body see you,' answered Ben. 'You can stand dat well enough, but you must nebber gamble agin, for it be a bery bad practice for de young men ob de city. And dere is anodder bad business which you must avoid, dat is running arter de white gals so much. Dey be berry bad, indeed, and lead one away down to de dark regions where be wailing and gnashing ob de teeth as de good book say.'

'O, Ben, say no more,' muttered the young man. 'I am in trouble.'

'Well den, I'll leave you and go to my bed,' said the negro.

'No—no, not yet,' said Frank.—'You must lie down on the sofa. I dare not stay alone, every thing appears so strange.'

'Well, young massar, I will do dat ting and perhaps you get some sleep,' said Ben.

The negro had but just thrown himself on the sofa, when Frank's sister came stealing softly into the room in her night clothes.

'Dere comes de angel,' said Ben, rising up. 'I hoped she was asleep.'

'Is Frank sick?' asked Jane, addressing the negro.

'Not much now since he empty his stomach ob Christmas pies, and sich tings,' the servant replied. 'He be better now, and needs some sleep.'

The sister went to the bed side and placed her hand upon Frank's forehead.

'O, how hot your forehead is, and how it sweats!' she said. 'Do you feel better now?'

'Yes, dear Jane, I think I shall get some sleep, and so you had better find your bed again.'

The good girl left the room, and ere the morning broke, the young inebriate fell into a deep slumber; but only to dream of lost money and gamblers.

CHAPTER VI

PLEASANT WEATHER MAKES GENEROUS HEARTS. A GLANCE AT A MISER.—THE SUCCESS OF TIE LITTLE STREET SWEEPER. HER DISAPPOINTMENT AND TROUBLE. A WIFE'S WISHES, &C.

WEARY and hungry, Fanny Dumont did not reach home until near nightfall. Never before had she collected so much money in one day as she did on this Christmas. The day was fine, and the sleighing good, and every body seemed to be full of joy and more generous and charitable than usual. When Fanny started in the morning, her heart was heavy and she felt a great reluctance to beg, more so than usual; but why, she could not tell.

As the day wore away and the people seemed to be more generous than usual, Fanny thought she would see how much money she could get and thereby gratify Mrs. Rudolf, and induce her to tell her something about her parents. At any rate the poor girl hoped that her mistress, or mother as she was compelled to call this old hag, would be so well pleased that she might be saved the trouble of another interview with Capt. Robinson whom she dreaded more than all things else; for she knew the object he had in view in coming to see her, but she was determined to save herself from pollution at any and every hazard. Upon that point her mind was resolutely fixed.

'Well, how have you succeeded to-day?' asked the old cripple as soon as Fanny entered the house. 'It has been a fine day, and if you have done your duty you must have brought home lots of money. Let me see what you have done.'

'The people have been very kind,' said Fanny, emptying her pocket upon a small deal table, the only one in the room; for the cunning old woman had as little furniture as possible that she might excite the more pity.

She hitched up to the table, put on her spectacles, and began to separate and count the money, placing the silver in one pile and the pennies in another. Her gray eyes sparkled with fire during the process, and her countenance also gave out all sorts of expression. She was a miser on a small scale, and hoped soon to enlarge her sphere. Dreams of gold flitted across her distorted vision, and the money she hoped to receive from the old libertine, loomed up into a great pile by the force of her imagination. Carefully and with a miser's feelings did she count over the money several times.

'Why, it all amounts to fifteen dollars,' she said. 'Is this all you have collected in such a bright day?'

'I have a half a dollar which a gentleman told me I must keep myself,' replied Fanny; feeling much chagrin and disappointment at the miserly disposition the old woman manifested on the occasion.

'Hand it out here,' said the heartless woman. 'What right have you to keep any money when I support you?'

Fanny handed her the half dollar with feelings and emotions she dared not express.

'A gentleman gave you this to keep, eh?' continued the old woman, as she clutched the coin and threw it into her pile of silver. 'A fine notion, that, truly! Some lover I suppose. Out with the secret and hide nothing from me!'

'A lover?' repeated this good girl. 'I have no lover in this world. The gentleman who gave the money to me was walking with his wife! He is no lover of mine!'

'Suppose he has a wife, he may be none the less your lover for that,' said this vile woman. 'Married gentlemen have their sweethearts as well as single ones. Tell me all about him. I have long suspected that you had a secret lover, and now I begin to get on his track.'

'Why have you entertained such a suspicion of me?' asked Fanny in tones of voice that told how deeply her heart was grieved.

'Because you received the Captain so coldly last night,' replied the woman.

'O heavens!' exclaimed poor Fanny, while her eyes were filled with burning tears. 'Can you not, being a woman yourself, conceive of such a thing as virtue in our sex? Do you believe there is nothing but selfishness and corruption in the human heart? Good angels whisper there is virtue on earth.'

'Good Lord!' exclaimed this female tyrant. 'What a speech you have made! I suppose you have met some of the hypocritical saints to-day who have been talking their religion to you.'

'True, some ladies and gentleman, too, have talked religion to me and cautioned me to avoid the temptations of wicked men,' replied Fanny, looking the old hag fill in the face.

'O Lord, how many hypocrites there are in this city!' she answered. 'But tell me about the man who gave you the half dollar; I smell a rat there, and so don't lie to me, or you will suffer the consequences!'

'Don't lie to you!' repeated Fanny. 'I never told a lie to you in my life, and God and his angels can bear me witness that I speak the truth.'

'Don't talk about those you have never seen and never will; but tell met about that gentleman who was so very, very kind to you! What's his name? how old is he? and who does he resemble? Tell me all and keep nothing back.'

'I never saw the gentleman before to-day, and he looks like a very good man as I have no doubt he is,' answered Fanny.

'Do you speak the truth?' asked the woman, gazing upon the girl through her glasses as if she would read her inmost thoughts, and setting her cane firmly, upon the floor.

'As Heaven is my judge, I do,' answered Fanny.

'Well then, havn't you some other lover?' asked the woman. 'I have very strong suspicions that you have a secret lover, and I'm determined to ferret him out. You cannot deceive me with your smooth tongue and pretty face. No—no, I'm too old to be caught with such chaff.'

'Did I not tell you a few moments ago that I have no lover in the world,' replied this honest girl. 'And I spoke nothing but the truth, whether you are disposed to believe me or not.'

'Well, if I find you have lied to me you shall suffer for it, that you may depend upon,' said the woman.

'I am willing, and ought to suffer when I utter falsehoods,' added poor Fanny.

'Girls will sometimes lie about their lovers when they speak the truth about other things,' said Mrs. Rudolf.

'I never lie about any thing,' added Fanny. 'And now I wish you would tell me something about my mother, since I have collected such a great sum of money.'

'I shall never tell you any thing about your parents, until you receive the good Captain more cordially than you did last night,' said this cruel woman. 'He loves you and would make a great lady of you.'

'He love me!' repeated Fanny, with much feeling. 'He make a lady of me! He would make me a wanton, it he could have his own desires gratified; but God helping me, he shall be disappointed. I will die ere I yield to such a libertine. No—no. I never will!'

'The Captain a libertine!' muttered this old hag. 'Was any thing ever so ridiculous? Why he is one of the best gentleman in the city. He has no wife and he would be glad to make you the mistress of his elegant house. I know he loves you; for he told me so. Yes, Fanny, now you have a chance to become a fine lady.'

'But what would you do without me to beg and sweep the streets to get you money?' asked Fanny.

'O, the generous Captain would support me, if I will let him have you,' she replied.

'Yes, I understand,' added Fanny, gazing full into the face of other mistress. 'I think he gave you some money last night, unless my ears deceived me.'

The old woman suddenly started, and looked exceedingly cross.

'Then you listened, did you?'

'I speak the truth when I say I did,' replied Fanny.

'You ought to have your ears cut off!' said the woman. 'But you didn't hear much after all. True, he gave me some money, and it was because he loves you so well. He is not the man to take you away and not pay me for the loss of your services. No, no, the Captain is a generous man, and would treat you very kindly.'

'I never want to see his face again,' said Fanny. 'I don't like him. I believe he is an old libertine, and would ruin me, if he had the power. So you need not indulge any hope from me.—I will not receive him any more cordially than I did the other night.'

'Then you shall never hear from your mother, nor see her,' said the hard-hearted woman. 'Remember that,—Miss, and so govern yourself accordingly.'

The tears came into Fanny's dark eyes, and her heart beat with violent emotions. For years she had longed to see and embrace her mother, and recently the old hag she lived with and was compelled to call by the endearing name of mother, had promised her that she should ere long behold the woman that give her birth.

There was a severe struggle in her young and innocent heart. She felt that she could not see her mother except on the condition that she must yield to the desires of a man whom she had every reason to believe was an unprincipled libertine. The cunning woman had carefully and industriously instilled that idea into her mind, and she hoped to profit by it.

'Must I yield or never see my dear mother?' was the harrassing question that occupied her thoughts continually. It was indeed a severe ordeal she was called to pass; and whether she was equal to the task will appear in subsequent pages of this narrative of city life. She wept more bitterly than her mistress had ever seen her before.

'Cry away,' said the woman. 'Let the tears flow. It will do you good.—Young girls must have their crying spells. I used to cry when I was young because I couldn't have my own way. Crying was a benefit to me, and it may be to you. You know the condition upon which you can see and know your own mother. And a strange heart she must have who will not embrace her who gave her birth. Think of it, Miss, and give up your foolish notions about virtue and all that. I tell you that the Captain loves you and will become your fond and loving husband, if you do not unwisely refuse his offers. Only think how happy your mother would be to see you the handsome wife of a handsome and wealthy man. How she would embrace, and kiss you under such favorable circumstances! Ah, Fanny, she would bless the day when she gave you birth. But refuse the Captain's offers, slight his love, treat him coldly and indifferently; be so foolish as not to become a fine lady and the mistress of a handsome house and rich furniture, reject all these things and live poor and degraded without ever beholding, your mother.—It is for your good that I advise you to such a happy union. Remember you were given to me while you were a mere child, and I have watched over you till you have reached your fifteenth year. Now I have found a gentleman who is rich and desires to give you a happy home. O shame on such foolish notions as you entertain! Be a woman and not act like a silly child.'

Thus did this wicked woman address this beautiful and innocent girl. Thus she plied all her arts to ruin virtue and innocence. Fanny listened to her in silence. And O, what a struggle was in her heart. How keen were the pangs she suffered.

There was a pause of some minutes, and Mrs. Rudolf believed she had overcome all the scruples of Fanny. The Captain's gold glittered in her imagination, and her future prospects seemed bright and beautiful. She fondly believed that the day was near at hand when she could leave her humble walks land rise into higher circle. She had then more money in her possession than she ever had before at any one time, and began to feel the power of riches. Her gray eyes sparkled with joy and she trotted her cane upon the floor in much satisfaction, expecting every moment to hear Fanny confess her weakness and ready to obey her orders and gratify her wishes.

Sadly did the agitated girl weep, and severe were the pangs that wrung her tender heart.

While silence thus reigned, and expectation was at the highest, a knocking was heard at the door, and Fanny ran to answer the call. A gentleman and his wife stood at the door whom Fanny instantly recognized as those who had manifested such interest in her behalf that day. There was Henry Hapgood and his wife.

'Good, evening, my dear,' said Mr. Hapgood. 'I am glad you are at home. My wife couldn't be easy until she saw you again, and so we have come to spend a Christmas eve with you.'

'O, I am delighted to see you,' said Fanny, drying up the tears in her eyes, and assuming a cheerful aspect. 'Walk into our humble dwelling.'

They cheerfully walked in, and their surprise may be imagined when they beheld the ugly countenance of Mrs. Rudolf.

'This is the gentleman and lady who treated me so very kindly to-day,' said Fanny, addressing her mistress.

'I'm glad to see you,' said Mrs. Rudolf, rising up, and hobbling to a small stool with three legs. 'Hand that chair for the gentleman, the lady can take mine and I will sit on this stool. I am very sorry I have not more chairs, but poverty deprives us of a great many luxuries.'

'O, no, madame, keep your chair,' said the wife, 'I can sit very comfortably on the stool. Do keep your own chair.'

She spoke too late, for the old hag had settled down upon the stool and would not rise again.

While the above conversation was going on, Fanny sat upon the edge of the old woman's scanty, bed, and listened to then. 'O, what a hypocrite my mistress is!' thought this good girl.

'I suppose you have received some Christmas presents to-day,' said Mrs. Hapgood, untying a bundle that lay in her lap.

'One lady has been here and left a few eatibles,' replied the old woman.—'Thanks to her generous heart.'

'Here is one dress for you and one for Fanny,' said the wife. 'They are not very fine; but they will be comfortable to wear through the winter which is now upon us.'

'God bless your generous heart,' said Mrs. Rudolf. 'I need just such a dress and so does my Fanny. God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, as the good Book says.'

'That is nor in the Bible I believe, madam, but nevertheless it is quite true,' answered Mrs. Hapgood. 'Many before you have made the same mistake. I once heard a minister quote it as Scripture.'

'Well—well, never mind, I'm poor and ignorant, but if my heart is right, all will be well at the coming day,' said this vile hypocrite.

'Very true, indeed,' replied the good wife. 'How long has Fanny lived with you?'

'Ever since she was a year old,' was the old hag's reply.

'I came to see if you will not part with her and give her to me as my adopted daughter,' said Mrs. Hapgood.

'And leave me alone?' asked the old woman, gazing through her spectacles.

Mrs. Hapgood hardly knew what answer to make, for she was a kind-hearted woman, and did not wish to be considered cruel or unfeeling.

'Perhaps you might get along with kind friends and our help,' said Mr. Hapgood, coming to the relief of his wife, as he saw she was somewhat troubled for a reply.

'Perhaps I could if I had money enough,' answered the old woman.—'Fanny is a nice girl and I should be loth to part with her, unless I could be made quite sure it would be greatly to her advantage. I have taken great pains to bring her up. To be sure, she has been obliged to work, but then work never hurts any body. It is the duty of all to work, and do all the good they can in this world. Don't you think so?'

'Surely I do, he replied. 'Laziness and idleness are great sins but then it seems a pity that such a girl as Fanny should sweep the streets and expose her health.'

'O, she wont be obliged to do such work much longer,' said the cunning hag. 'I know of a gentleman of great wealth and integrity who is anxious to make a wife of her!"

'Dear me!' said Mrs. Hapgood.—'She's hardly old enough to be married yet.'

'Well—well, she soon will be,' said Mrs. Rudolf. 'Besides, I always thought early marriages are more likely to turn out happy matches than late ones.—Much, however, depends upon the character of the parties. And after all, I believe all true matches are made in heaven. The gentleman who has fallen in love with Fanny is one of the best hearted men in the world. True, he is Somewhat older than she is, but then loves her with his whole soul.'

'And does she love him in return?' asked Mrs. Hapgood.

'She can't help loving him he is so good,' replied this vile woman. 'I believe it is Heaven's design that they should be married.'

After some more conversation, Mrs. Hapgood and her > husband took their leave, not however, before disclosing their place of residence in answer to question which Fanny asked them.—The old hag noticed the answer, and at once formed the conclusion not to permit Fanny to go into the streets any more least she might visit this good couple and reveal the secrets about her pretended marriage. Such thoughts as these passed through Fanny's mind, and the old hag seemed instinctively to know it.

CHAPTER VII

SAD CHARACTERISTICS OF MERETRICIOUS BEAUTY. THE CHRISTMAS SLEIGH-RIDE, AND DINNER. THE PECULIAR AND DANGEROUS POWER OF AN ARTFUL WOMAN. THE PROGRESS OF EVENTS, &.C

WE must return now and look after some other actors in our drama. On the same glorious Christmas day in which our dramatis personæ> have played their parts, our young Canadian friend and his dulcinea were enjoying a sleigh ride. They rode in various directions over the city, and at noon stopped at a hotel, not of the first class, in the upper part of the town, and called for a Christmas dinner.

The cunning Clara was anxious to drive the courtship to the utmost speed lest her Canadian gallant should learn something of her true character, cut her acquaintance and give up the chase. She was fully resolved, either to steal his money or become his wife according to the statute in such cases, made and provided, and she didn't care much which.

Her card was managed most adroitly. Believing all men were libertines at heart, and only restrained from overt acts by the fear of the law, and public opinion, she governed herself accordingly.

Like most others of the unfortunate class to which she belonged, she had once loved a young man who seduced her under the most solemn promises of marriage, and then abandoned her to her fate. Such conduct goaded her to desperation, and she judged all men by him who thus maltreated her. Men she considered fair game. She sprang from parents who had once been quite wealthy; but they lost their property and died while she had but just reached her teens.

There are periods in the life of such women when they might be reformed with the proper means and appliances. There is always hope for a man, and why should there not be for woman? Public opinion is very wrong upon this subject, and does female nature injustice. Why should a woman, when she has fallen from that virtue her sex so highly prizes, and justly too, be treated with such scorn and contempt when a man equally guilty and often more so, passes as a respectable member of society? No good reason can be given.

They drew up to the table on which lay a large turkey hot and smoking.—There was no one to dine with them, and the duty of cutting up the turkey devolved upon the Canadian, a thing he had never done in his life, and, consequently, felt rather reluctant to perform such a task in presence of his Clara.

Both had imbibed somewhat freely, and the fumes of the liquor were still on their brains. Clara was exceedingly mirthful and he was unusually excited and happy.

His cold, Canadian blood had received an impulse which he had never felt before. The cool morning breezes had given a freshness to her cheeks which no painting could excel. And to do her justice we must say that Clara never painted. Her complexion was fair enough without the aid of rouge.

After they were seated at the table, he sat and gazed upon the smoking turkey as if a herculean task was before him. Clara noticed his embarrassment, and hid a smile under her handkerchief.

They sat silent a few moments, and at last Clara laughed for she could hold in no longer. He laughed, too, and that took of the wire edge of her laugh.

'To tell the truth,' said he, 'I never carved a turkey in my whole life. Did you?'

'Yes, several times for the landladies with whom I have boarded,' she replied, smiling.

'Well, I will not be so impolite as to do it,' he added. 'But you may give me some directions and correct me when I make a false move.'

'O, certainly,' she replied. 'First stick your fork into the breast and let the tines straddle the bone that protrudes, and then unjoint the limbs and wings. It will not be necessary to cut up all the creature, for we can't eat it, and let those who come after us cut and carve for themselves.'

'Enough said.' he answered, feeling glad to be relieved from a portion of the task, and thrusting in the fork as she had directed. 'Now for the limbs as you call them.'

The wine was soon brought in, and he filled two glasses and presented her with one.

'A toast,' she said, holding up the sparkling glass. 'A toast, my dear Charles.'

'May we see many more Christmas dinners together,' she added, emphasizing the word together and drinking her wine as if it was a new habit with her.

'May Heaven grant the wish,' he said, again filling up the glasses, and giving her one of them. 'One toast more, my dear Clara. One more.'

'I join you most cheerfully,' she added. 'One more toast from you, dear Charles.'

'Marriage, honorable marriage is a consummation which is most devoutly to be wished.'

She repeated the same words, and both drank simultaneously. The young man now began to feel exceedingly excited and joyous; for he was not at all accustomed to wine-bibbing. She excited effects of the liquor upon his brain, while she remained cool as a cucumber. Such practices did not upset her philosophy; for she had long been used to such demonstrations.—She was too cunning to drink him drunk on that occasion; and yet she was willing to see him much excited. She debated the question in her own mind whether to induce him to drink to intoxication, and then steal his money, or keep him decently sober and lay her plans so as to insure her marriage.—The latter consideration had a preponderating influence upon her heart, and she laid her plans accordingly.

Believing she had kindled a flame of love in his heart which she fancied she had the power to keep burning, and also being satisfied that he possessed a good fortune. She taxed all her energies and plied all her arts to bring about a marriage with him. And he appeared ripe for such a consummation, at least, she thought so; and the reader will perceive that she had good reasons for thus thinking. He was so excited and so very joyous, that he proposed the third glass which she very modestly declined.

'Enough is quite as good as a feast,' she said. 'I rather not take any more wine. Your company is quite exciting enough for me without more wine. I am much obliged.'

'Well, I believe I have taken about enough,' he added, rising from the table, and then taking a seat upon an old dilapidated sofa where she joined him.

A servant now entered the room, and told them there was a private parlor they could occupy.

'Thank you,' said Clara, giving the servant a shilling, who received it with bows and smiles, and rising with her lover's hand clasped in hers.

They removed into an adjacent room which the servant denominated, the private parlor. The room was small, but decently furnished. They seated themselves on a sofa which was in better condition than the one they left.

'This is a cozy little room,' she said. 'It is not a first class hotel; but then it is quiet and removed from the noise and bustle of the city. When persons have company they like, they prefer to be retired where they can enjoy themselves.'

She accompanied her remarks with a gentle pressure of his hand; but she did it so naturally and artfully, that it did not seem to him immodest at all.—He rather viewed the demonstration as a fresh proof of her growing love; and in such a light she desired him to view it.

'It is, indeed, a nice place,' he replied, venturing to lean his head upon her shoulder.

His hair was dark brown, quite long, and hung in natural curls down his neck. At this time it rested upon her shoulder.

'How very near the color of my hair is to yours,' she said, running her fingers through the ringlets, and gazing fondly into his eyes. 'And how beautifully it curls. One might think the barber's tongs had been at work upon it; but I know the curls are natural.—Is your mother's hair curly and colored like yours?'

'Very similar,' he replied, toying with one of her curls that hung over her ear and partially concealed a handsome jewel that dangled from it.

'Your mother must be a very beautiful woman,' she said, smiling, and still twirling his hair with her jewelled finger.

'She is considered so, and of course I think so,' he answered.

'O, how I should like to see her!' she said, turning her head against his.

'Perhaps you may have that privilege one of these days,' was his answer.

'My mother was a very handsome woman,' she said. 'But she has been dead a good while.'

'I think your father must have been a good looking man,' he added.

'What makes you think so?' she asked, archly smiling.

'Because he has such a beautiful daughter,' he quickly replied.

'There you go again, my good friend,' she said, laughing. 'The gentlemen will flatter in spite of every thing.'

'And do not the ladies, too?' he asked, smoothing back the hair from her polished forehead, and gazing into her half closed eyes.

'Sometimes,' she replied. 'But I don't flatter you when I call you handsome, unless telling the truth be flattery. The ladies have a right to speak the truth, whether it wounds or pleases. I always am frank and open, and say just what I think. I suppose it would be better for me if I were a little more reserved; but I hate deceit in every form. On the whole, I think it is well for one to speak out plainly, and then no deception will be practiced. Don't you think so?'

'I do, indeed, and your thus speaking makes me like you so well,' he replied. 'The first word I heard you speak last night when I enquired my way convinced me that you were frank and open hearted.'

'And the very tone of your voice when you made the > enquiry , convinced me that you also were frank, generous and kind hearted.'

'Well, it is curious to reflect how soon we have become acquainted,' he said.

'It does not take long for congenial souls to become intimate,' she added, giving his hand another more nervous pressure, and smiling most sweetly.

There was a momentary pause, as if each were too much busied in thought to give them utterance. That pause was of a brief duration.

'There, dear Charles, take that, for I can't help it,' she said, kissing him.

The reader will very naturally conclude that this artful girl had thrown the silken cords of love about this young Canadian's heart, and bound him to her by ties that could not be easily broken. How long they remained in that room these chronicles do not show. Enough has been recorded to unfold to the reader how artful a woman can be, and how destructive her power when under no restraint nor governed by any moral principle.

When this young man came to the city and even down to the solemn hour of midnight on the Christmas evening when he met this meretricious beauty, his heart was pure and innocent as most young men's at his age. He had never before met such a woman, nor one who moved in her circle. True, he had heard of such characters, but had never come in contact with them; and all his impulses and instincts were against mingling in such society. But alas! he has been caught in a silken net, and what the result is, may appear in subsequent pages. Sufficient has already been shown to admonish the young and inexperienced to be cautious how they receive the attention and caresses of beautiful, accomplished, yet meretricious women who throng all our large cities.

CHAPTER VIII

THE INEBRIATE'S THIRST. NEGRO HUMOR AND PHILOSOPHY. HIS FIDELITY. THE IRISH SERVANT. A NEGRO'S NOTIONS ABOUT PRIESTS. THE RESPONSIBILITY OF PARENTS, &C.

YOUNG Frank Robinson did not rise from his bed until a late hour in the morning. The negro had left the room while Frank was in a disturbed and restless sleep. Breakfast was over, and the father had gone out to attend to some business, but not, however, until he had given his orders to the servant not to suffer the young thief to leave the house.

The door bell now rang, and young Saunders who swindled Frank out of his money stood at the door, waiting for admission. The negro answered the call.

'Is Frank at home?' asked the blackleg.

'De fashionable folks would say not at home, but dis negro say he is; but you can't see young massar, no how,' replied Ben.

'But why not?' demanded the young man. 'He is a friend of mine. Is he too sick to see visitors?'

'He be berry sick at de stomach last night; but he better now there, only he be kind of sick in his mind,' replied Ben, assuming a very cunning look.—'His best friends no see him for several days.'

Frank now came to the door and just caught a glimpse of his brother gambler as Ben closed the door and kept him back, and Saunders took himself off.

'That is too bad that I'm not permitted to see one of my most intimate friends,' groaned Frank, as he threw himself upon a sofa, and wept.

'It may be bad; but massar's orders must be obeyed,' said Ben. 'Tears sometimes do good, and run off the grief ob de heart. May be you feel better arter a good flow ob tears. Dis child has cried and felt better for it.'

'O, I wish I had never been born!' exclaimed Frank.

'Nebber make sich a wish as dat,' said Ben. 'No one can help being born, and shouldn't complain ob dat. Nebber do dat ting in de world. It being wicked, indeed, so all de good folks say.'

'Well, I'm too miserable to live!' muttered Frank.

'Nebber mind, perhaps you feel better one ob dese days when de fire go out in your stomach and de heart gets right,' said Ben. 'My ole massar, down South hab a son a good deal like you; but he got better before he grew up a man, and perhaps you will.'

'But did that young man steal any money from his father and then gamble it away?' anxiously enquired Frank.

'Not so large a sum as you did; but he took small amounts quite often, and gambled too,' replied Ben. 'One night he hab a boweknife ran into him by the gamblers, and he almost died ob de wound. But he got well and nebber gambled again. Dat big wound cured him.'

Frank buried his face in his hands, and resolved that he would never steal nor gamble again.

Ben left him to his own reflections and went about his work. However the faithful negro kept a watch over him lest he should escape into the street.

But few fathers or mothers become so totally depraved and lost to all feelings of humanity as not to care whether their offspring are sinful or virtuous, happy, or miserable.

Bad and corrupt as Captain Robinson was; still he was very far from desiring that his children should be as wicked as he was. No—no. His anxious care was to direct his son's footsteps in the way of honor, truth and integrity; and although he visited brothels, and hesitated not to ruin female innocence and virtue; yet he did not wish his son to pursue the same course. It would have given him pain, and wrung his heart with anguish to have known that his son visited houses of ill fame, and was dandled in the laps of harlots.

Having transacted some business, Captain Robinson, thought he would call upon the old hag, Mrs. Rudolf, for the purpose of having some private talk with her, supposing Fanny would be absent on her begging excursion; but it so happened, that this old woman had resolved to keep Fanny confined to the house, for reasons with which the reader has already been made acquainted.

'Good morning,' he said, in a very pleasant voice. 'I was passing, and so I thought I would call.'

'I am glad you did, for I'm happy to see generous and kind hearts,' replied the old woman.

'Well, my dear Fanny, you are not out to-day I perceive,' he continued. 'I suppose you got so many presents yesterday that you thought you would rest to-day. I'm happy to see you.'

Fanny made no reply, but kept plying her needle very industriously. She did not even raise her eyes from her work to look at him. He did not like that sort of indifference; but concealed his feelings, and continued,

'I hope you met many friends, and received good many presents. It was a beautiful day, and the people were very joyous and gay. Were you treated kindly as well as generously?'

No answer came from Fanny; but her needle flew rapidly. Mrs. Rudolf began to feel her temper rise, and a dark frown to settle on her ugly face, but the girl did not seem to heed either. Seeing the Captain, made her feel almost desperate.

'Han't you a tongue in your head?' asked her mistress.

'I have; but I don't know what to say,' replied Fanny.

'Why, the Captain only asked you a simple question,' said Mrs. Rudolf. 'Why don't you answer it, and treat people decently when they come to see us?'

'He asked me if I was treated kindly as well as generously; but you thought I ought to have collected more money on such a day, and so I didn't know what answer to make.'

'O, dear, Fanny you will speak to me kindly,' said the Captain, very coaxingly.

'Yes, sir, if you will let me alone,' she replied.

Her answer was just such a one as he didn't wish to hear, and he showed it in his countenance in spite of his efforts at self-control of which he possessed a good share.

He was not pleased to be thus treated by a poor young girl when he had always been successful among the fair sex. The truth is he prided himself upon his power over women, and to be thus kept at a distance, and a good moral distance, too, by a girl whose business it was to beg and sweep the streets was almost too much for his proud spirit to bear; but he concealed his feelings as best he could.

'Love, my dear, always wishes to be near its object!' he replied, smiling, but not offering to approach her which she feared, every moment.

'Yes, and strange you can't understand it,' said the old woman. 'Your mother would understand if she were here.'

The allusion to her mother awakened strange and conflicting emotions, and this cunning old hag knew it too well.

Fanny almost ceased to ply her needle her thoughts > coursed so rapidly through her mind. The mistress noticed it, and shaped her course accordingly.

She now sent Fanny to a baker's shop across the street to purchase a loaf of bread merely for the purpose of having a few moment's private conversation with the Captain.

Soon as Fanny was gone, this vile woman told the Captain that the only way to conquer the girl was to make her believe that she could never see her mother unless she yielded to his wishes. The hint, he considered a valuable one, and resolved to improve it to the best advantage at some future interview. The chord was a tender one, and he determined to vibrate it.

CHAPTER IX

NEW YEARS. A YOUNG MAN SET AT LIBERTY. THE MEETING OF TWO YOUNG GAMBLERS. THE CUNNING OF THE ELDER. WICKED HINTS. THE DANGER OF THE FIRST GLASS AFTER ABSTINENCE. THE AGE'S PROGRESS.

TIME passes on and New Year's Day arrives, and the city is again in commotion. Fanny had now been confined to the house for a week, and suffered to be absent but a few minutes at any one period. Frank Robinson had also been imprisoned at home during a week, which seemed an age to him.—In the mean time his father had given him some very severe lectures which produced as he thought very salutary effects upon his truant son. He had lectured him upon stealing, gambling, and drinking; but had not cautioned him in relation to women, for he did not once dream that Frank was treading in his footsteps. Besides, the Captain didn't feel just right in preaching a moral lecture upon that subject. Frank was young yet, and the father did not suppose that he had made much progress in that vice. It was the other sins his lectures aimed to points out and to induce Frank to avoid.

The young man appeared exceedingly penitent and also made the most solemn promises of reform. In fact, he felt as though he would never again steal from his father, drink or gamble, and made his promises of reformation in good faith.

The Captain took his son into a private room; lectured him, heard his promises of reform and gave him liberty to go out into the city. It was a happy day for this young man who had been punished most severely, for he couldn't bear confinement. He started out with his little cane, all rigged out in the best his wardrobe offered for the enjoyment of the new year. Never did a colt feel more antic when let loose in a green pasture than this young man did on that occasion.

He bent his steps for Broadway, and there mingled in the gay crowd; for the day was fine and the streets were thronged with human beings of all nations, ages and colors.

Frank was very anxious to see young Saunders, who he thought had lost the same amount of money in gambling on that fatal night he had lost. There was another person whom he was anxious to see, and that was Fanny Dumont.—During his confinement at home, he had dreamed of her beauty and charms until he began to feel as if he really loved her. He went through the crowds in the street and in the Park, looking in every direction, and hoping to see her dark curls and brilliant eyes.

He wandered around a long time, but saw not the beautiful Fanny who was shut up and confined just as he had been, with this difference, his confinement was a punishment and a just punishment, too, for his crimes while she was pure and innocent, and was compelled to suffer because she refused to commit a crime. At last he saw the form of young Saunders among the crowd and hastened to meet him.

'How are you, my good friend?' said Saunders, shaking Frank cordially by the hand. 'It seems an age since I saw you! Where have you been, and what have you been doing for a week past? I called the next day after our misfortune to see you; but that damned, saucy negro servant forbid me to enter. Is he lord and master of your father's house? I felt as if I should like to have cracked his cocoa nut for him. He is a damned insulting nigger.'

Believing this young scoundrel was his sincere friend, Frank related all that had happened, why the negro servant would not permit him to enter his father's house, and all the particulars of the abridgement of his liberty.

'Well, your old father needn't have made such a damned fuss about the few hundred dollars you took from his desk,' said Saunders. 'The old man has money enough left. If I were his son I would have just as much money as I wanted.'

'But how could you get it?' asked Frank.

'Why, it is the easiest thing in the world,' replied the young gambler. 'If the old fellow kept his money where I couldn't reach it, I would try the virtue of his name at some of the banks.—That would make the banks sell out.'

'But suppose you couldn't get him to sign?' asked Frank.

'Get him to sign!' repeated Saunders, smiling. 'Why, I should not dream of doing that. I would sign his name myself.'

'That would be forgery!' said Frank, looking somewhat surprised.

'Not exactly, Frank; for it would be all in the family,' replied this young villain. 'If I should sign any other name but my father's it would be forgery, but to merely write his name would not amount to that crime in my judgment. The name would bring the money, and then the bank might whistle for it; for the old man wouldn't have to pay it. And who has any sympathy for the banks? They are nothing but Jews' shops. Damn these soulless corporations I say! They don't dig and earn their money as other people are compelled to do. Their gain is all usury and nothing else.'

Frank, listened, with intense interest to this tirade against banks and secretly wished he might get hold of their money. The thought struck him that if he could get a thousand dollars or so, that he could win back with it the money he had lost. Most flattering delusion! And yet such as haunts the imagination of many young men of our cities.

'Why, look here, Frank,' continued Saunders after a brief pause. 'If you had a few hundred dollars to join me, I have no doubt we could double it in a single night. True, the fickle jade, Fortune, was against us the other night, but then that is no reason why she would be again. No, I believe she would be in our favor next time.'

'It is possible,' replied Frank.

'More than that, my young friend,' added Saunders. 'It is very probable. And how I should love to draw the money from those fellows who won our money the other night!'

'It would be good enough for them, replied Frank. 'But we might lose again.'

'That is among the possibles,' said Saunders. 'But it is not probable.—Luck always turns, and if we could win back the money we lost and as much more with it, we could quit then if we were disposed, and let the blacklegs whistle for their losses. I am fully resolved to try them once more; but my hopes of success would be more buoyant if I had you for a companion. Come, Frank, don't be down-hearted, Dame Fortune owes us a good lift, and she will give it to us, if we adopt the right course. Think of it. The prospect is bright before us, and we are fools if we don't try our luck once more. Come, it is New Year's and let us go and take a social glass together.'

'No, no, I had rather not take any thing,' replied Frank. 'I have been so long without that I'm not thirsty.'

'Nonsense!' said Saunders. 'Who can celebrate New Year's without something to give nature a jog! Come along and not be so mealy mouthed. A brandy smasher will make you feel better. And a gin cocktail is not without its charms, Come along or your blood will freeze in your veins.'

Young Saunders took Frank by the arm and literally dragged him into a splendid oyster saloon where he had taken many a sparkling glass before. The sight of shining decanters, the large mirrors, the gay company, the obscene pictures upon the walls and the very smell of the place roused the young man's appetite, and made him feel that burning thirst once more upon which the negro servant had discoursed so eloquently and philosophically. Frank consented to take a glass of wine while his companions drank off a brandy smasher. They then sat down, called for oysters, after which they smoked their cigars.

'I knew you would feel better,' said his companion, lighting another cigar, and puffing away, followed by Frank, who began to feel in his old trim again. 'I can't help thinking of those blacklegs who won our money the other night.'

'I have concluded never to gamble again,' replied Frank. 'That was a sorry night for me, and I shall long remember it.'

'Well, I have come almost to such a conclusion myself,' added Saunders. 'But I shall never feel easy until I win my money back. I must try fortune one more night, and then break off. I feel as if good luck would favor us. Think of what I have said, and govern yourself accordingly. The way is open to us, and we are fools if we do not try again. I hate to be beat.'

'And so do I,' added the excited Frank. 'If we could only win back our money and a few hundreds with it, then we could quit with a good grace.'

'Yes, and with full pockets,' replied Saunders. 'That's what I want.'

They remained sometime conversing, and at last took a parting glass, and each went his own way.

Frank was a good deal excited by the fumes of the liquor he had swallowed in violation of his most solemn promises to his father that very morning. If he had not met the cunning and unprincipled Saunders, he might have escaped and passed through the day without violating his pledges; but Saunders knew his man, and was anxious to have one more opportunity to fleece his companion. And the only way in which he could hope to do so was to counsel Frank how to raise the funds. In the excitement of the hour, the image of poor Fanny flitted across his vision, and he forthwith set out for her humble abode. Knocking at the door, he was soon admitted ; but poor Fanny was not to be seen. The old woman wished him a happy New Year but he had no money to give her.

'I must call at some other time and pay you for your kind wishes,' he said. 'I happen at this moment to be out of change. Where is the girl who resides here? I hoped I should have seen her within.'

'Why, have you any acquaintance with her?' she asked, and viewing his pretty face through her large-eyed spectacles, and suspecting he might be Fanny's lover.

'But few pretty girls in the city escape my acquaintance, madam,' he replied.

'Well, I confess, you are a very forward youth,' added the old woman, partly smiling, and half frowning.

'True, madam, I know something of city life, having been born and bred here,' he replied. 'I am a real New Yorker, and love all handsome women, if they are not too old.'

At that moment Fanny entered the room, having been across the street on an errand.

'A happy New Year to my sweetheart,' he said, embracing and kissing Fanny before she had time to avoid it.

'Stop that! or you will both feel the weight of my cane over your heads,' exclaimed the old woman, at the top of her voice, flashing her gray eyes, and flourishing her cane.

Fanny cleared herself from his embrace and fled to the further end of the room, while he stood smiling and flourishing his little cane.

'Sweet honey in those lips by Jupiter,' he said. 'And more where that came from.'

'And you'll have good luck if you suck it,' replied the old woman.

He flourished his cane round for a time, and finally left, promising to call again.

CHAPTER X

THE GIRL'S TROUBLES THICKEN. HER MISTRESS RAVES. THE STRUGGLE OF VIRTUE. A VISIT OF A GOOD WOMAN. HER STRANGE EMOTIONS. A TOUCH OF TRUE ELOQUENCE. FEMALE DEPRAVITY.

AFTER Frank had taken his leave, the echo of that kiss still sank in the old woman's ears, and she broke out into a terrible rage. A strong impression was left upon her mind that the young man was really Fanny's secret lover.

'Now I've found you out, Miss!' exclaimed this old hag. 'Now I've found you out.'

'Found, what?' asked Fanny, in a resolute tone of voice, such as innocence and not guilt can use. 'What have you, found out?'

'That young man is your secret lover! or I should rather say that strutting coxcomb,' she replied. 'You needn't deny it! I see it all! How glad you were to be kissed! Yes, after he had done it, then you pretended to struggle and get away from him. O, you are a deceitful creature as ever breathed the breath of life! Iv'e now found you out. The reason is plain why you have thus rejected that kind-hearted and loving man, Captain Robinson. You needn't deny it, Miss!'

'Then I won't deny it,' added the girl.

'You own it then, do you?' asked the mistress. 'Good Lord, what a fool you are to love such a coxcomb as he is! You own it then at last.'

'I do no such thing,' said Fanny, gazing full into the hag's face.

'But you said you wouldn't deny it,' repeated the old woman.

'I said that because you said I need not deny it,' was Fanny's reply.

'Well, do you deny it now?' demanded this virago.

'I will say I never saw that young fellow, before last Christmas day, and you know I could not have seen him since, until to-day,' answered Fanny.

'Well, is he not your lover?' asked the mistress. 'Answer that!'

'I don't think I could fall in love by only meeting a fellow once in the streets,' said Fanny. 'I saw him, and wished him a merry Christmas, and he gave me two shillings, asked me my name and where I lived. I told him, and that is all the truth.'

'But why did you suffer him to kiss you?' she asked.

'He did it before I was aware of his intentions,' replied Fanny. 'It was very offensive to me, and I am not in fault. I think the fellow must have been drinking.'

'But he said he loved you,' continued the old woman, not being yet fully satisfied that all was right.

'How could I help that?' asked Fanny. 'Suppose he does love me, I can't be censured for that; besides, he don't mean what he said, for he had been drinking.'

'Well, well, I hope he'll never enter my doors again,' said the old woman. 'If he does, I'll try what virtue there is in my cane, I can promise him. He is the sauciest little coxcomb I have seen for many a day. Why, he would be a man before his diapers are taken off. The progressive age! The city young bloods act like fools nowadays. It was not so when I was young.—Children were children then, but now there are no children. O, I hate such forward > youngsters , such young roasters who go crowing and strutting about, Captain Robinson is worth a regiment of them. And by the way, I shouldn't wonder if he visited us this evening, and if he does I trust you will receive him kindly.'

'I shall not treat him ill if he lets me alone,' said Fanny.

'Then you begin to feel again as if you should reject all his offers, do you?' she asked. 'Remember the consequences. Can you be so lost to all sense of feeling as not to wish to see your own dear mother?'

'Why can't I see her now?' anxiously enquired the agitated girl.

'Your birth was an illegitimate one, and your mother is under a solemn vow, never to see you, until you are married,' replied this vile, lying woman. 'That vow she is sworn to keep, and keep it she will. Now you know what to depend upon. Reject the good Captain, and die without seeing your mother, if you will.'

Fanny burst into a flood of tears and buried her face in her handkerchief.—The old woman had never told her so much before, and the poor girl's heart was wrung with the keenest anguish. She sobbed very bitterly, and the hard-hearted old woman heard those sobs, and saw those scalding tears with much self-complacency; for she believed that Fanny was driven into a corner from which she could not escape. This vile wretch chuckled over what she fondly believed was a conquest, and that the time was drawing near when the old libertine would have his victim and she made independently rich.

Fanny wept for some time, and O, what emotions pressed her soul during that brief period! Such emotions cannot be recorded on any earthly tablet. At last the girl exhausted all her tears, rose and gazed out of the window. Mrs. Rudolf sat in silence, gently putting the end of her cane upon the floor as a sort of accompaniment to her rapid thoughts.

Mrs. Rudolf felt buoyant with hope; for Fanny seemed quiet and calm as if she had passed through her severest trials, and had resolved to sacrifice herself for the sake of beholding and embracing her mother. While she thus stood at the window, Mrs. Hapgood made her appearance upon the opposite side of the street, Fanny's heart beat violently; for the sight of that kind lady awakened in her breast strange emotions, but why she could not tell. She had dreamed about her last night, and fancied she had become her adopted daughter, and lived happily with her.

'Will she call, or pass along?' Fanny asked her agitated heart.

At that very moment Mrs. Hapgood crossed over and saw Fanny at the window. Kind smiles were exchanged, and a rapping at the door was heard.

'Who's there?' cried out Mrs. Rudolf hitching round in her chair and looking at Fanny.

'A lady,' replied Fanny, answering the call, and ushering in the woman.

'I wish you all a happy new year,' said Mrs. Hapgood, kissing Fanny, and curtesying to the old woman . 'How is your health, madam?'

'O, I keep along after the old sort,' replied Mrs. Rudolf; 'I can never hope to be any better, and I thank the Lord I'm no worse.'

'I have brought some nice eatibles for a new year's present,' said Mrs. Hapgood, uncovering a small basket she held in her hand, and displaying some cake and fruits.

The old woman took the present and thanked the giver; but not with that cordiality she sometimes hypocritically manifested.

'I have a small gold ring which I will put on your finger, Fanny,' continued Mrs. Hapgood. 'Wear it in remembrance of me.'

'I thank you kindly,' said Fanny, while the ring was being placed on her finger.

Mrs. Rudolf gazed upon the operation through her spectacles with no very pleasing emotions. It was the first jewel Fanny ever wore, and her eyes sparkled with joy, not however, so much on account of the value of the ring as on account of the giver. Fanny had never seen a woman she so much admired as she did Mrs. Hapgood.—True, she highly esteemed Mrs. Melville, but Mrs. Hapgood had become her favorite.

'I have been seriously thinking since I was here that you can do no better than to give me Fanny,' said Mrs. Hapgood. 'If you will, you shall, be generously dealt with, and Fanny shall be kindly treated.'

'How generously dealt with?' asked the old miserly woman, thinking of nothing but gold and silver, and darting her eyes through her glasses.

'O, I am willing to make you a very handsome present,' replied Mrs. Hapgood.

'What present?' coldly asked the old woman.

'I will pay you fifty dollars a year so long as you may live,' replied Mrs. Hapgood.

'Fifty dollars a year!' repeated the old woman, knocking the end of her cane upon the floor, and gazing at Mrs. Hapgood. 'Fifty dollars a year! That would not support me; and you perceive I'm so much of a cripple that I cannot work.'

'True, I see you are, indeed, a poor cripple, and I am exceedingly sorry for you,' said this good woman. 'But can Fanny be worth more than that to you each year? If she is, I am willing to give you more.'

'But I expect the girl will become the wife of a very rich and good man one of these days, and then I shall be supported like a lady,' said the old woman. 'You perceive that makes all the difference in the world. I couldn't think of disappointing that good gentleman who doats on Fanny.'

'Who is the gentleman?' asked Mrs. Hapgood.

'I never tell any tales out of school,' replied Mrs, Rudolf. 'I'm not at liberty to reveal that gentleman's secrets.'

Mrs. Hapgood saw at a glance that it was not proper for her to press that subject any further; for she was a lady of intelligence and well-bred. But after all she could not feel satisfied that any rich gentleman would be likely to fall in love with a girl so young as Fanny, and living under such circumstances.

'O, madam, far be it from me to pry into any such secrets,' she said, after a few moment's reflection. 'If Fanny is really engaged, it does not become me to attempt to break off that engagement. But it strikes me she is quite too young to enter into such an engagement; and if she loves the gentleman and he reciprocates her love and is worthy of her, it is not for me to interfere. And yet I must be permitted to say that those who have the care of young girls ought to exercise great caution and much discretion in disposing of them in marriage. It is an old maxim, and a true one, that there's many a slip between the cup and the lip. Some gentlemen may pretend to love when their hearts are very far from it. Madam, permit me to say there are both young and old libertines in this city.'

The last sentence was pronounced with much emphasis as if the good woman felt the force of what she was saying.

Mrs. Rudolf started, struck her cane upon the floor, and a deep drawn sigh escaped from Fanny. The effects produced by that single sentence proved its true eloquence, and showed that it came from the heart. And subsequent pages of this drama may show that it did really come from no less a fountain. Tears stood in Fanny's eyes, and the old woman was agitated in every muscle of her decrepid frame.

Nothing was said for some moments, and the silence became painful to the old woman. Besides, she every moment feared that Fanny would utter something which would throw embarrassment upon the cause she cherished so dearly. Fanny looked as if words were struggling for utterance, while the tears stood trembling in her dark eyes.

'True, there are libertines in the city both old and young, but then that fact don't prove but there are honest men here,' said Mrs. Rudolf.

'I hope and trust there are some honest men and women, too, in the city,' Mrs. Hapgood replied, placing a strong emphasis on the word woman.

'You may reasonably indulge that hope,' said the old hypocrite. 'You cannot for a moment suppose I could be willing to give my Fanny to a man whom I did not believe to be honest.—What inducements can I have for pursuing such a course.'

'I can conceive of none but the hope of gold,' replied Mrs. Hapgood. 'And remember, I do not accuse you of being governed by such base motives.—Whether you are or not is known to accusing me,' said Mrs. Rudolf, after a long and painful pause. 'You are too much of a lady for that. You would not willingly do such injustice to a lame woman, and one on whom has been the pinching hand of poverty for many long years.'

She uttered the above words in a subdued tone of voice, and assumed a very humble, meek manner, while Mrs. Hapgood's eyes were scanning every lineament of her ugly countenance, and endeavoring to read her inmost thoughts in the lines of her face.

While the old hypocrite was thus cunningly discanting on her poverty and decrepitude, and assuming such a meek manner, Mrs. Hapgood fully believed she discovered marks of hypocrisy in every line of her ugly face.

'No, madam, none but God can see the heart, and why should I, one of his humblest creatures, presume to take his prerogative from Him, and sit in judgment upon the motives that control human actions,' said Mrs. Hapgood. 'God is your judge! I am permitted only to judge of the tree by the fruit it bears. My acquaintance with you has been very brief, and you may be assured I shall not judge you harshly. That I feel a very deep interest in this young girl's welfare my heart bears me witness. Yes, madam, I feel an exceedingly strong and intense interest, stronger and more intense than I have felt for years. Why I should thus feel entirely passes my comprehension.'

'It is very strange that you should feel such a very deep interest for the girl,' said Mrs. Rudolf. 'I cannot account for it no better than you can.'

'We have feelings sometimes that we cannot account for,' added Mrs. Hapgood. 'They come upon us like the wind and we know not whence they come. There is much of mystery in human life yet which has not been penetrated, and perhaps it never will. But I must not extend my visit too long. I have one request to make ere I take my leave.'

'And pray what is that?' asked Mrs. Rudolf, staring wildly about.

'Will you permit me to have the pleasure of Fanny's company during a short walk?' asked Mrs. Hapgood. 'I can assure you she shall return in a half an hour.'

'Your'e a stranger to me, and I cannot consent,' said the old woman.

'I should admire to go out and walk awhile, the day is so very pleasant,' said Fanny.

'You can't go with any stranger,' replied her mistress, shortly and sharply.

'You can act your pleasure, madam,' said Mrs. Hapgood. 'If you think there is any danger, you do right to refuse the request.'

'I don't know as there would be any danger,' said the old hag; 'but at any rate I shall be perfectly safe to keep Fanny at home.'

Mrs. Hapgood remained but a few minutes longer, and took her leave.—As she left the room she saw that Fanny's eyes were filled with tears, and her heart was heavy within her.

'I'm glad that woman's gone, and hope she will never visit me again,' said the old woman.

'Why so, she appears to be a very good woman, and has made us many presents,' said Fanny, in a tremulous voice.

'Made us presents!' repeated the old woman. 'Yes, and I perfectly understand her object. She has given you a gold ring and pretends to love you dearly. Ah, Fanny, there's mischief under all that. That woman, no doubt, is the keeper of a brothel and wants you for one of the inmates! I can see through her as easily as if she were made of glass. We must avoid that woman. If I had allowed you to walk out with her, just as likely as not she would have had some ruffian ready and you would have been carried away and confined in her den of infamy and shame. There are many such women about the streets seeking for young girls to make wantons of them and thereby make money! Some of these wretches have accumulated great wealth by such practices, and ride in their own carriages, O, I hate the whole brood of them. You must be cautious or you will be spirited away one of these days. I'm really afraid to let you go out at all since I have learned there are so many such women in the city from the Captain. You must place yourself under his protection, and then you will be safe. These women appear like angels when at heart they are devils incarnate.'

Fanny listened to the above long harangue, and does the reader wonder that the poor girl's faith in Mrs. Hapgood was somewhat shaken? It was a cunningly devised tale, and was not without its effect upon Fanny's mind, and yet she was unwilling to believe that Mrs. Hapgood was a bad woman. There was still an instinctive impression that this lady really esteemed her and wished to adopt her as a daughter.

CHAPTER XI

A NEW-YEAR S DINNER. THE PROGRESS OF CRIME. SOME BRIGHT SPOTS IN A DARK HEART. A HONEY MOON THAT IS NOT ONE. THE CONTEMPLATED JOURNEY. THE HELLISH PURPOSES OF A LIBERTINE.

FRANK ROBINSON had discretion and shrewdness enough to sober himself off before he went home to the new year's dinner; but to do so cost him much self-denial; for the lion appetite, had been roused in his stomach, and growled for more intoxicating drinks. He went home quite sober in season for dinner as he was requested; but great was his disappointment when he found no wine on the table. His father had taken the precaution to banish wine from the table even on such a joyous occasion as New-Years.

The Captain was pleased to find his son looking so well, and indulged the hope that his reformation would be a permanent one.

The dinner passed off very well and Frank continued to have his liberty as usual. The suggestions of Saunders still haunted his mind, and he longed for one more chance at the gaming tables; for he was flattered into the belief that he should win. Saunders had made a deep and dangerous impression upon his mind—an impression that he could not erase or forget. He happened to meet Saunders again in the afternoon, when the young gambler again plied all his arts upon his intended victim. He laid the flattering unction to his soul that he should be able to get Frank up to the point of committing a forgery, and by that means raise funds to gamble away.

Again Frank was induced to drink; but young Saunders did not find the task so > difficult the second time as he did the first. But we must leave them in an oyster saloon, and turn to other characters and scenes.

The reader may inquire, 'where is the young Canadian? What progress has the artful Clara made in her courtship?' These are legitimate inquiries and ought to be answered. It is often heard that a woman has been seduces but seldom that a man has been. But > truth compels us to say that Charles Henderson was caught in the silken net of Clara Hopkins. She had spread it so adroitly and artfully that he could not help being caught. The Christmas, the sleigh-ride and the wine, together with her meretricious charms, had done the work for him. She now had the advantage over him. It was a terrible thought to him that he had seduced a beautiful and innocent girl, and what was there left for him to do but to make atonements for his wrongs by marriage. That she loved him he could not doubt, and that love had worked her ruin in his estimation, unless he made reparation for all damages in honorable marriage.

This young man was no libertine at heart, and it was not in his nature to ruin a girl and then abandon her to her sad fate. No, no, our Canadian friend never harbored such wicked thoughts and propensities. He had never prided himself in making reprisals from the fairer part of creation and then boast of his conquests as many young and old men have done. That he was precipitated along in his love career by the consummate art and tact of a handsome girl there can be no question. Her emotions had been very conflicting.—At one period she thought she would wed him and lead a more respectable life, at another time she thought of stealing all the money from him she could lay her hands on and abandon him.

It has been recorded in preceding chapters of these chronicles that this girl was not totally depraved, that there were yet in her heart some qualities which if properly nurtured and fastened, might work out her redemption, and that she yet cherished some aspirations for a better life. That record is true and yet many harbor the belief that women are either angels or devils, and that when once a woman has fallen from virtue that hope of her reformation is forever extinct. But it is a commonly received doctrine that men may be redeemed, however degraded and abandoned their lives and characters may have been. Now why do a such doctrines prevail? Why is it so generally believed that men may rise from the lowest depths of degradation and become useful and respectable members of the community and women cannot? It would seem that such philosophy has a screw loose somewhere. And have not women themselves been active instrumentalities in forcing such a belief upon the public mind? When a woman falls are no the whole sex out after her, treating her with scorn and contempt, and inducing men to believe her cure a hopeless one? When a young man falls, or, to speak more plainly and not mince the matter, when he seduces woman and even abandons her most cruelly after the act, men don't hunt him down as the women do the girl. And what is more, the women adopt the notion that a reformed rake makes the best husband. But who ever heard that it is a maxim among men that a reformed woman makes the best wife? It is generally conceded that it is a poor rule that don't work both ways.

These questions Clara Hopkins had often debated in her own mind until she was partially convinced, to say the least of it, that public sentiment was all wrong, public morals corrupted and that she was about as good and virtuous as the generality of men and women. It must be confessed that hers was a dangerous state of mind and heart.

Clara's lover still continued to board with Madame Sonati, as she called herself. She was a large, fair looking, dark eyed woman, exceedingly adroit and cunning, full of apparent good humor, and very attentive and obliging to Charles Henderson. For all such politeness, and attention and hospitality this woman was to receive from Clara Hopkins an adequate compensation provided she succeeded in her courtship.

'I did hope the knot would have been tied on this very day, the first of the new year,' said Clara to Madame Sonati. 'But Charles did not feel at liberty to wed until he informed his good mother of his intentions, and received an answer back. That answer has not yet been received. A plague on the post-offices in Canada.'

'There may yet be a slip between the cup and the lip,' said the cunning Sonati. 'If he should learn from a reliable source your true character previous to your acquaintance with him, he would be likely to ship you off, and to guard against that you must use every precaution. Remember you have not yet put your hand in his pocket very deep. True, he has made you some handsome presents. Have you ascertained how much money he has with him?'

'I have not been such a fool as to ask him the question direct; but I have seen a large package of bills and considerable gold,' replied Clara.

'And is it so situated that you can put your hand upon it at any time?' asked this miserly, corrupt woman.

'Why, he leaves his valuables with me when he goes out,' answered Clara. 'He has the most perfect confidence in my honor and integrity, and verily believes that he has seduced me! Did you ever hear the like! Ah, he loves me as he does his own eyes.'

'It is an old maxim that hot love is soon cold,' added this shrewd woman. 'And you must be prepared for any emergency.'

'When I think how warmly he loves me, and how kindly and tenderly he treats me, I can hardly endure the thought of stealing his money,' said Clara. 'The truth is, I like him better than any fellow I have seen since the wretch who seduced me under the most solemn promises of marriage. When thinking of these things I confess I have many doubts and misgivings.—How is it possible for the female heart to remain indifferent when it feels, yes, and knows, that it is loved by a good-hearted, generous fellow?'

'Well, Clara, you really begin to show symptoms of reform,' said the mistress. 'I think you had better ship off the Canadian, and hunt up some Methodist priest for your husband.'

Madame Sonati laughed heartily at her own wit; but her ridicule had not the power to stop the current of feeling that was running in Clara's heart at that moment. She was really actuated by some emotions which do honor to her sex at that particular juncture.

'You may laugh until you split your fat sides,' said Clara. 'But I am really in earnest about what I say. Charles is a glorious fellow as ever breathed, and I have almost come to the conclusion to wed him and live a virtuous life with him.'

'Live a virtuous life with him!' repeated this heartless woman, laughing. 'When I see you live such a life, then and not till then, shall I believe it.—You live a virtuous life! When you do, old Nick himself will turn an orthodox preacher, and become a Saint!—Why Clara, you will soon begin to think about other men and to run after them. There's Captain Robinson, he has been one of your favorites for some weeks, but you soon got sick of him, and sought others.'

'I never had a particle of affection for that old sinner,' replied Clara. 'I received him because he paid the most generously for awhile. The truth is, he got sick of me and sought others.—Besides he begun to grow stingy of his money and presents. No, no, I never had such feelings for him as I have for Charles; and for a very good reason, I know the old libertine never had any love for me. Talk of that old gray-headed sinner. His money was always a greater favorite with me than his person ever was.'

Neither the mistress nor Clara knew this notable Captain was the uncle of Charles Henderson. True, he had sometimes spoke of his uncle, but never called him by name. There was not a very cordial feeling between Charles and his uncle, if there had been he would have boarded at his house.

'Let me give you warning,' said the mistress. 'My experience is larger than yours. If you wed this young man, you will leave him before the honey moon has passed. Honey moon, did I say? You would not have no honey moon at all.'

And again she shook her fat sides with laughing, and appeared quite jolly. She was naturally a bright, animated, joyous woman. And since her conscience had ceased to trouble her much, she was apparently happy. She had become quite wealthy, and still was anxious to accumulate more. Money was her god, and she made all her girls pay roundly for the privileges she gave them. Notwithstanding her apparent good nature and frequent dashes of wit and humor, yet she harbored a most violent temper which scarcely knew any bounds when it was fully aroused.—Her spirit of revenge, too, was rank and inveterate when any one insulted or abused her. She had been engaged in many fights and shes under her own roof, but some of them were of a serious nature. Twice the law had put its grapples upon her; but her abundance of money bribed the officers of justice, and she escaped with light punishments. Such was the character of Madame Sonati as she proudly called herself.

'There's some truth in what you say about the honey moon,' added Clara after a brief pause, during which her thoughts coursed rapidly through her mind. 'But, nevertheless, I am now fully impressed with the belief that I can live more happily with Charles than I can in any other way.'

'Yes, but it takes two to make wedded life happy,' said the mistress—'Perhaps you might possibly get along tolerably well so long as his money and love lasted, but when they are gone I'm inclined to think you would break up housekeeping.'

'He has a good lot of money, and I feet confident his love will not soon wax cold. I can keep that flame burning brightly. I kindled the fire and I ought to know how to supply the fuel, and my opinion is I do know.'

'I always knew you had self-conceit enough,' added Madame Sonati. 'You don't lack for that; I have often said or at least thought that you possessed more of that article than any girl in my house. But let that pass. Be on the watch, lest the young Canadian slip through your fingers, and leave you in the lurch. These young men are often as slippery as eels, and it is a difficult task to hold them.'

'You may let me alone for that,' added Clara. 'I have my weather eye open, as the jolly tars say. By the way when think you Billy Spritsail will be back from his voyage to Europe? He is a noble-hearted fellow and spends his money freely. I used to like Billy much better than I ever did Captain Robinson, and yet I never had so much feeling for him as I have for Charles.'

'Yes, you have fleeced that fellow out of many doubloons,' she said.

'And you have had a pretty good share of them,' added Clara.

The young Canadian now entered the room, and Madame Sonati very politely took her leave. He had been to the post-office for a letter.

'Strange, mother does not write,' he said. 'And yet it is hardly time to receive a letter from her. It will come ere long, for she is always prompt.'

'Perhaps the mails are not so regular in Canada as they are in the States,' said Clara.

'O, yes, I think they are; but mother lives a good way off,' he replied, feeling some little national pride. 'The Canadian mails are very regular. I expect mother will be somewhat surprised when she reads my letter. When I left home she cautioned me about the New York gals as she called them.'

'That shows her to be not only a wise but good mother,' added the cunning girl. 'Young men must be cautious, for our city is filled with bad characters of both sexes,' said the artful girl.

'So she told me, and hence her caution,' he added.

'Now, Charles, I have been thinking of proposing a journey to > Philadelphia ,' she said. 'The journey will not be very expensive. I should admire to see that city. Shouldn't you?'

'I should, indeed,' he replied. 'I will accompany you, if you desire it.'

'O, Charles, how good and kind you be!' she said, reaching up, and kissing him.

'No more so than you are,' he replied, returning her kiss, and pressing her to his breast. 'This is, indeed, a happy new year!'

'Days, weeks, months and years must be happy when two hearts are joined in the holy bands of love and beat in unison,' she added, gazing fondly into his animated face.

'I wonder Madame Sonati has never been married,' he said.

'Ah, Charles, she is very particular,' she replied, smiling. 'Madame Sonati says she never yet saw the man she could love. She's very nice in her notions. Don't you think she is a splendid woman?'

'She is for one so large,' he replied, surveying Clara from head to feet as if he were taking her measure. 'You know I fancy rather small ladies.'

Now Clara was a small-sized girl, but very genteely formed and well motioned.

'I understand you, Charles,' she said, smiling, and chucking him under the chin.

Thus they communed together, and appeared as innocent as Adam and Eve in the garden before they tasted of the forbidden fruit. Clara really began to feel a kindness for the young man closely bordering on love. Evidently a new feeling, or rather an old one rekindled, began to spring up in her heart.

Clara had passed a few months in the city of Philadelphia and had several acquaintances there, but Charles knew not the fact. Fears constantly harrassed her heart that if they remained under Madame Sonati's roof, her lover might discover that it was a house of ill fame, and therefore she thought a journey to the city of brotherly love would be both politic and pleasing. She didn't wish to remain long in that city, but felt as if a change would work favorably. Besides, she was fond of journeying, and had been a bird of passage often between the two cities. Now she felt as if she could journey under very pleasant circumstances.—We must now leave them for the present and raise the curtain upon other scenes and other characters.

The day passed and evening came, when the people seemed more wild with joy than they had been through the day. The streets were thronged with horses, carriages and pedestrians, and the theatres, oyster saloons and low groggeries were crowded with men, women and children all eager for the enjoyments of New Years' eve. The gambling halls were also in full blast, and rowdyism occupied the corners of the streets. But Fanny Dumont had not mingled with the crowd during the day, wishing the people a happy New Year, and receiving her reward in pennies and small silver coins. She was more closely confined than ever before, especially since the visit of Mrs. Hapgood in the morning. Mrs. Rudolf had now a new reason for confining poor Fanny more closely to the house; her pretended fear that Mrs. Hapgood or some other bad woman would spirit her away and place her in a den of infamy and shame. Such reasons she now eloquently urged on the poor disconsolate girl as the reader has already been informed.

The widow Melville, had made many presents to the poor and needy during the day, and intended to visit Fanny and her mistress in the evening; but it occurred to her that Captain Robinson might make a call and so she remained at home to receive him. But she was destined to disappointment, for the Captain was in search of younger craft. New Years' eve he had set apart for a visit to Fanny, when he indulged the hope he should accomplish his hellish purposes. Soon as the curtains of night were drawn over the city, he jumped > into a carriage and was soon landed at the door of Mrs Rudolf.

The time was as favorable a one as he could have selected, for Fanny was exceedingly anxious to see her own mother, and begun to suspect that Mrs. Hapgood and even Mrs. Melville and others were endeavoring to coax her away into houses of ill-fame, of which the old woman had exhausted all her rhetoric in attempting to make her believe they were the keepers and mistresses. True, this girl did not fully believe such were the facts, still she was embarrassed with doubts and misgivings. These doubts and misgivings were favorable to the old libertine's wicked purposes. Just before the Captain arrived, the old woman had been making poor Fanny some very solemn promises that if she would yield to the Captain's wish she should embrace her own dear mother within a few weeks at most, and perhaps, days. Never had Fanny listened to her cunning logic and fair promises with more attention .

It would seem that the good girl was upon the point of sacrificing herself for the sake of seeing her mother, whom she grew more and more anxious to behold every day. The old hag had carefully nursed and cherishes that desire in Fanny until it had become one of her strongest emotions. The truth, is, this heartless old woman had plied every art in her power, pulled every string and turned every stone to induce Fanny to yield herself up to this old scoundrel. And the reader may already begin to entertain fearful apprehensions that the old hag will succeed in her hellish enterprise, and the beautiful Fanny become the victim of brutal lust. But the reader must be patient and a true record shall be made of all the circumstances connected with the sad affair.

Under such favorable auspices the gallant Captain entered this humble dwelling. His countenance was arrayed in his most amorous smiles, and his white handkerchief was highly perfumed. He was exceedingly polite and courteous and wished them a happy New Year in his very best style of address. The Captain could behave like a well-bred gentleman and accommodate himself to all sorts of company.

'I thank you for your good wishes, Captain,' said the old hag, while Fanny remained silent, and thoughtful, 'I am glad to see you, and hope you and Fanny will see many happy new years.'

'Amen to that,' he replied, fondly gazing upon Fanny's dark curls that hung over her well-formed neck and shoulders and upon her fresh and beautiful face.

Fanny was just bursting into womanhood, young, as she was, and presenting a very bewitching sight to the old libertine. The old rascal's blood was stirred within him and he longed to press the girl's fresh and rosy lips.—Fanny never looked more beautiful and bewitching; for the old woman had taken much pains to make her look as attractive as possible on the occasion. The Captain was cautious in his movements and did not at once proceed to business, if such an expression may be used. He assumed much pleasantry and good humor, and endeavored to ingratiate himself into the good graces of Fanny who sat upon a stool, seriously reflecting what course she ought to pursue. The struggle of her mind was exceedingly intense and severe. The old woman was more good natured than usual; for her hopes were strong that her desires would be gratified. Believing Fanny's mind was prepared, she talked, laughed, joked, and appeared in high glee. The Captain also manifested much joy; for his hopes, too, were buoyant and bright. But the reader must exercise patience, and wait for the coming chapter in which the facts shall be faithfully chronicled.

CHAPTER XII

THE DEFEAT, AND THE MAGIC RING.—THE AWAKENED CONSCIENCE. FEMALE COURAGE. STRANGE MEETING. A LECTURE FROM A SINGULAR SOURCE. ITS EFFECTS, &C.

THERE was silence for a brief space of time, and the Captain was reflecting upon the course he ought to steer, in order to obtain his prize. He flattered himself that he was a most skillful navigator; and so he was. Having sailed once round the world, and crossed the Atlantic several times, he felt competent to handle any small craft that came in his way. He had always been a successful navigator, too; his career among women of all climes and countries had always been a glorious one, at least, as he counted glory. But seldom had he failed when he attempted to storm the citadel of a woman's heart. His success had been so great that he often persuaded himself into the fatal belief that every woman has her price. And yet he hoped that his young and beautiful daughter might be an exception to the rule. That daughter often hung as a heavy weight upon his mind, and the thought sometimes occurred to him that she might become the victim of some libertine like himself. Such thoughts would often make him pause in his career. Even while gazing upon the freshness and beauty of the intended victim before him, such a thought struck his soul and chilled his blood for a few moments. But his passions were impetuous and broke the spell such a thought had momentarily thrown over him. While fondly glancing his amorous eyes towards Fanny he saw the ring upon her finger which had that day been given to her.

'Ah, Fanny, some one has been making a New Year's present of a ring, to you,' he said, smiling, and approaching her. 'I shall begin to be jealous if such presents are given you.'

Fanny saw him approaching and hid her hand under her apron to conceal the ring. Why she did so, she could not tell, it being a kind of involuntary movement.

'Ah, you needn't hide it,' he said, stooping down and feeling after her hand under her apron. 'I must see that ring, for I think it a very beautiful one.'

She drew her hand from under her apron and held it up for him to look at the ring; but he was not satisfied by merely looking at it.

'Let me see it more closely and discover if there is any engraving upon it,' he said, attempting to seize her hand; but she did not indulge him with that privilege, suddenly slipping the ring from her finger, and handing it to him.

'I can't make it out,' continued the old woman, handing the ring to the Captain, who examined it again through a gold bowed eye-glass that was suspended from a black silk ribbond that hung round his neck.

'A mother's gift,' he read. 'The words are very plain. Who gave her the ring?'

'Perhaps it was my mother!' exclaimed Fanny, snatching the ring from his hand, and thrusting it into her bosom. 'O heavens, I wish I could see her again.'

'All nonsense,' muttered the old woman. 'Perfect nonsense. A pretty mother she would be, the keeper of a bad house where she would like to coax you.'

'I don't believe she is such a character,' quickly responded Fanny, feeling a very strange emotion rising in her beating heart, and breaking the spell her mistress had so adroitly wove around her. 'She is my mother! I feel it in here.'

And she placed her hand upon her heaving bosom and turned her dark, lustrious eyes to the ceiling overhead, as if a prayer to her Heavenly Father was ascending from the unseen altar of her heart. Her words were so impassioned and uttered with such peculiar accents of voice, that the Captain and the woman, too, were struck dumb for a time. They knew not what to say.

Fanny's face beamed with heaven's own light, and strangely impressed the beholders. The old woman began to fear that Mrs. Hapgood was really the girl's mother, at least such suspicions arose in her mind, and the Captain felt quite sure that the person who gave Fanny the ring must be her mother, for he knew not who the giver was, nor under what circumstances the gift was made. At last the old woman's tongue was unloosed, and she broke the oppressive silence.

'Your'e crazy,' exclaimed the old woman. 'Your'e foolish to indulge in such thoughts. I told you she is not your mother, nor never was.'

'Then where is my mother?' asked the much excited Fanny.

'I have told you that you should see her when you will behave like a rational girl, and accept the man who adores you,' replied the lying old woman.

'I believe that lady is my mother, repeated Fanny, in a subdued, yet firm tone of voice, which made the old libertine feel as if his visit on that occasion would be vain and useless.

'You talk like a little fool,' exclaimed the old hag, in a sharp, cracked voice, and knocking the end of her cane violently on the floor. 'She is not your mother, I tell you again.—Think I don't know who your mother is? How silly you act. Drive all such foolish thoughts from your mind. Do as I desire you to do, and you shall see your mother.'

All the old hag could say did not drive the thought that Mrs. Hapgood was her mother from her mind. It seemed to be fastened there by an unseen Power which could not be controlled by any earthly influence. The Captain felt as if he must assist in undeceiving the girl.

'Why, my dear Fanny,' he said.—'You must not harbor such thoughts. The woman who gave you the ring is a bad character in disguise, and she has taken this course to lead you to her den of infamy and shame. Believe her not.'

'I do believe her—I must believe her,' replied Fanny. 'There's something in my heart that tells me she is my mother.'

'I am sorry you entertain such absurd notions, my dear girl,' he said, going towards her, and attempting to grasp her hand.

'Away!' she exclaimed, rushing to another part of the room, and gazing wildly at him. 'You must not touch me! No—no—no! You shall not touch me. The ring! The ring. It lies near my heart, and I feel its magic power.'

'Magic fiddlestick,' exclaimed the old woman. 'The girl is crazy I believe in my soul. Come, come, Fanny, behave yourself, and all will be well.'

'That is just what I am doing,' replied plied Fanny, still fastening her eyes on the old libertine in one burning gaze.

Her earnest, steadfast gaze penetrated his soul, and made him think of his own daughter. He trembled for a moment under the spell; for she appeared to him like an accusing Spirit sent from another world to rouse his stifled conscience and turn his eyes inwards upon his own corrupted heart. He made no further attempt that night upon the virtue of this poor and innocent, (but thanks to the ring or some other power,) resolute girl.

Soon after he took his leave, much to the joy of Fanny. After he was gone the old woman sat sometime in silent thought. Her corrupt soul was agitated by a thousand conflicting emotions, and she sat thinking and knocking the end of her cane upon the floor so violently as to make some tin dishes rattle that stood upon a wooden shelf at the end of the room. At last she roused from her revery, and spoke in a hoarse, cracked voice.

'Give me that ring,' she said, but Fanny made no reply, nor offered to give her the ring.

'Are you not going to mind me?' she continued, in a more angry voice. 'Give me the ring, instantly.'

'It is fastened to my heart, and I cannot give it to you,' calmly replied Fanny.

'Fastened to your heart,' repeated the old woman. 'Fastened to a fiddlestick. Give me the ring, I tell you again.'

'Never!' solemnly answered the resolute girl. 'Never, never, never ! It is the gift of my mother, and none shall have it but with my life!'

'You miserable brat,' exclaimed the old woman, raising her cane, and violently striking it upon the floor. 'There, I wish that blow had fallen upon your silly head.'

'If it had, I would have rushed from the house and never seen you more,' replied Fanny, in a firm voice, and resolute manner.

The old woman was forced to believe her, and remained silent, thinking over and plotting some other plans for she was fruitful in expedients. Her cup of joy had been suddenly dashed from her lips by the magic power of a little gold ring; but she was determined it should be again filled. Fanny was much excited, and her hopes were now strong that she would see her mother > without sacrificing herself.

The disappointed Captain went away with a heavy heart, and debated the question in his own mind whether he should call on Mrs. Melville, or visit Madame Sonati's establishment. Finally, he very wisely concluded he was in no suitable humor to court the rich widow, and bent his steps towards Madame Sonati's whited sepulchre. We must give this inveterate libertine the credit of being actuated by at least one good motive in paying his addresses to such a good woman as Mrs. Melville. He had every reason to believe, and did believe that she would make an excellent step-mother for his young and lovely daughter; and that was one strong motive that induced him to address her. And for that let him have due credit. His course of crime had not destroyed his paternal feelings, although it might have somewhat blunted them. The image of his daughter was often in his mind, and sometimes when he least expected it. The idea of her being served as he had served other females and as he desired to serve the beautiful Fanny, bore occasionally, with great weight upon his mind. It did so that evening while he was fondly gazing upon > the charms of that lovely and innocent girl.

He had not visited Madame Sonati's since his nephew, Charles Henderson had been an inmate in that establishment. In fact he had not seen the young Canadian since he had fallen so deeply in love with the artful Clara Hopkins; for Charles had so much work on his hands that he could not find time to visit his old uncle.

He rang the door bell and Madame Sonati answered the call, and ushered him into her best parlor.

'Why, Captain, the sight of you is good for sore eyes,' she said, smiling, and cordially shaking his hand. 'Where have you kept yourself for weeks past? I suppose you had taken a journey.'

'I have not been absent from the city,' he replied.

'Then you must have been taming some of our female operatives,' she added.

'I have not been idle I can assure you,' he replied, smiling.

'I dare say,' she continued. 'I have the felicity to inform you that I have added to my flock some fresh importations from Maine, New Hampshire and so along shore.'

'The importations must indeed be fresh after they have resided under this roof a week or so,' he said, winking, and looking very sly. 'But where's that jade of a Clara? Has she slipped her cable and gone to some other port, or foundered upon the rocks?'

'O, no, she's about, and under full sail, as usual,' she replied. 'Would you like to see your old mate?'

'I can look at her and ascertain if the craft is seaworthy or not,' he replied. 'Is she in or out spinning street yarn? She used to be a great case for the streets.'

'I think she is in her chamber; but it is doubtful whether she will listen to you or not,' she answered, assuming a very cunning look.

'No matter, let me see the craft,' he said.

Madame Sonati now left the room and called Clara. It so happened that Charles was out. Much time did not elapse before Clara came into the room singing some familiar air, dressed out in her best. She never looked more beautiful. The truth is, her looks had improved for the last few days very much; for she had not been deprived of her rest so much, and had not drank so very freely as she had in months past.

'Good evening, Captain,' she said.—'I hadn't seen you so long that I supposed you had taken a voyage to Europe. You know you used to talk about such a voyage, and tried to make me believe that you were going to take me with you, but I wasn't so green a fish as to swallow that bait.'

'The same old sixpence, only a little brighter,' he said, chucking her under the chin.

'Hands off, Captain, this craft is engaged,' she said, shrinking back from his familiar touch.

'Engaged!' he repeated, laughing.

'Yes, Captain, for a long voyage—for life,' she replied, smiling.

'What do you mean by such words?' he asked.

'That I'm going to be married to as fine a fellow as ever broke bread,' she replied. 'That is just what I mean, and nothing else.'

'Get out with your nonsense, Clara,' he said. 'Tell that to the marines, for an old sailor wont believe such a yarn as that. You get married. Poh! nonsense.'

'Poh and nonsense as much as you please, it is a fact,' she replied.

'Who is such a nincompoop as to take you for a wife?' he asked, jokingly.

'His name I dare not tell, but he is as fine a fellow as you were thirty years ago,' she answered. 'You needn't draw down your face, for I speak the truth. And Captain, between you and me, don't you think it is high time that all your wild oats were sown?'

'You talk about wild oats!' he said, laughing. 'The devil rebuking sin sure enough, I have heard of such a thing but never saw it before. Clara Hopkins talk thus to a man who is old enough to be her father.'

'Old enough to be my father,' she repeated. 'That's it! That's it, exactly. You are a father and have a beautiful daughter; for I saw her one day at your door, and inquired the way to a certain street on purpose to have some conversation with her. She is a lovely girl, and you are her father.—And now I repeat; don't you think it is high time that all your wild oats were sown? Good night, Captain, and remember the words of Clara Hopkins.'

Thus addressing him she tripped away out of the room, and he saw her no more.

It seemed to him for a moment that he had been conversing with the ghost of the girl than with herself; for her words struck him as if uttered by a spirit from another world. 'She is a lovely girl, and you are her father!' kept ringing in his ears long after she who uttered them had left the room.

'Yes, I am her father,' he said to himself; 'and God knows I should be tempted to burst the casements of the grave, if I were dead and she advanced to womanhood, if she were in the power of a libertine like myself! I have moral courage and can brave almost anything, but I could not stand that. She is now twelve years of age and soon she will be ripe for marriage. If I am alive when she arrives at that period I must see her married to some kind husband at the earliest convenience. Until that time I must watch over and protect her. But who is there to watch over and protect that lovely girl whom I have visited to-night? The woman she lives with. Such protection does the vulture give the lamb. Would to heaven my child may have the courage and resolution that girl possesses. I wonder if my son treads in my > footsteps . He has not come ripe very soon and committed some great wrongs; but he appears penitent, and I hope his reformation is permanent. Should he find out the frailties of his father there is danger that he will follow his example. I must be exceedingly cautious and keep him in ignorance of my habits. Some very strange emotions have risen in my heart at the commencement of this New Year. It seems as if I were haunted by some unseen Power. I will go home and remain in doors during the remainder of the night.'

Thus the Captain communed with his own thoughts; he rose to leave the house, when Madame Sonati entered the room.

'Where is Clara?' she asked. 'I thought she was here.'

'She was, but has vanished like a spirit. She seems very much changed. What has happened?'

'O, nothing, only she has got a young fellow in tow whom she means to wed,' she replied. 'And I begin to think she will marry him. But there's no telling what she will do, she is so full of the matter. You know I told you she might have nothing to say to you.'

'But she did have something to say, and I wish she had never said it,' he replied, taking his hat and walking towards the door that lead out into the hall.

Her curiosity was excited to know what she said; but he would not inform her, and walked into the hall. At that moment the young Canadian entered the front door and passed along the hall. They met under the hall lamp, and the light shone into their faces, and they recognized each other at once. They merely spoke, shook hands and separated.

Charles had the impression that his uncle had been paying his devoirs to Madame Sonati, and his uncle suspected he was there for no good purpose. The truth is, both were surprised at meeting each other in that house. Clara stood at the head of the stairs leading down into the hall and heard the greetings.—And she was greatly surprised at their being acquainted with each other. And much greater was her surprise and her astonishment when he told her that Captain Robinson was his uncle. That fact troubled her; for she feared the uncle might disclose to his nephew some things he very well remembered. That circumstance was an additional inducement for her to urge him to start on the contemplated journey to Philadelphia as soon as possible. She did urge it that very night, and he consented to start that day. That consent tended to somewhat quiet her nerves.

CHAPTER XIII

THE REFLECTIONS OF THE GOOD. A SOURCE OF PURE HAPPINESS. A TOUCHING INTERVIEW. THE HOUSE OF DEATH. THE TERRIBLE EFFECTS OF DRUNKENNESS. THE INEBRIATE'S HOME. A LESSON NEVER TO BE FORGOTTEN.

THE Widow Melville passed New-Year's alone with her little daughter, for her pretended lover did not make his appearance for reason which the reader already knows. But this good woman was not disquieted at the absence of the Captain, although she had good reasons to expect a call from him. A woman like Mrs. Melville, if alone, can never be unhappy, for she is good company for herself.

Reflections on the past, or a life well spent, or deeds of charity and benevolence performed are a continued source of joy and consolation, such joy and consolation as the wicked cannot enjoy. How different her reflections from those which humored the mind of the Captain while each sat at the fire-side alone. True, each had the company of a daughter, and one had lost a wife, and the other a husband. Both loved their children; but how different their feelings? How different looked the past to them? What different views of the future? To one the future was all brightness and joy, to the other dark and dismal. The one felt confident of a blissful immortality, while the other almost wished there was no hereafter.

'O, father, I am so glad you have come home,' exclaimed Jane Robinson to her father as he entered the house from his visits to Fanny Dumont and Madame Sonati's. 'You will spend New Year's evening with me now! Your'e gone so much evening that your presence and company on this occasion are doubly welcome. Bridget has gone out, and Ben wanted to, but he could not leave me alone. He may go now, can he not?'

'Yes, my dear, he may go out if he wishes to,' replied her father.

She now rang the bell, and the negro soon obeyed the summons.

'Father says you may go out now, Ben,' she said, smiling, and looking rather sly, as if she knew where Ben wanted to go. 'I suppose you have some little presents to make to somebody.'

'Ah, sweet mistress, you always be joking dis child,' said Ben, grinning, and showing his white teeth. 'I be glad to go out on dis happy evening, and you always be good and kind to me.'

'And so you are to me,' she replied. 'Father says you may go. Didn't you, father?'

'Yes, Ben may go and enjoy himself,' replied the father. 'But where is Frank? I didn't know but he might conclude to stay at home this evening with his sister.'

'O, no, massar, he went out soon after you did,' replied Ben. 'I hope he will come home in good season; for on sich a night as dis de city be chuck full of temptation.'

'Very true, Ben,' said the master. 'But I trust Frank will avoid bad company in the future.'

'I, too, hopes he will, massar,' added Ben, leaving the room, and hurrying up to his sleeping chamber to rig himself out in his best suit.

'I am glad Ben can go out this evening, he wanted to go so much,' said Jane.

'I am glad, too,' said the father, casting his eyes upon the grate of burning coals, thoughtfully.

Jane noticed that her father was more sad and sorrowful than usual from the expressions of his countenance. And his coming home that evening so early, added to her fears that he felt indisposed.

'Father, dear, I fear you are not well this evening,' she said, smoothing back the gray hairs from his forehead, and fondly gazing at his countenance. 'You look more sad than usual? Do you feel unwell?'

'O, no, dear, but slightly," he replied, trying to assume the aspect of cheerfulness; but there was a weight upon his heart he could not so easily shake off.

The words of Clara Hopkins, were still ringing in his ears, and that magic ring was fresh in his memory.

'Perhaps you ate too much dinner,' she said. 'And you know, father, you didn't drink any wine as usual.—Perhaps your dinner don't set well on that account.'

'Perhaps that may be the case,' he answered, attempting to smile, and kissing her.

'Don't you think a little wine would do you good now?' she asked.

'I shall never drink any wine or strong liquors again,' he added. 'True, my dear Jane, I never drank them to excess, but, my example has been bad before those who do. I think it is my duty to practice the principles of total abstinence from all intoxicating drinks; for example is quite as powerful as precept. Alcoholic drinks produce untold miseries in this city and over the world, and I am fully resolved to set an example worthy of imitation.'

This resolution was a noble one, but much of its charms were lost because the motives of it were confined in such narrow limits. But for his own son's habits he would not have made the sacrifice. The good of others would not have been a sufficient motive to such action on his part. No, he was too selfish for that.

His daughter was glad to hear him make such remarks; for she had suspected her brother drank too much, although she knew not the dangerous extent of his bad habits. Jane was a very kind hearted good girl, and quite fond of giving to the poor. And her father indulged her in such charities to a limited extent. He, too, occasionally, gave alms; but those occasions were generally public ones when the world would know of his generous deeds.—He was not much in the habit of giving privately at any time; and often beggars at his door were sent empty away if no one happened to be present but himself. Jane, generally gave them something, and the negro servant delighted to assist her in all such alms-giving.

The next day after New Years was a bright and beautiful one. The mud in the streets was all dried up, and the clear, cloudless sky hung like a blue silk curtain over the city. The air was still, and the weather sufficiently warm for walking.

Soon after breakfast Jane doffed her bonnet and shawl and went out for a promenade. Her spirits were cheerful, and she strayed from the fashionable streets into those where the poor have their humble hones. As she was passing she noticed a lame woman at the door of a small wooden tenement on the opposite side of the street. Her sympathies were excited for the poor cripple, and she crossed over.

'Good morning, madame,' said Jane, smiling, and extending her hand to the woman.

'The same to you, my dear,' replied Mrs. Rudolf, for she it was.

'You appear to be very lame,' added Jane. 'I hope you are not poor as well as lame.'

'Indeed I am,' replied the woman, 'I'm sorry to say. Won't you walk in? I will be with you as soon as a girl comes I have sent for a loaf of bread across the way.'

Jane walked in while the old woman stood watching for Fanny, who had gone to a small bakery on the opposite side of the street nearly fronting her house, for she dared not trust her out of her sight.

Soon Fanny returned bearing the loaf of bread and both entered the house, the old woman hobbling after Fanny as fast as she could. Fanny was surprised when she found Jane in the room.

'Good morning,' said Jane, admiring the beauty of Fanny's natural curls and her bright, beaming countenance.

'Good morning,' repeated Fanny.—'It is a most beautiful day after New Years.'

'It is, indeed, and so I thought I would walk out and take the air; but when I started I didn't think I should stray as far as this,' replied Jane.

'Our street don't afford many inducements for girls to walk in it,' added Fanny. 'The people here are generally poor, the street dirty in bad weather, and the houses old and shattered.'

'I love to go among the poor,' said Jane. 'And sometimes I give them when I have any thing to give.'

'Lord bless your young heart.' said the old woman, sinking into her chair, and setting the end of her cane lively upon the uncarpeted floor by way of support. 'God loves a cheerful giver, my good girl.'

Fanny gazed upon the old woman, and thought what a terrible hypocrite she was; but she remained silent.

'I have not much with me now, but here is a half a dollar to buy bread,' said Jane, handing the old woman the coin. 'I hope it will do you good, for you appear to be very poor.'

'Indeed, I am,' replied this vile old hypocrite, clutching the half a dollar, and forcing a smile upon her ugly face. 'Thanks, my good child, a thousand thanks! May the Lord bless such a young and generous heart.'

'Is that your daughter?' asked Jane, looking at Fanny.

'Only an adopted daughter,' she replied. 'Fanny has lived with me ever since she was a small child.'

'You are very fortunate in having some one to go on errands for you since you are so lame,' added Jane.

'Very, my sweet girl,' replied the old hypocrite.

'Do you go to school?' asked Jane, addressing Fanny.

'I have never been to school,' replied Fanny, looking very sorrowful.

'I couldn't spare her, and so have taught her to read at home,' added the old hag.

A knocking was now heard at the door, and Fanny conducted the Mrs. Melville into the room, who came with a small basket filled with good things. Her little daughter Emily accompanied her, a sweet bright eyed girl, very lively and animated.

The compliments of the morning were exchanged, and the generous lady poured out the contents of her basket as a gift to the poor woman who thanked her many times. The widow knew not that Jane was the daughter of Captain Robinson, but she admired the girl's appearance, nevertheless.

'I perceive you have an addition to your household this morning,' said the good lady.

'Yes, this stranger girl has called, and generously gave me this,' replied Mrs. Rudolf, holding the half dollar in her withered, trembling hand.

'She is very kind, and Heaven will reward her,' said Mrs. Melville, gazing fondly on the fair young giver, and feeling her heart drawn out towards her.

'Here I give you this,' said little Emily, running to Fanny, and presenting her a nice white linen pocket handkerchief very handsomely folded up, and Fanny's name written upon it.

'I thank you, my little dear,' said Fanny, receiving the gift, and affectionately kissing the little bright eyed donor. 'I wish I had something to give you in return.'

'I don't want anything,' said Emily, and her bright eyes sparkled, and her young heart beat with cheerful emotions.

'Lord bless the little child,' said the hypocritical old woman. 'Well has it been said, of such is the kingdom of Heaven.'

'I hope we shall all find entrance there,' added the good widow. 'And we may have a well grounded hope to be thus happy we do our duty in this world faithfully.'

'Never were truer words spoken,' said the old woman.

'The Scripture saith pure and undefiled religion consists in visiting the widow and the fatherless,' said Mrs. Melville. 'Such a truth is not thought enough of in this world.'

'That is indeed true,' added the old woman, assuming a long face, and appearing very saint-like. 'If the world were composed of such women as you are it would be more happy than it now is.'

'I do, but my simple duty,' replied the good widow. 'We must not boast of our good deeds, nor be flattered into vanity.'

'Did you receive many presents, yesterday?' asked the widow, addressing Fanny, after a short pause.

'I was not out yesterday,' replied Fanny, glancing her keen eyes at the old woman. 'I don't go out begging, now.'

'No, there are so many bad characters about that I have concluded to keep Fanny in,' said the old woman. 'There's no knowing what might happen. Young girls are sometimes coaxed away, and sometimes forcibly carried off.'

'I think your course is a very wise one,' added the widow. 'Such > occurrences do sometimes happen in this wicked city. I am glad Fanny does not now sweep the crossings, and expose herself to the gaze of so many bad men.'

'Sweep the streets?' said Jane, and gazing upon the beautiful Fanny. 'Did she ever do that?'

'She did,' replied Mrs. Rudolf. 'I was so poor that I was obliged to send her out on such dirty work; but the people are so kind and generous that I can now get along without.'

'I rejoice to hear it,' said Jane. 'I would have helped you long ago, if I had known you were so poor as that.'

'Ah, my good girl, there are more poverty and suffering in the city than your young heart dreams of, generous and kind as it is,' said the widow, addressing Jane, and loving her fine countenance and generous impulses.

'I suppose so,' added Jane. 'I love to go among the poor and relieve their distress when I have the means to do so. Father permits me to go round some, and to give to the poor beggars who come to our house.'

'Your father is very kind, and I hope he will continue to furnish the means to do good,' said Mrs. Melville.

The conversation continued awhile longer, and the lady, her little daughter and Jane took their leave. They took the same street and walked together. The lady was highly pleased with Jane. She had not seen a girl for a long time she was better pleased with.

'What may I call your name?' asked the lady, addressing Jane, who was leading little Emily by the hand.

'Jane Robinson,' she replied. 'My father is Captain Robinson.'

Mrs. Melville was struck with astonishment, but concealed her feelings.

'O, I know Captain Robinson,' said little Emily. 'He has given me some presents and sometimes comes to our house.'

Mrs. Melville felt a blush on her cheek as her little daughter thus exclaimed.

'Do you, indeed?' asked Jane, being very much pleased.

'O, yes, I do, and I like him,' replied Emily. 'He is so kind and good to me. Is'nt he, mother?'

'He is, my child very kind to you,' replied the mother.

'Then you do know my father?' said Jane. 'I'm so glad.'

'Yes, dear, he sometimes comes to my house,' replied Mrs. Melville, feeling still a little of that tingling of the cheek she first experienced when her daughter made the secret known.

'Where do you live?' asked Jane.

'Go with me and I will show you,' replied Mrs. Melville.

'O, yes, come, you will go, wont you?' asked little Emily.

'I will, if it will please you,' answered Jane, smiling, and pressing the little girl's hand as they tripped along in advance of the good mother.

They hurried along, and the lady gazed upon them with emotions of delight. She couldn't well help thinking of the possibility of Jane's becoming her daughter-in-law. And it must be confessed that such a thought did not darken the prospects of the Captain so far as she was concerned; for she was highly pleased with the girl. And the fact of her having first made her acquaintance in such a house and doing such deeds of charity, added many charms to this accidental meeting and interview.

On their way they called on a sick woman whom Mrs. Melville had visited before. The poor woman was far gone in a consumption, and lived in a damp cellar. It was a fortunate circumstance that she had no children living to share her poverty and wretchedness, and it would still have been more fortunate for her if she had never been married; for her husband was a bloated drunkard, and sat dozing on a stool in the corner of the room, and scarcely looking up when they entered. There was but a few articles of furniture in the apartment, and the mark of poverty was even upon them. The bed upon which the sick woman lay was but merely an apology for one; for it consisted of nothing but bundles of very old colored rags thrown together in a heap upon a rickety bedstead.

The poor woman was attended by a faithful nurse whom Mrs. Melville had hired at her own expense. The poor bloated husband didn't seem to notice any thing; but sat brooding over his own gloomy thoughts. He had sold all the best of their furniture to purchase the liquid which was gradually drinking up his life-blood and burning out his stomach.

The picture was a sad one to behold; but there are many such in this great metropolis. Mrs. Melville went to the bedside of the sick woman, and gazed upon her hollow cheeks, and sunken eyes, while Jane and Emily stood back, trembling and fearing to approach nearer the suffering woman. Her breathing was very hard, and her anguish keen. A marked change for the worse had taken place within a few hours. Mrs. Melville was not aware that the poor woman was so low, and saw at a glance that her sufferings would be of short duration.

'How do you feel, to-day?' asked Mrs. Melville, much surprised at the change in the woman.

The poor patient stretched out her skeleton hand and turned up her glassy eyes towards her kind benefactress; but she was too far gone at that moment to utter a single word. After the lapse of a few moments, she said, in a feeble, trembling voice, that pierced every heart in the room except her husband's. 'I'm most gone, and long to be away!'

Gently laying her hand upon his shoulder, she said in a voice scarcely above a whisper. 'Your poor wife is dying!'

'Is she?' he muttered, in a hoarse, broken voice, and again sank into that stupor from which she had partially roused him.

'She can't live but a few moments longer,' replied the widow. 'Do you not wish to see or speak to her ere her last breath is drawn?'

Her words did not rouse him again. He sat with his chin upon his breast, and his eyes closed. Rum had burnt out from his soul every particle of that affection which he once felt for his poor wife, and made him a breathing mass of corruption. Thus he sat while the spirit of her whom he once loved and cherished took its flight to a brighter and better world. The tears came into Jane's eyes, and Emily sobbed as if her heart would break.

Having closed the poor woman's eyes, she again approached the husband, and placing her hand upon his shoulder, said. 'Your wife is dead!'

But he heeded not her words, and dozed on in that stupor which is more terrible than death.

'Is she dead?' asked Jane, in a tremulous voice.

'Her spirit has departed, and her sufferings are at an end!' replied Mrs. Melville.

After giving some directions to the nurse and calling in more help, Mrs. Melville and the girls repaired to her house.

Silent and thoughtful they passed along the sidewalk, but one thought occupying their minds, and that was the death of that poor woman, and the death-like stupor of her husband.—They reached the widow's house, and entered a richly furnished parlor. They sat down, and the good woman spoke to them of death, of the evils of intemperance, of the duty of doing good in the world while they remain in it, and of a happy immortality. Such a sermon from such a text, Jane had never heard before; and her mind was strongly impressed with the horrid effects which Intemperance produces. Never before had she witnessed such an exhibition of power in alcohol to destroy every > vestige of humanity, and make its victim a thousand times worse than the beasts that perish, as she had witnessed that day. She tarried till almost noon and then hurried home to tell her father all she had seen. Such a lesson she had never been taught and such her father had not the power to teach. Her heart was full, and her tender sympathies drawn out towards the poor and suffering.

CHAPTER XIV

THE DAUGHTER'S STORY, AND ITS EFFECTS UPON FATHER AND BROTHER. WOMAN'S INSTINCTS. HER ANXIETY FOR A CHILD WHOM SHE COULD CALL DAUGHTER. THE OLD LIBERTINE'S TROUBLES, &C.

JANE did not reach home until near the hour of dining. Her father had entered the house a few minutes before she did and began to be alarmed on account of her absence. He had called his negro servant, and was about to send him in search of his daughter when she made her appearance.

'She coming, massar, I hear her light footstep at the door,' said the servant. 'No danger of young mistress being lost.'

Jane entered the parlor and her countenance was much excited, so much so that her father noticed it, and so did the observant negro. But few things escaped his vigilant eyes.

'You come home den just in time,' said the negro, smiling at the arrival. 'But me tink you look as if you had been walking fast.'

'I have; but O, father, such sights I see!' she said, almost out of breath, and sinking upon a sofa.

'Well, my dear, what is it you have seen?' he asked, gazing at her animated countenance.

'In the first place I saw a poor lame woman and gave her a half a dollar because she was so poor and lame,' she replied.

The father suddenly started, for the thought struck him who that lame woman might be. Frank now entered the room, and for a moment interrupted her conversation.

'A poor lame woman!' repeated the negro. 'I knows a poor lame woman. Is she colored?'

'O, no, she's a white woman, but very lame and homely,' she replied.

'Den dat's not de woman I mean,' added Ben. 'Because de one I mean be colored and berry handsome, only she be lame—dat's all.'

'And there is a beautiful girl with her whose name is Fanny,' she continued.

Both father and son suddenly started; for they then knew where Jane had been. The Captain saw Frank start at the name of Fanny, and wondered what the reason could be. He begun to suspect that his son might be a chip off the old block; and still he hoped not, but watched the expressions of his countenance as his daughter continued.

'Den a homely woman sometime hab a handsome daughter,' said the negro.

'O, no, Fanny is not her daughter, but she has lived with her ever since she was a child,' continued the animated Jane. 'O, father, she is a beautiful girl, and I like her. But what a poor room they live in! I'm sorry they are so poor. And don't you think when I was there Mrs. Melville and her little daughter came in. The woman brought lots of good things in a basket, and little Emily, that was her name, gave Fanny a nice white linen handkerchief.'

'She be a good little gal to gib to de poor,' said Ben, while the Captain had quite as much as he could do to control his emotions and watch the changing expressions of his son's countenance.

'Indeed, she is, and a lovely creature too, as I ever set my eyes upon,' continued the excited Jane. 'And don't you think, after we left that house, Mrs. Melville took us into another house away down in a damp, dark cellar, and there we saw a poor sick woman lying on > a bed of old rags and her stupidly drunken husband setting on a stool and seeming to care nothing about her! O, it was a terrible sight!'

'You may well speak dat,' said the negro. 'Rum burns out all de lub in de heart ob a man and make him worse dan de brutes. I knows dat, for I hab seen on de plantation in de South. I knowed a white man once kill his wife and all dat cause he loved liquor and got drunk ; O, intoxicating liquors be de berry divil all over. But mistress, I wouldn't interrupt you no how. Go, on wid your interesting story.'

'Well, and the woman died while we were in the room,' continued Jane.—'And don't you think her husband never rose from his seat! And when the good Mrs. Melville went to him and told him his poor wife was dying, all he said was 'Is she?' and fell into his terrible rum stupor again, seeming to care nothing about it any more than if a dog had been dying!"

'Dat's de berry curse ob drinking and soaking one's berry soul in de liquid poison!' said the negro, growing more and more excited. 'It be terrible, dat's a fac, and dis child knows it.'

Frank felt very uneasy, and so did his father; but they remained silent and let Jane and the negro do all the talking; for they knew not what to say.

'And don't you think the wife died, and Mrs. Melville went to the husband and told him of it,' continued Jane, growing more and more eloquent as she proceeded with her story.

'And what did de brute say to dat?' inquired the negro. 'But excuse me, missus, for interrupting you, but me be berry much excited and dat must be my apology as de gentleman say sometime.'

'He never uttered a word, nor raised his head,' replied Jane.

'O, dat be shocking,' continued Ben. 'Berry shocking, indeed. It went into one ob his ears and right out ob de other as water runs over de hard stones without making 'em feel any ting at all. O. what a burning curse be dis intemperance!'

'So, Mrs. Melville says,' answered Jane. 'O, what good words she did speak to us after the woman died and we went to the house.'

'Dat be a berry good woman I knows,' said the negro.

'Then you went to the lady's house did you?' asked her father.

'O, yes, and she treated me very kindly,' she replied. 'She is a very good woman, as Ben has well said.'

'I knows she be, and I have seen colored ladies that would do just so,' added the negro. 'Depend on't missus, all de good be not confined to one color ob de skin.'

'Did the lady ask your name?' anxiously inquired the father.

'O, yes, and I told her, and then little Emily said she knew you and liked you,' she replied. 'We will go and see them, won't we, father?'

'Perhaps so,' he replied, feeling some very strange emotions.

that forenoon, but he managed so as to come home quite sober. His thirst had become exceedingly troublesome; but the fear of his father yet had control over him, for the crime he had committed was still fresh in his recollection.

While the above scene took place in the Captain's parlor, Mrs. Hapgood and her husband were conversing about Fanny. This good girl had made an impression upon her heart of which she could not get rid off; but why she should be thus strangely impressed she could not tell. She had often seen other girls, and very beautiful ones, too, but they never stamped their images so indelibly upon her heart as Fanny had hers. There was something about the girl that entwined itself about every fibre of the soul. She thought of her by day and dreamed of her at night, insomuch that her husband began to entertain some slight fears that she might become crazy upon the subject. At any rate, she seemed to be laboring under a kind of monomania. If she could obtain Fanny and adopt her as a daughter, she fancied that her worldly happiness would be perfected. Her husband was entirely willing that her wishes might be gratified, and even desired to have the girl at the sacrifice of much money, but he did not see how, under the circumstances, she could be obtained. If she was engaged to a gentleman and the engagement was voluntary on her part, it seemed to him that there was a final end to the matter. But the anxious wife was unwilling to see any obstacles in the way. Her exceedingly anxious desires surmounted all obstacles, and cleared the way of all obstructions.

There was something that whispered to her soul that the old lame woman was corrupt, and intended to sacrifice the girl upon the altar of her selfishness. Being aware that there were men in the city who would lavishly pour out their gold for the sake of gratifying their evil passions.

Mrs. Hapgood was a shrewd judge of human nature and looked deeply into the human heart. She believed it was deceitful above all things and desperately wicked. That Scripture was a favorite text of hers, as much so as another passage was a favorite one of Mrs. Melville, which has been recorded in some preceding chapter.

'Why, my dear, you know that I am willing to do all in my power to obtain the girl; but how can the work be accomplished?' asked her husband, after they had long conversed upon the subject and exhausted as he thought.

'There are many ways,' she replied, anxiously gazing upon his frank, open face.

'Well my dear, point out the one you consider best,' he said. 'And if I think there is the least probability of success, I will pursue it even at much expence, for I do not set money against your happiness.'

'I know all that,' she replied. 'Now I do not—I cannot believe—that old woman's story. If the girl could be asked the question, out of the hearing of her cruel mistress, whether she is engaged or not, and whether she loves the man. I believe her answer would be in the negative. And if that fact is established, then the way is open for negotiation. My opinion is, that woman means to sell Fanny at the highest price she can obtain. The girl looks to me as if she would be glad to be taken from that woman, and come and live with us. Why did she refuse to let her walk out with me only for a very short time? The reason is plain to my mind. She feared Fanny's answers to the questions I might ask her. That is the reason, and she has no other. That some rich villain may have his eye on the girl and ready to pour his gold into the old woman's lap provided he could make the girl his mistress may be true. That is the only engagement. I feel it in the very depths of my soul.'

'There is no doubt but you feel it thus,' replied the husband, smiling.

'Yes, I do, and my instinctive impressions seldom prove false prophets,' she added, 'And I'm quite sure they will not in this instance. Now, husband, cannot some way be devised by which either you or I can see that girl and converse with her alone for the space of five minutes, or even of two minutes, for that would be time enough to ascertain the facts. The girl is honest and would speak the truth, if she was out hearing of that terrible woman.—Yes, I say terrible woman! for there are shocking lines in her face that bespeak her character. I never beheld a more ugly human countenance in my life. The very glance of her cold, gray eyes made my blood curdle in my veins! I cannot be mistaken in her character. It is written in legible lines all over her ugly face, and by Him who never writes falsely! Yea, I repeat it. She is a terrible woman!'

'Well, well, my dear, don't vex yourself unnecessarily,' he said. "We'll try to devise some plan to reach the girl one of these days.'

'I don't suppose the old woman suffers the girl out of her sight now,' he said. 'If she did, I should not hesitate to hang about the house from morning until night.'

'It seems to me the old woman must occasionally send her on errands,' she added. 'How can she get along without? she won't go herself.'

'There's some philosophy in that,' he answered, thoughtfully casting his eyes upon the floor. 'Perhaps by our watching a brief interview might be had.'

'Then let us go and watch during the remainder of this day at least,' she said.

'No—no, I will go alone,' he replied. 'It would be rather tedious for you to stay in the streets so long; besides, the place is hardly respectable enough for a lady to be promenading in. I will go alone and see what I can do to relieve your mind.'

'Do, husband , and may Heaven grant you success,' she said, in much earnestness.

The kind husband went out, called a carriage and told the driver to convey him to the place, and there remain, while he sat in the carriage and watched. The carriage was stopped just beyond the old woman's house in such a position as would enable Mr. Hapgood to see through the window any one who might go in or come out of the door. Thus located he sat and watched the door for more than three hours; but he saw no one, except occasionally he had a glimpse of the girl's face as she stood at the window. The sight of her kept his patience from flagging and his hopes from setting into despair. Four hours passed, and not a living being crossed the old woman's threshhold. His patience began to be exhausted and but for the fact he knew Fanny was in the house he would have quieted his part and gone home.

At last another carriage was driven to the door and a gentleman alighted and went in. Mr. Hapgood had no recollection of ever having seen the man before; but he concluded he was the one to whom the old woman said Fanny was engaged. Mr. Hapgood's curiosity was now excited to the highest pitch. At one moment he thought he would go in too; but a second thought deterred him from doing so. The reader need not be told that this gentleman was Captain Robinson. From the expressions he had witnessed on his son's countenance when his daughter was relating her adventures, he entertained the suspicion that Frank might have been at the old woman's making love to Fanny. At any rate he was prompted to go and make the inquiry. Such, and no worse, was the object of his visit at this time.

When he entered the house, Fanny trembled from head to foot, taking the ring from her finger and thrusting it into her bosom. That ring the old woman had never been able to obtain although she had exhausted all the means in her power to do so, except beating the poor girl with her cane, a cruelty she dare not practice lest poor Fanny should leave her forever, as she solemnly declared she would in case such punishment was inflicted upon her.

The reader may ask why the girl did not leave this hypocritical old tyrant? Let him remember that Fanny had lived with her from early infancy, and hence had formed a kind of attachment to her notwithstanding the old beldame's cruelty and tyranny, and, like Aaron's rod, swallowed up all the rest. Believing that the old woman knew where her poor mother was, she was reluctant to leave her on that account. But since she had received that ring her feelings had somewhat changed; for she now indulged the hope that the woman who gave her the ring knew also something about her mother. The ring she hugged as a most precious gift, and, as she once told her mistress, she would not part with it but with her life.

The old hypocrite was glad to see the Captain, but did not expect to see him so soon after his signal defeat on the same spot. Fanny shied away to the further part of the room to be as far from him as possible. He noticed her movement, and thought no change had come over her feelings in the least degree favorable to him.

'You need not, Fanny, be afraid of me,' he said, in a kind voice. 'I did not come here to injure you in the least degree.'

'No, he came to do you good, and hasten the day when you can embrace your mother,' said she old hag, still harping on the same string.

'I now come to inquire if a young man has been here very recently,' he said.

'Yes, sir, there has,' replied Fanny, 'and he looked enough like you to be your son.'

'How strangely you talk, Fanny!' added the old woman. 'I remember there was a saucy young fellow here; but he looked no more like you than I do.'

'I think the expression about the eyes was like yours and the shape of his mouth and nose was also like yours.'

'How was he dressed?'

'He wore a black coat, and striped pants and a figured silk vest,' replied Fanny. 'And there were a few long hairs on his upper lip which he tried to make into mustaches, and he also had a small cane he flourished like a big gentlemen or a dandy. Do you think he was your son?'

'Why do you ask such a foolish question?' inquired the old woman. 'The good Captain has no son.'

'I did not know but he had, for he is old enough to have sons and daughters, too,' was the reply.

'Well, Fanny, you are really joking now,' he said forcing a smile upon his face, which he felt not in his heart, and believing his son had been there beyond a doubt.

'O, no, sir, I am not joking at all, for I really think that young man resembled you very much,' replied Fanny. 'And if he was your son, I am sorry to say that he was quite fuddled with bad liquor when he was here.'

'Fuddled with liquor!' he repeated, forgetting himself for the moment; but soon recovering his self-possession.—'Well, perhaps he was.'

'Why have you inquired after the young man?' asked Fanny, glancing her keen eyes towards him as if she would read his very thoughts.

The question threw him in a temporary embarrassment, for no very good reason occurred to him for the moment to give. He was compelled to cudgel his brains some time before an answer was suggested to his mind, and then he found no very reasonable one.

'O, I only asked for the purpose of gratifying my curiosity,' he replied. 'I heard a certain young man say he had been here, and so I thought I would inquire to see if he had told the truth.'

'Ah, Captain, you needn't be jealous of that young man, for he was the merest little coxcomb I ever saw in my life,' said the old woman.

It was not very pleasant to the Captain's ears to hear his son called such a coxcomb, and what was still worse, was the idea of his being jealous of his own son as the old woman's remark suggested.

That idea made his soul sick, and he wished he had not come on such an errand. But he had obtained his object along with other things not so very agreeable, for he was fully satisfied the young man Fanny described was indeed his son.

The idea of his son's treading so closely upon his heels in such a hellish career, made him regret for the moment that ever he had become a father. It made him feel worse and more ashamed of himself than any thing that had transpired for a long time. It was harder to bear than the memory of his son's stealing his money; for he had always believed Frank would not steal from any other person. It must be confessed that the way of the transgressor is indeed hard. Troubles seldom come alone, he was made sensibly to feel, for they seemed to be crowding upon him from every quarter. The thought struck him that he would at some future and no distant day contrive to have Fanny removed to some other place where his son could not find her. He shortly left with a heavy heart.

CHAPTER XV

A NEW LOCALITY. THE PROGRESS OF LOVE-MAKING. THE JOURNEY. THE ESCAPE OF THE INTENDED VICTIM.—A WIFE'S EMOTIONS. THE TRUANT SON. A FATHER'S ANXIETY. A SEVERE REBUKE. THE WORK PROGRESSES.

OUR young Canadian friend in whom the reader must feel some interest, and his cunning seducer, (for so we must call her,) started on their journey, and reached the city of Quakers without accident. On the way Clara Hopkins behaved herself like any virtuous and accomplished young lady, especially when any eyes were upon her save her lover's. There was evidently no abatement of his affections for his dulcinea, but on the contrary, they rather increased in intensity. Most adroitly did she manage her hand in the game, and made him feel, as if he could not live without her society. Having created an imaginary world for him, she placed herself in the centre as the sun upon which he gazed with delight. When he was away from her, even for a short time that world seemed dark and very gloomy, and no ray of light could beam across it until her presence was enjoyed. She, too, began more and more to be pleased with him and to resolve henceforth to live a virtuous life.

They put up at a respectable public house, but not as man and wife, for that she had cunning enough to avoid. At her suggestion, she passed as his cousin. They found excellent accommodations and all passed pleasantly.—Various portions of the city they visited, > and arm in arm promenades in some of the most fashionable streets.

As they were walking in Chestnut Street they met a fashionably dressed young gentleman, who smiled and nodded at her as he passed. The young Canadian noticed these tokens of recognition, and wondered if she had any friend or acquaintance in the Quaker City.

It is true that she knew him, and then had a ring upon her finger which he gave her not a year previous. The young man was the son of a very rich father, and often expended money in riotous living.

'Did you know that young man?' he asked. 'He seemed to nod and smile as if he knew you.'

'I think I have seen him before,' she replied. 'But when and where I am sure I cannot tell. It seems to me, however, that he is a New Yorker and once boarded at the same house I did; but I may be mistaken. Perhaps I have never seen him before. Some of these city bloods are really impertinent and saucy, nodding and smiling at ladies they never saw before. It always provokes me when I happen to meet such, and I would give them a lecture which they would long remember, if an opportunity presented itself.'

'They deserve it,' he replied, feeling perfectly satisfied with her explanation. 'By the way,' he continued, after a brief pause during which she concealed a smile she found playing over her face, 'do you really think my uncle Robinson thinks of offering himself to Madame Sonati? It seems to me she would make him an excellent wife, if he can fancy a woman so large.'

'There, Charles, you have given me another compliment,' she replied, hugging his arm more closely to her side, and laughing.

'Well, Clara, you deserve it,' he replied; 'for I'm sure I could never be satisfied with a woman so big as she is.'

'Nor could I be pleased with a man so large as your uncle,' she added.—'So we are both suited. Whether your uncle has any serious intentions of making a wife of Madame Sonati is more than I can tell; I have often seen him at her house, and heard him laugh and joke with her.'

'I shouldn't wonder if he made love to her yet,' he said. 'Well, if he does, I hope she will make him a good wife.'

'No doubt she would, for she is a great manager of household affairs,' she added.

They passed on; but we must return to Mr. Hapgood, whom we left watching for the beautiful Fanny. He was glad when he saw the Captain come out and hurry his steps down street; for then his hope revived that Fanny might be sent out on some errand as it was near nightfall.

He was anxious to return home and relieve the anxiety of his wife; besides, his patience had been severely tried. But few gentlemen would do more for their wives than he had done, and thousands would not do half so much. There he had sat, in his carriage several hours with his eyes steadily fixed on the old woman's door and watching every movement. During that time thousands had passed and repassed, and but one solitary being entered the door or even noticed the house. That was enough to try the patience of any husband even devoted to his wife as he was.

But as fortune would have it, he was not destined to have his patience tested much longer; for soon Fanny came out and crossed the street. He instantly leaped from the carriage and met her, just as she was entering a small grocery to purchase a quarter of a pound of tea. Fanny recognized him at once, and for a moment looked wild, for the fear of being kidnapped which her mistress had instilled into her mind came over her, and made her tremble; but the thought of that magic ring came fresh into her memory, and she listened to him who had been so long waiting for her.

'Are you engaged to be married?' he hurriedly asked.

'O, dear, no,' she replied. 'But that old woman pretends that a man loves me and wishes to make me his wife.'

'Do you love him?' he asked, beginning to breathe more easily, and feeling more confidence in his wife's suggestions.

'No, indeed!' she replied. 'I cannot bear him, for I think he wants to ruin me as many other girls have been ruined in the city. It was your wife that gave me this ring. O, sir, tell me, does she know my mother?'

'She will be a good mother to you, if you will leave that ugly old woman and live with her,' he replied, anxiously gazing into her animated face. 'She gave you the ring and will treat you as her child!'

'O, heavens!' she said; 'I have a good mind to go; for that old woman intends to make me yield to that man who has just been at our house.'

'Come then, go with me now in that carriage, and we will find your mother,' he said. 'She shall be found, if she is living!'

'Then I will go as soon as I have purchased some tea and carried to the old woman,' she said. 'But O, sir, if you deceive and carry me to a bad place, I will run away and then kill myself.'

'O, dear girl, Heaven bears me witness that you shall have a good home, and your mother be found if she yet breathes,' he replied, with much feeling. 'Had you not better go with me before you go back?'

'O, no, I will soon return,' she said, hurrying into the grocery, and carrying the old woman her tea, while Mr. Hapgood who stood waiting with breathless anxiety.

'Here is your tea,' said Fanny; placing the little package in the old > woman's lap, and taking the handkerchief that the little girl had given her.

'How much did he ask for the tea?' asked the old woman, gazing into Fanny's face as if she mistrusted something.

'A shilling,' replied Fanny, looking towards the door.

'What makes you look so?' anxiously inquired the old woman.

'Good bye,' said Fanny. 'I am going to leave you. I shall see my mother!'

'Leave me! See your mother!' muttered the old tyrant, suddenly rising up and endeavoring to head off Fanny who had sprang for the door.

The girl escaped and was in the carriage by the time the old woman had reached the door. The carriage was off at a rapid pace, and the old tyrant stood at the door, screaming at the top of her voice. 'Stop thief! stop thief!' and thumping her cane upon the door-stone as a sort of accompaniment .

Several passers by stopped; but the old hag was so agitated, and her face looked so ugly and wild that the people thought she was crazy and passed on. Before she could make herself understood, the carriage was far out of sight and nearly opposite Mr. Hapgood's house.

The old woman raved, and finally fell down and rolled over upon the sidewalk screaming, and pulling her hair like a perfect maniac. Scarcely any one could understand what the trouble was. One of the Police came and threatened to lock her up if she did not become more quiet. But it was hard to quiet such a termagant . Some conjectured she must be suffering under delirium tremens while others thought she was a fit subject for the lunatic asylum. There was various opinions about her among the crowd; finally, a Police man carried her back into her room, and deposited her upon the floor, where we shall leave her and turn to the girl, who was the cause of such an outbreak of passion.

The carriage was driven to Mr. Hapgood's house. He alighted and assisted Fanny down, when the anxious wife came running out, and folded the excited girl to her bosom. Her feelings cannot well be described; but her emotions were almost as intense as if she had just found a long lost child. And Fanny almost felt as if she were folded in her mother's arms.

It was a most exciting interview, and the good husband could not avoid being a partaker in the excitement. Fanny was soon conducted into a handsomely furnished parlor and felt as if she were at home.

Soon as the excitement had some what abated and Mrs. Hapgood was able to speak she began to question Fanny about the story of her life. The poor girl could give her no information respecting her birth, for she had always lived with Mrs. Rudolf ever since she could remember any thing.

'Then that cruel woman intended to make you the victim of that wicked man,' said Mrs. Hapgood, after many other questions had been asked and answered.

'Indeed she did,' Fanny replied.—'And I was in dreadful trouble about it, for she made me almost believe that I could never see my mother, unless I did yield. And O, madam, I fear I might have become his unwilling victim if you had not given me this gold ring.'

Here Fanny took the ring from her finger and kissed it with a feeling of enthusiasm that surprised and pleased Mrs. Hapgood.

'Then, indeed, that ring has been instrumental in a glorious work,' said the good wife fastening her eyes upon Fanny's lovely face in a fixed gaze. And O, what emotions pressed the heart of that good lady! How vivid in her mind was one period of the past—a point of time never to be forgotten.—But we must not anticipate. During a brief time there was a pause in the conversation, while the husband stood wondering at the expressions upon his wife's countenance, and admiring her kind and benevolent feelings.

'You are not my mother, are you?' asked Fanny, in a deep, solemn tone of voice.

The question and the peculiar manner of asking it excited Mrs. Hapgood to the highest pitch, and thrilled her soul with emotions she could not utter.

'I will be a good mother to you,' replied the good lady, in a voice that told how deep was her love for that girl.

'O, I thank you, a thousand times I thank you,' said Fanny. 'And perhaps you may find my own mother.'

'Yes my good girl, every effort shall be made to find your mother and father too,' added Mr. Hapgood.

'O, I should like to see my father too,' said Fanny. 'I feel happy now because that old man cannot come to see me.'

'No, dear, he shall never darken my doors,' said Mrs. Hapgood. 'Such characters do not visit our house. We avoid them entirely.'

'O, I am glad of that!' added the girl, her eyes sparkling, and her bosom swelling with pleasing emotions. 'Now I am safe.'

'You are, indeed, safe from all wicked men,' replied the husband.

Then turning to his wife, and smiling, he continued. 'My dear, the thought has just struck me. It seems to me that our Fanny, I call her our Fanny, now, resembles you in some features of her face; at least, I think I see a resemblance.'

'O, husband, because you call her our Fanny, you imagine that,' said the wife.

'No, but her eyes are colored like yours and have the same expression, and your chins are a good deal alike; besides, there is not any difference in the color of your hair.'

'True, our hair is of the same color, but I do not know as there are any other resemblances,' replied the wife; 'but I hope there are.'

'O, I am not so handsome as you are,' said Fanny, smiling.

'You be as handsome as I ever was,' said Mrs. Hapgood, encircling her arms about Fanny's neck, and kissing her.

'O, I had rather you would kiss me than that old Captain,' she said. 'He tried to kiss me, but I would not let him.'

'And you served him right,' said the husband. 'No doubt, he is a villain.'

'I always thought so,' replied the beautiful Fanny.

Thus the conversation continued. It was one of the happiest hours of Mrs. Hapgood's life , and her husband largely partook of the joy on that occasion.

The curtains of night were once more drawn over the city; but Captain Robinson was not so happy a man as might have been, or as Mr. Hapgood was, and the reasons why are quite obvious to the most casual reader.—Troubles seemed to be fast gathering round this old libertine, and, at times his heart was heavy within him. It was quite light as he sat musing over his past life, and waiting for his son to come home. For the first time since his apparent reformation, he had disobeyed his father's orders in not coming home before, at ten o'clock, for thus had the time been limited.

It was nearly eleven o'clock, and yet the truant son had not come, and the father began to grow quite uneasy.—The city clocks told the hour of eleven, and yet he had not come. Another hour past, and at midnight his steps were heard at the door. Having been quite intoxicated during the former part of the evening, he waited until he was somewhat sobered before he came home.

He and young Saunders had been together concocting plans to raise the wind, and during the time they had drank quite freely. The business of raising funds or rather the preliminaries to that affair were all arranged in conformity to the suggestions of the shrewd young gambler who seemed to exercise a magic power over Frank.

The father was at the door when his son entered, and he seized the truant by the collar with a strong, hand and lead him into the parlor and sat him down violently upon a chair, so violently that the mahogany chair was broken in the operation, and Frank went down sprawling upon the carpet. He scrambled up and got another chair, while his father gazed upon him with his brow knit, and eyes flashing. The Captain's patience was evidently > exhausted .

The fumes of the liquor with which Frank had loaded his stomach that evening had not altogether ceased to fire his brain, and he still showed evident signs of intoxication.

'Been drinking, eh?' said the father, again seizing him by the collar and shaking him with a strong, nervous hand. 'Been drinking, eh? Strange, Frank, you will make such a fool of yourself. I have a great mind to tie you up and give you the rope's end.'

'They made me drink a little, but I will never do so again!' replied Frank, in a most beseeching voice and manner.

'They made you drink,' repeated the father. 'They made you drink. Then keep away from their company. You have broken your most solemn promises. And what confidence can I have in those you now make?'

'I will keep my promises,' exclaimed Frank. 'I will never break them again. O, father, I should not have drank a single drop if they hadn't made me. I didn't drink but a little, and they laughed at me because I would not drink more.'

Frank's manner and voice were so beseeching, and he seemed so exceedingly > penitent that his father began to relent somewhat and assume a milder tone.

There was also another subject upon which he wished to catechize him, a subject in which he felt a very deep interest. He was anxious to ascertain whether Frank had really commenced the career of a libertine, and thought the present moment a favorable occasion for such an inquiry.

'Frank,' said the father, breaking out in a new place. 'Answer me truly such questions as I may ask you.'

'O, father, I will answer truly,' repeated Frank; fearing he was about to be questioned in relation to the matter he and young Saunders had been discussing that evening, and also resolving to lie, if such should prove to be the inquiries.

'Well, then, do you know a girl who lives with an old lame woman?' asked the father.

Frank suddenly started, but soon controlled himself, and replied. 'I met her in the streets on Christmas day, and a few days ago saw her with the old lame woman, and have not seen her since.'

'But what did you go to the old woman's house for?' demanded the irritated father.

'To see how poor they were, and to find out if my charity was well bestowed,' replied Frank.

'To see if they were poor! Charity well bestowed,' repeated the father.—'But have you seen that girl at other times?'

'No, father, I have not,' he replied. 'I did call there the first part of the evening and found the old woman in terrible distress.'

'Why! what!' inquired the father, looking rather wild. 'What has happened?'

'O, the old woman raves and screams and says a gentleman has carried off poor Fanny, and she shall never see her again.'

'When did all that happen?' asked the father.

'Just before dark, and immediately after a gentleman had left her house,' said the son, looking rather sly. 'And, father, I do not know who that gentleman was, but I know what the old woman said. She said it was Captain Robinson!'

That was a severe rebuke to the father, and he felt it as such. His son escaped any further punishment that night; for the old libertine had quite as much as he could do to grapple with his thoughts. Again, his conscience gained the ascendency over his evil passions, and he felt as if he wished he were a better man.

The son felt great encouragement, as sons always will, from the habits of the father. He saw at a glance that his father was as deep in the mud as he was in the mire, especially so far as the beautiful Fanny Dumont was concerned.

CHAPTER XVI

THE RECOGNITION. THE INTERVIEW. THE DISAPPOINTMENT OF A PHILADELPHIA GENTLEMAN. A DISCUSSION OF A MORAL QUESTION. A LIBERTINE IN MORE TROUBLE, &C.

'DON'T you think this is a beautiful city?' asked Clara Hopkins, as she and her lover were promenading in one of the most fashionable streets, arm in arm, and enjoying the prospects of fine houses and clean sidewalks. "I like it much better than I expected to before we came here. It is more quiet than New York, and everything wears the aspect of neatness. The citizens do not seem to be so much in a hurry a to break their necks as the New Yorkers are.'

'I have had the same impressions,' he replied. 'I should like living here quite well.'

'Well, I confess I should, too, if circumstances would justify it,' she answered. 'By the way, Charles, suppose you write to the Post Master of New York to forward your letters to this place? Perhaps your mother's letter has come, and I suppose you will want to stay here a few days longer.'

'Yes, I should if it would please you,' he added. 'I will write as soon as we return to the public house.'

'That will be a very good plan,' she answered.

They now proceeded to their hotel and he wrote the letter as she had suggested. While he was gone to deposit it in the post-office, the young man whom they had met in the street entered the parlor where she was sitting. Unobserved by them, he had kept his eye upon their movements, and sought this opportunity to have an interview with Clara. She was much surprised when she saw him enter the room.

'How are ye, Clara?' he said, approaching her, and shaking hands.—'How long have you been in the city?'

'But a short time, she replied, withdrawing her hand from his grasp, and gazing sternly into his face as if she would rebuke his familiarity.

'You are looking as fine as a fiddle,' he continued. 'I see you wear that ring yet?'

'Of course I do,' she replied. 'I have a right to wear it. You got your pay for it, did you not?'

'I did not, and want to dispose of another,' he answered, slipping one from his little finger, and holding it before her eyes.

'You must carry your ring to another market,' she added. 'I have nothing to buy it with now. Put the ring upon your finger again, and get some other purchaser.'

'What mean you?' he asked, attempting to kiss her, which attempt she successfully resisted.

'I mean just what I say, impertinent,' she replied.

'Married, eh! to that country chap you were walking with?' he continued, smoothing his mustaches with his thumb and finger, and assuming an air of importance.

'That is none of your concern,' she replied. 'You can leave just as soon as you please, for you cannot be accommodated here.'

'Good gracious!' he exclaimed, and flourishing his cane and smiling contemptuously. 'You are too big for this. You had better go back to Gotham, I know you like a book.'

'Perhaps you do better than you do any book of manners,' she replied.

'Sharp as a needle,' he said. 'Are you warranted not to cut in the eye? Come, come, Clara, throw off your foolish airs. You cannot make a fool of me, I have seen you before to-day.'

'And that must suffice,' she said. 'Sufficient for the day was the evil thereof. I have reformed! Do you understand that?'

'No, by heavens, I can understand no such thing,' he replied, laughing.—'Reformed! Who ever heard that such a character as you are ever reformed? The idea is simply ridiculous! Reformed. So has the devil himself as much.'

'That is the curse of our sex that the men believe a woman, when once fallen, can never reform. But men of course can reform, however low in vice and degradation they may have fallen. O yes, it is the easiest thing in the world for them to reform; but we, poor creatures, because we have once fallen, must forever lie there! Out upon such nonsense! I will show the world that such a doctrine is false. Yes, because a woman has listened to the promises of a heartless man, and hung fondly upon his pretended love, and been deceived by his consummate arts and wiles, and at last has taken the fatal step which he enticed her to take, she can never rise from her degradation, while her seducer, even without reformation, can pass respectably through the world. In God's name I ask why is all this so? I will tell you. My own sex are in the fault as well as yours. We must scorn a man whom we are sure is a libertine, the same as a wanton is scorned. Let public opinion of both sexes fall on all alike, making no distinctions where there are no differences, and teaching the doctrine that a fallen woman can rise as well as a fallen man. Then let public opinion scathe both alike until they are reformed.'

'You have preached quite a good sermon,' he said, laughing.

'But I have not come to the conclusion yet,' she added. 'I wish how, as the preachers say, to make an application. I will take you as an illustration. No doubt you move in the first circles of society to which your wealth, not your character, gives you title; and yet you have not reformed although you have reached the same depths of degradation I have reached, while I must still be scorned and refused admission to what is called respectable society, even when I have reformed and all because of the false belief that a wanton never can rise from her degradation! Shame on such doctrines. If you had your deserts, honest, virtuous women would treat you just as they do one of their own sex who is still a courtezan; and yet you mingle in their society, waltz with beautiful virtuous girls, and play whist with their mothers. And honest men ought to treat you as they do wantons. I said, honest men, but I fear there are but few such. My brief experience and observation have taught me that men, even those who possess wives, fortunes, and worldly honors, are libertines in practice as well as at heart; I know of hundreds such, and not a strictly virtuous man among them all; I have moved in circles where I have found them out. Yes, what a commotion there would be even in this quiet city of Quakers, if every wife could find out the true character of her husband! And God knows what trouble there might be if every husband could see the true character of his wife.—But permit me to say that I believe there are more virtuous wives than husbands. If it be not so, the world is very wicked.'

The young Philadelphian was surprised at such a display of eloquence from this girl, and found no ready answer to her remarks.

'I have made my application and finished my sermon,' she continued, after a short pause. 'And I thank my audience for listening so attentively—The meeting is now dismissed. You can leave but before you do so, let me whisper a word or two in you ears. If you have another ring to spare, do not appropriate it to such a base use as you did this one upon my finger.—And now I think of it, I will wear it no longer. Here, take it; for I desire not to have the price of my shame so constantly before my eyes.'

She slipped the ring from her own finger and put it upon his ere he was hardly aware of what she was doing.—Her motions were exceedingly rapid, as well as easy and graceful.

'There,' she continued, before he had time to collect his scattered thoughts and speak. 'Take the ring and wear it, and when it feels uneasy upon your finger, put a bit into your mouth and a curb upon your passions, and devote it to some good and benevolent purpose. Do you hear?'

'I am not deaf,' he replied, trying to smile; but her words had such an effect upon him that smile he could not.

'Then understand, and govern yourself accordingly,' she added. 'You can leave now, for I expect my intended soon, and do not desire him to see we in such company.'

He hesitated somewhat about leaving, but she told him he must leave, or she would. He took the hint and walked out in a measured step, and a heart beating with strange emotions. Such a lecture from such a source he had never heard before.

'There,' she said to herself, after he was gone. 'I have given him some; my opinion is, that it will physic him before he gets rid of it. I feel as if I spoke the truth to him; but as I used to read in the New Testament the words of good old St. Paul, I must see to it that while I preach to others I am not myself a castaway. Yes, I feel more resolved at this moment than ever before, that I will endeavor to live a life of virtue, and be true to him who loves me so well if not so wisely. As my conscience becomes more and more clear, and its light more brilliant I see in it some perplexing duties, or some things that appear to be duties. Now, Charles Henderson loves me and believes I was a virtuous girl when he I first became acquainted, with me; and the question arises, ought I to tell him before our marriage what my true character was up to the time of our acquaintance! That is a serious question. Perhaps my future happiness may be involved in its answer. That I have deceived him my own soul bears me witness. And can a union founded on deception be prosperous and happy? That is another question of serious import. My judgement as well as my conscience tell me it cannot be. And then do I wish to marry Charles, live quietly with him awhile, quarrel with him, steal his money, leave him and go to back to my old course of life like a sow that has been washed to her wallowing in the mire? Ah, these are troublesome thoughts! But I hear his footsteps and will sound him on some of these questions.'

Thus she soliloquized as, her lover entered the room.

'Well, Clara, I have my letter in the post-office,' he said. 'And hope I shall receive my mother's letter before we leave this city. And suppose we should be married here instead of New York?'

'The place can make no difference if our hearts are right,' she replied.

'True, and I believe our hearts are right,' he added, smiling, and playing with one of the curls of her hair that hung behind her ear, and fell down almost to her shoulder.

'Charles, I have had a singular train of thought since you have been gone,' she said.

'And what is it, my dear Clara?' he asked.

'It is this, and in order to illustrate it the better, I will suppose a case. Now suppose I had been a bad girl until you see me, and now love you and am resolved to be true to you and to make a virtuous wife, would you consent to marry me?'

'Why not marry you under such circumstances?' he asked, gazing upon her.

'Remember, I am only supposing a case,' she replied.

'I understand you perfectly,' he said, smiling.

'If I had been a bad girl up to the night when we first met, then I have deceived you, for you believed I was virtuous. And would a marriage based on such a false foundation be likely to be prosperous?'

'I cannot see why it might not, provided you had really reformed before marriage, and were resolved to be true to me,' he replied.

'Well then, ought I not to disclose what my real character had been before the knot is tied?' she asked.

'But what good would that do?' inquired Charles. 'It might make me feel unpleasant; for I certainly should wed you even if such a disclosure were made, provided I believed you had really reformed and reciprocated my affection and love.'

'Another question,' she added. 'Do not you think such a disclosure before marriage would be attended with less trouble and perplexity than it would be suppose you found it out after marriage? Or, in other words, would it not be better for me to make confession of the fact before marriage than it would be for you to find it out afterwards from another source?'

'That view of the subject deserves consideration,' > he replied.

'Let me put another question,' she said. 'Suppose you had, in the common phrase run after other women before you saw and loved me, ought you to tell me of it before we are married?'

'I reckon men do not adopt that course, even if they had been thus guilty,' he replied, laughing.

'I believe you speak the truth,' she said, and with emphasis, too. 'Now ought women to be under a more binding obligation to make such disclosures before marriage, than men?'

'I think not according to the strict rules of reason and common sense,' he answered.

'Such is my opinion, and yet it is not the prevailing opinion in the world,' she said. 'Men ask more of women than they are willing to concede to them. Now that is wrong in my judgment. If a woman who has been bad is bound to disclose her true character to a man before she marries him, then he is equally bound to make known his true character before he becomes her husband. The rule ought to work both ways; for I have yet to learn that men are entitled to greater privileges than women in there respects.'

'I cannot consistently adopt a different course of reasoning,' he said.—'The minister says when he marries a couple. "You take each other for better or for worse," I think some such language is used on those occasions. We shall probably ascertain ere long what words are used.'

'Well, Charles, let that happy day come, for I believe our hearts are prepared for it,' she said. 'All, even the very best of folks have done many things they ought to repent off. It was said once by high Authority, Let him cast the first stone who is without sin. I do not know as I quote right, but that is the sentiment.'

Their conversation ended here, and they took another stroll about the city. This girl finally concluded she would keep her own secrets for the present.—She thought less of making a confession since her talk with her lover than she did after conversing with the Philadelphia young blood.

Some new ideas had come into her mind during her talk with her lover, and she now felt as if she should let him take her for better or for worse just as she was going to receive him.—Whether she was right or wrong in her conclusions, we will not stop now to discuss.

The scene changes and the reader is carried back to New York.

After Frank Robinson had told his father that Fanny was carried away, the old libertine felt somewhat troubled in spirit. On one account he was glad; for he hoped his son would not be able to find her, and on another, he was sorry, for he intended to have her conveyed to some other place where he could pursue his hellish work without interruption. His greatest fear however was, that she had taken up her abode with Mrs. Melville, as he knew she felt a great interest in the girl. His night was a more restless one than usual.—his son, Fanny, and the rich Mrs. Melville, greatly harrassed his mind. Recently he had received some very severe rebukes from > quarters where he least expected them.

Soon after breakfast he turned his steps towards the old woman's house; but Mrs. Melville having heard that a girl had been strangely carried off the night previous, was there before him. She found Mrs. Rudolf in the greatest distress on account of the abduction of Fanny. She had not closed her eyes during the night, at least, so she stated to Mrs. Melville.

'I hope the whole city will be aroused and every house searched in it,' said Mrs. Rudolf. 'They have carried her to a bad house I am sure they have.'

Now it is possible that she might have thought so, but it is hardly possible.—Her greatest trouble was the great danger of losing her money she expected to receive from the Captain.—That and not the fear that the girl would be abused and maltreated, was the cause of her extreme agony.

'Perhaps not,' replied Mrs. Melville. 'She may have gone to live with some good lady.'

'Some good lady,' repeated this old termagant . 'Some good lady! Am I not a good lady, and have not I brought up the girl! No, no. Some bad woman is more likely to have the control of her. O, I pity the Captain who loved her so, and might one day have made her his wife!'

'What Captain?' inquired Mrs. Melville.

'Why, Captain Robinson to be sure,' replied Mrs. Rudolf. 'If he could only have had her I never should have wanted for money.'

The good widow was thunderstruck, but she was determined to pursue the inquiry.

'Then he was in love with her, was he?' asked Mrs. Melville.

'Yes, and wanted to have her, but the little jade would not let him touch her,' the old woman answered. 'No doubt she had another lover, but she always denied it to me; I believed her because I never knew her to lie. But I now think she has lied about that. A lady called here and gave her a ring which seemed to make the creature crazy to see her mother, and all because the words, Mother's Gift were engraved upon it. The whole is a contrived plan to get the girl away, and no doubt she is now in the arms of her lover and under the charge of that lady who gave her the ring.'

'Do you think Captain Robinson would marry a girl so young as Fanny?' asked Mrs. Melville, beginning for the first time to suspect the Captain.

'Perhaps he might, for he really had a fancy for the girl,' replied the old woman.

That answer aroused Mrs. Melville's suspicions still more strongly; but before she had time to ask any more questions, the Captain came bolting into the room without the ceremony of knocking. He was petrified with astonishment when his eyes fell on the widow, and for a moment stood as motionless as a statue. But he was a man of tact and soon rallied his powers.

'Good morning,' he said, addressing the widow, and letting the old woman pass unnoticed for the moment. 'I suppose we have come here for the same purpose, to sympathize with a poor woman for the loss of her poor girl and endeavor to assist her in finding the lost one.'

'We might have come here for such purposes; but whether we come with the same motives may admit of a question,' replied the widow.

'O, Captain, you have lost her! you have lost her,' exclaimed the old woman. 'Fanny has been carried away and is now with a man who does not love her half so much as you did! O, dear, what a very wicked city New York is.'

'You hear that, Captain,' said Mrs. Melville, sternly gazing at him, and leaving the room.

'Did you inform that woman that I have been after Fanny?' he asked, and breathing very hard, and looking wild.

'To be sure I did, and have you not been after her?' replied the old woman.

'Trouble upon trouble!' he thought.

Having got all the information he could from the old woman, he left, fully resolved to find out where Fanny was and take her under his own charge, if the thing were possible.

CHAPTER XVII

THE LOST GIRL NOT FOUND. THE EMPLOYMENT OF RUFFIANS TO HUNT HER. A NEGRO'S LECTURE ON WINE AND WOMEN; A GOOD MAN'S WORDS TO A WICKED WOMAN. AN APPALING DEATH. EVIDENCE BEFORE A JURY OF INQUEST.

TIME passed on, and neither Captain Robinson nor the old woman obtained any news from the lost Fanny. He was bent upon finding her, as he could not bear to be beaten in such enterprises. Having generally been successful in them he could not well brook disappointment.

Now the girl had escaped from his power, his desires to see her increased. To him she seemed to show the most beautiful plumage when she took her flight.

He employed several ruffians to keep a watch and find the cage that contained the beautiful bird. Among those he employed in this service was a fellow by the name of Tom Breakshop. He was a dare devil of a fellow, stood six feet high in his stockings, with a face thickly pitted with the small-pox. This fellow had once been imprisoned for burglary, and was ready for any wicked work provided money could be obtained from it.

The Captain knew his man, and placed this fellow first on the list of rascals whom he had employed. Tom was a skilful blackleg, and one of the villains who joined young Saunders in swindling the Captain's son; but the Captain of course knew nothing of that transaction, only that Frank had stolen his money and lost it in a gambling hell. He selected Tom as the head man in this hellish work, because he knew his skill and his adroitness in all sorts of crime.

The Captain became exasperated by his frequent losses and disappointments that he, in a measure, forgot the serious impressions which he occasionally felt, and lost sight of some half-formed resolutions of amendment which had entered his heart.

It is the last feather that breaks the camel's back, and perhaps his accidental and unfortunate interview with Mrs. Melville at Mrs. Rudolf's might have driven to such desperation find. To the lost Fanny and have her placed under his power now employed all his energies and taxed all his ingenuity. His servant, Ben, noticed that a change had come over his master, but he said nothing. The Captain knew the negro too well to employ him in any wicked enterprises. So far from employing this faithful negro in any of his dirty work, he depended upon him as an efficient instrument in the reformation of his son.

And this servant did exercise all his keen wit and tax his powers to keep this young roue> from those > vices which so easily beset young men of the city. The Captain believed he was successful in concealing his own iniquities from the searching eyes of his servant, but in that he was mistaken; for the negro understood his master's character well. It would have been a very difficult task for any man to blind the eyes of this shrewd African son.

Frank placed much confidence in Ben, although he did not fancy his lectures upon temperance and other moral subjects. He had spoken to the negro of the beauty and charms of Fanny and of the lameness and ugly looks of the woman with whom he lived. A short time previous to the abduction of poor Fanny, if such it can be called. Frank was speaking of her and extolling her charms.

'Ah, young massar, must keep away from de wine and de women, too,' said Ben.

'But she is so beautiful, such eyes, such lips, such cheeks, such curly hair, such ——'

'O, Lordy, young massar, you make me tink oh a much older man dan yourself when I hears you talk so,' interrupted Ben, laughing.

'Of father?' asked Frank, looking very cunning.

'O, no, not ob him,' replied Ben. 'Not ob him in particular. But it seems to me dat you be not old enough to hardly tink of sich things, much less talk ob 'em.'

'Why, Ben, I have ruined a score of beautiful girls in the course of two or three years past,' said Frank, swelling up, and feeling very big.

'O, dear, young massar!' exclaimed the negro. 'Dat beat de young men down South all hallow. Dey hardly begin dare iniquities so young. Dis child advise you to stop right off, and let de beautiful gals alone. Sich tings will ruin young massar. And beside all dat, may be de gals who you tink you ruined were ruined afore you ebber see em. Some ob dese white gals be berry cunning, making you tink dey be very virtuous when dey be no such ting. It take older men dan you to ruin de girls de first time. Young massar may swear on dat and take no false oath.'

The negro was right; for such had been the case so far as this forward youth was concerned, He really fancied himself as possessing charms which ladies could not resist; and this pride he was taught in a terrible school.—Imagining himself a great seducer, and priding himself upon such weakness and folly; he was in fact the seduced, rather than the seducer, as the negro had so quaintly hinted.

The next morning after Fanny had left her miserable abode, and while the Captain and the widow Melville had an interview at Mrs. Rudolf's, Frank was telling this negro of Fanny's flight and the old woman's agony.

'Well, I hope she gone to a better place,' said Ben; 'for according to your account de ole woman must be berry bad to live wid.'

'But the old woman says she has been forcibly carried away and placed in a bad house,' said Frank.

'O, I hopes not, but if she be, dis nigger hope young massar won't find her dar.'

'In my walks about the city I shall have an eye open to see if I can find her,' said Frank. 'Why, Ben, I believe I love the beautiful jade.'

'O, Lordy, young massar, you no ole enough to have sich thoughts in your head,' replied Ben, grinning, and showing his ivory.

'I feel old enough I can assure you,' was the pompous reply of this forward youth.

'Ah, den put a curb on dose feelings and rein 'em in as dey do de wild colts,' said Ben. 'You must let de women and de wine alone now you be young, if you don't you will hab hard fights when you be older.'

'As the old cock crows the young one learns,' said Frank, turning on his heel, and leaving the good negro to his own reflections.

'Ah, yes, as de ole cock crow de young one does learn!' said Ben to himself. 'Frank does know all about his farder and no mistake. Perhaps he may hab seen massar in some ob de bad houses.'

Thus reasoned this son of Africa and lamented over the degradation of father and son. Bad as their characters were they had always treated this faithful servant well, and he had a strong regard for them and wished for their reformation. Yes, they had not a more sincere and faithful friend on earth than this negro; but Frank heeded not his advice, and his father believed Ben was entirely ignorant of his true character. Strange as it may be seen, nevertheless, it is true, that the Captain was quite as anxious to conceal his iniquities from his negro servant as he was from his son or any other person. Hypocrisy is the homage vice pays to virtue, and the Captain respected the sound principles, fidelity and honesty of his servant, hoping they might be instrumentalities of his son's good, and direct his steps in the paths of virtue from which he had so long strayed. But we must return to our narrative, and keep connected the chain of events.

Some two or three days after Mr. Hapgood had taken Fanny to his own house, he thought he would make a visit to Mrs. Rudolf. And his wife was anxious for him to do so. Besides, Fanny, herself, was desirous of hearing how the old woman got along. Bad as Mrs. Rudolf was yet this good girl felt a deep interest in her welfare, and was anxious to do her good. Having lived with her from childhood, it is not very strange that she thus felt for this woman. She would have gone and seen her herself, if Mrs. Hapgood and his wife would have permitted her; but they did not deem such a visit wise.

Mr. Hapgood entered the old woman's house one morning, and found her sitting in her chair and rapping the end of her cane upon the floor. Although some days had passed since Fanny had left her, yet the excitement had but little abated. She was still full of wrath, and cursing almost every one in the hope that some of her curses might fall upon those who had robbed her of such a treasure.

As the good man entered the room, she fixed her gray eyes upon him in one burning gaze, trotting her well foot upon the floor and keeping time with it by her cane. She spoke not, but looked daggers at him.

'Good morning,' he said, looking her full in the face.

She struck her long chin several times upon her breast, and remained silent.

'I hope you will receive my visit kindly, for I come to see if you were well, and not suffering,' he continued.

'Why did you suppose I might be suffering?' she asked, in a very hoarse, cracked voice.

'O, madam, the poor sometimes suffer for the want of comfortable things,' he answered.

'Why don't you speak out the truth and shame the devil!' she exclaimed. 'Why don't you say I must suffer because you have carried away my poor Fanny!'

Her pointed remark somewhat staggered him for a moment; but he soon regained his balance, and asked; 'why do you thus accuse me?'

'You once came here with a cunning woman who gave Fanny a ring,' she replied. 'That ring raised the devil with the girl, for she thought the woman who gave her the ring might be her mother,' she answered, looking wild, and breathing hard.

'Well, I am not to be blamed for the girl's thoughts,' he added.

'It was all a contrived plan to get Fanny away, and no doubt that woman is a bad character and keeps a bad house, and you are a libertine and one of her friends,' she said. 'O, ye ought to be strung up between the heavens and the earth for the world to gaze upon. You have ruined that innocent girl, and I am left alone to mourn over her fate! Ye are miserable wretches, and the devil will one day get his own!'

'Is it not the loss of money, and not the poor girl's fate you mourn?' he asked. 'And as it regards the devil's getting his own, perhaps you are even more interested in that than I am.—See to it that you keep out of his clutches.'

'Mind your own business, viper!' she exclaimed, at the top of her voice, flourishing her heavy cane, and flashing her eyes, as if the fires of hell had lit them up. 'Who told you I mourn for the loss of money? Answer me that!'

'It was the suggestion of my own mind,' he replied. 'No one ever told me.'

'I don't believe it!' she screamed. 'It is all a lie! Fanny, herself, told you!'

'Indeed,' he added, fixing his eyes steadily upon her. 'Indeed! Why should the good girl thus inform me? Does she know the fact? Answer me that, on the peril of your soul.'

The good man's stern look, his peculiar tones, and the words he uttered sank deep into her heart for a moment and embarrassed her thoughts. But she soon rallied; for such wickedness as hers is not so easily abashed. She had too long practiced sin to be thus easily made to hide her head in shame. A higher Power was necessary for that.

'Wicked man,' she said, after a long and painful pause. 'Give me back my girl! I am a poor, lame, lonely woman. Give me back my girl.'

' Were she in my possession and power I should long hesitate before I gave her back to you to be bartered off for gold to an old libertine!' he replied. 'No, no, if she were in my possession, I would keep her from such a fate. And Heaven knows it would be my duty so to do.'

There was another pause, and the old woman was so excited she could not find utterance for the violent emotions that shook her soul.

'Woman,' he continued, in a somewhat subdued and solemn tone of voice. 'Woman! thou art well stricken in years, and thy life hangs by a weak and slender thread. Remember, that as the tree falls so it lies. Thy time on earth must be short and eternity is near. And how does the past look to you in the light of an awakened conscience? Is it a record of good deeds thou hast performed, or is it a record of crimes thou hast committed? Gaze into it but for a moment and read the record? What does memory call up? What does conscience say? What if your desires could have been gratified, would you not have seen the image of a last and ruined girl standing before you like an accusing Spirit, and calling down the curses of Heaven upon your devoted head? And are not wicked designs unexecuted for the lack of power, equally as bad as the deeds themselves? Look, woman, into thy heart and behold the iniquity there.—See! Ah! what do thou see? Wake up, and look while thy heart has yet the pulsations of life in it. Behold that sink of iniquity and pray to God that it may be cleansed. Pray fervently, for thy time is short. With such terrible views of the Past before thee, how does the Future look? Dost thou see a bright star lighting thy path, and beckoning thee on to joy and peace? Or dost thou behold dark clouds, lurid with the fires of hell, hanging like a black pall over thy way! Pray, and tremble. Remember, God is just.'

As the last words fell from this good man's lips, this terrible woman suddenly rose from her chair, shrieked in a most unearthly voice and fell heavily upon her face. A blood vessel had been suddenly ruptured and the woman was a corpse!

Her look was ugly in life, but it was more terrible in death. Mr. Hapgood was alone with that horrid corse; but he was not the man to be frightened at such a terrible sight. In that catastrophe he saw the hand of God and bowed in submission to his will. As a Christian he could wish that she might have lived and repented of her evil deeds and made some preparation for another world. But Heaven's ways are above our ways.

Why that wicked woman should have been thus suddenly summoned from time into eternity, while so many other sinners are permitted to have a space for repentance, was not for him to inquire. That question concerned him not. The deed was consummated and by Him who hath a right to take life or give it at any moment. In such a light did this good man view the terrible scene before him.

As she fell upon the floor, a small tin box about four inches long, three inches wide and two inches thick fell from her bosom and lay near her head. He picked it up and opened it, finding therein the fifty dollar bill the Captain had given with several gold coins, a few silver dollars and a small sealed package. Suspecting the package contained something in relation to Fanny and nothing else of value, he took the liberty of breaking the seal and reading the contents with emotions more easily imagined than described. The package he secured in his own pocket, and placed the money back in the box. A Jury of Inquest was called and a verdict rendered according to the facts testified to by Mr. Hapgood. Captain Robinson happened to be passing while the Jury were sitting upon the body of the deceased. Seeing a crowd about the door he made his way into the room while Mr. Hapgood was giving his testimony. He was much surprised and excited.

The old woman had hinted to him several times in the absence of Fanny that she knew more about her birth than she had ever told, and therefore he was anxious to ascertain whether she had left any thing which might throw light upon that mystery. He and Mr. Hapgood were strangers to each other; yet the latter knew that the Captain was the man who had been endeavoring to sacrifice Fanny as a victim to his base passions. But that he kept as a secret in his own bosom. When he testified in regard to the contents of the tin box and spoke of the fifty dollar bank note, Captain Robinson felt a sudden twinge, and suddenly started in spite of his powers of self-control.—Mr. Hapgood's eyes where upon him at the moment, and saw his guilt. He was now quite certain that the bill came from the Captain.

It was a matter of surprise to all save the Captain that that poor woman should have died possessed of such an amount of money when she was known to have so often pleaded poverty, and been the object of so much charity.

'You know not how this woman became possessed of so much money, do you?' asked one of the jurors, addressing the witness, Mr. Hapgood.

'I do not; but there may be some gentlemen present who do,' he replied, fastening his eyes upon the Captain, and pointing to him. 'That gentleman perhaps can give more information upon the subject than I am in possession of.'

The Captain started, and was about making his way through the crowd to leave when he was called back and compelled to become a witness.

'What do you know about this money?' asked the same juror.

'The deceased was very lame, and poor, and I gave her that fifty dollar note,' replied the Captain.

'A very generous donation to be given all at once,' remarked the juror.

'It has been intimated she once had the company of a young girl who has been strangely taken from her? Do you know any thing about that girl?'

'I knew she did have a girl live with her; but what has become of her, the gentleman who testified before me can tell, perhaps, better than I can,' replied the Captain, now feeling as if he should get a clue at Fanny's whereabouts.

Mr. Hapgood was again called, and questioned in relation to the girl; but he had stated in the outset that he was not aware that the girl had any thing to do with the question now before the jury.

'I have related,' said he 'all that I know in relation to the death of this woman. No one was present but myself when she died, and the girl I understand left the woman some days ago, therefore questions in relation to her have relevancy to this case. Why she so suddenly left this woman after living so many years with her, this fifty dollar bank note might testify, if it possessed the power of speech.'

Captain Robinson passed by Mr. Hapgood, and as he did so, he bent forward and said to him, 'I will be revenged for this!' Mr. Hapgood made no reply; but marked well the words and the man who uttered them.

After hearing the verdict the crowd dispersed, and Mr. Hapgood sought his own residence. Among the crowd a good deal was said about the fifty dollar note, and some cutting remarks made upon it in the hearing of the Captain before he left. His anger was aroused, and hence his words to Mr. Hapgood. He felt that the affair had placed him in an unfavorable light, and that those present on the occasion might make a handle of it to his shame and derision.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE LONG WISHED FOR LETTER. THE ABDUCTION. GREAT EXCITEMENT.—A WIFE ALMOST DISTRACTED. THE HUSBAND, SEEKS AN INTERVIEW WITH AN HONEST NEGRO SERVANT. THE POLICE OFFICER. THE BURGLAR.

'WELL my dear Clara, I have received a letter from my mother at last,' said our young Canadian to his beloved about a week after their arrival in Philadelphia.

'Have you,' she exclaimed, running towards him, and smiling. 'Let me see it! I know it contains good news, for I see it in your eyes.'

'It does contain good news,' he said, holding the letter in his hand. 'Mother is well, and —'

'Don't say that,' she quickly replied, interrupting him before he had time to finish the sentence, and snatching the letter from his hand. 'Let me read that in her own dear words!'

She read the following letter, in a clear, distinct, and to him very musical voice.

Belleville, Canada, West, Jan. 1, 18—.

My Dear Charles.—I wish you a happy New Year. I am rejoiced to know that you aye well, and that no accidents have befallen you. ('But an accident has befallen you, dear Charles, has there not?' she said, smiling, and reading on) My health is quite as good, if not better, than when you left home. I am glad you like that great city; but I trust you don't like it well enough to live there and forsake your native town. I suppose you have seen a great many interesting sights since you have been away. ('You have, have not you, dear Charles?' she asked.—'Yes, one interesting sight,' he replied, kissing her. She reads on.) You know when you left home, I cautioned you about the girls in New York, as I had heard a great many stories not very favorable to their characters. ('A good and wise mother,' she said. 'And just such advice as a mother ought to give her son.' She continues to read.) I hope and trust, you will avoid the society of such as you would a serpent you know would bite you. ('Better advice still,' she said. 'Ah, my dear Charles, you have an excellent mother, and how I long to see her. Yes, avoid them as you would a painted adder.' She reads on.) And I also cautioned you in relation to the young men of the city, and not to mingle in the company of rowdies. ('And you havn't, my love, have you?' she asked, smiling, and continuing to read.) I hope and believe from your letter that you have kept clear of all such society.—And now what shall I say about your contemplated marriage? You say you have become acquainted with a beautiful, bright, sparkling, honest, intelligent girl who loves you dearly, and whom you love as dearly. ('O, the good woman, I knew she must be good to give birth to such a dear son,' she said, still reading on.) If you have found such a girl, I can't find it in my heart to object to your marriage with her. ('O, the dear woman!' she exclaimed, kissing the letter, and further reading.) Take her and may you both live happy, virtuous lives. If you form such an important relation in life, I hope I shall see you and your better half in your own native town before many weeks shall have passed. I am glad your intended's name is Clara, for I like that name. Give my love to her, and the same for yourself.

Clara Henderson.

'Clara Henderson!' she exclaimed. 'Then, your mother's name is Clara. Why have not you told me of that before?'

'Because, I thought I would let you read it in her letter when she wrote one,' he replied.

'Ah, Charles, you are a dear fellow,' she said, throwing her arms about his neck, and kissing him. 'And your mother is a dear good woman. I was never so happy in my life. Now the way is clear. Our hearts are united and let our hands be united and heaven will prosper our union if we are true to each other, and live as we ought to live in this world of sorrow and temptation. Yes, there are sorrows and temptations. And there are such things as virtue and domestic bliss, also. I look now upon the world as a beautiful one wherein I see all things are intended for our good. And if we are unhappy and miserable the fault lies at our own doors. O, Charles, may we see many happy years and never forget that midnight storm that brought us together for the first time. How true it is that good comes out of evil. The darkest clouds send out the brightest bolts.'

'I never saw so good a snow storm in Canada as that,' he replied. 'And there I have witnessed thousand. Often, too, have I seen the snow birds in those storms; but I confess I have never seen one I like so well as you.'

Thus converted these two lovers, and who can say they were not happy? This girl had sown her wild oats, and that spark of moral good which once shone so dimly on her heart that it could be hardly seen, now burst into a blaze.

Clara Hopkins had reformed and resolved to live a virtuous life, let the world say what it pleases. True the work of reform had been rapid, nevertheless it was none the less thorough on that account. Her temperament was a peculiar one, and her mental and physical organization different from that of many others. Her nature was very sensitive, and she had been shamefully abused; hence when she began to fall, her downward course was rapid. But she had not sunk so low as to extinguish every spark of goodness in her soul, and when that spark of virtue which was left amid her ruin and degradation, began to rekindle under favorable circumstances, it grew bright rapidly, until her soul was once more filled with light. Although she had become a devil incarnate in the estimation of a certain philosophy, and in accordance with a generally received opinion by both sexes, yet she rose from her degradation, and stood forth a monument of that Power which can change the heart of the vilest sinner, and work a reform where human philosophy least expects it. We will now leave these lovers for the present and return to other scenes.

Mr. Hapgood did not return immediately home after the verdict of the jury upon Mrs. Rudolf's death, but attended to some business which demanded his care. It was after his usual dinner hour when he reached home, and what his feelings were when he met his wife at the door can be imagined by the reader when he has learnt the sad tale.

'O, husband, I shall die,' exclaimed his wife, 'if our Fanny does not return soon.'

'Why, what is the matter?' he anxiously inquired, gazing into his wife's wild and distracted countenance.—'What has happened?'

'Fanny went out to see Mrs. Wood, the dress-maker, to try on her dress just after you went away and has not returned yet,' she replied.

'Have you been to Mrs. Wood's?' he asked, while the words of Captain Robinson, 'I will be revenged for this,' were ringing in his ears, and his suspicions were aroused to the highest pitch.

'Yes, and she tried on her dress and started for home,' she replied. 'I believe some wicked man has carried her away.'

'She could not be carried away,' he said. 'She must have been carried away by force.'

'Perhaps, some villain who knew how anxious she has been to see her mother, told her if she would go with him he would show her mother to her,' said the anxious wife.

'That is possible,' he replied, casting his eyes down in deep > thought , and reflecting upon the words of Captain Robinson.

'Do, husband, get help, and scour the whole town,' she said. 'She must be found before it is too late.'

Mrs. Hapgood was very far from being a superstitious woman. The husband remained not idle; but hurried away in search of the absent girl. He had reason to believe, and did believe that Captain Robinson was at the bottom of all this trouble, and hastened to his house. As he approached the house he saw the negro servant at the door.

'Do you belong here?' as Mr. Hapgood as he came to the door.

'I sposes I does,' replied the negro, looking very pleasant, and gazing into the anxious countenance of Mr. Hapgood.

This negro had a remarkable faculty to read men's countenances.

'Is Captain Robinson at home?' inquired Mr. Hapgood.

'He has not been home to dine yet,' replied Ben, still gazing upon the questioner. 'Hab any ting bad happened which my massar interested in? Your face be looking berry anxious. You needn't be afraid to tell dis nigger any ting; for I can keep a gentleman's secret and a lady's, too, for that matter. My name be Ben Bowlegs, I spose dat, howesomever be a nickname.'

'A beautiful girl is lost,' replied Mr. Hapgood, knowing this good negro by reputation, and rejoicing to meet him, 'I have heard of your good deeds, and am glad to meet you.'

'Tank you massar, kindly,' replied Ben. 'A beautiful gal lost. I reckons I knows who dat gal is. And I guesses my massar do, too.'

'How so?' anxiously inquired Mr. Hapgood. 'Speak and tell me. You may depend upon my honor.'

'I believe dat, for I sees it in de expression ob your face and eyes,' said Ben. 'Dis child den tell you what he knows; for I tink de young gal be in bad hands.'

'Tell me and you shall be generously rewarded,' said Hapgood.

'Dis child want no odder reward dan what is in here,' replied the negro, placing his hand upon his breast, and looking serious. 'Me overhear massar talking ob dis gal wid a great fellow dey call Tom Breakshops. You know Tom be one bad fellow, and been a prison bird. Well; my massar promise Tom money, if he would take de gal and carry her to some bad house, but de name I cannot remember if I die for it; for I hab tried berry hard to remember him. Tom said he would do his damdest! Dat was de word, massar, and it made my blood run cold in de veins.'

'I thank you, honest Ben for telling me so much,' said Mr. Hapgood.

'Honest Ben!' repeated the negro. 'Honest Ben. Dat make me tink ob ole times. Dey use to call me so down South, dat is, good many white people did; but my ole massar, he drink too much, and sometime flog me, and so dis child took to his heels and leave 'im. And serve him right, too.'

'Perfectly so,' added Mr. Hapgood, who was somewhat Abolition-inclined; 'You are just such a servant as I should like. But let that pass now. We may talk of that another time. Keep an eye on this affair, and see what you can find out.'

'I will do dat ting, massar,' replied Ben. 'I keep both eyes as well as my ears open. May be I hear someting more one ob dese days.'

'Very well,' added Mr. Hapgood. 'I see that in your honest face which inspires me with confidence. I will see you again.'

Mr. Hapgood turned away and was soon in Broadway. And he felt as if he had now a clue to this horrid outrage, and his emotions were excited to the highest pitch. To think the beautiful Fanny was then in a brothel and under the power of such a libertine as he believed Captain Robinson to be, stirred up the very depths of his soul, and made him feel as if no time was to be lost. Besides, his wife was in very great trouble and he feared the consequences of not finding the girl might produce very serious effects upon her tender and sensitive mind. He had seen the ruffian Tom Breakshop, happening to be present in court when the villain was once tried for burglary, and believed he should recognize him again if he should cross his path.—There was one of the police in whom Mr. Hapgood had confidence. The name of this police officer was Richard Grabwell, usually called Old Dick, because he had been so long in the practice of catching rogues of all kinds.—Mr. Hapgood hurried his steps to this man and acquainted him with the circumstances and placed in his hands a sum of money to be used as it might be needed.

'I suppose you know that burglar Tom,' said Hapgood.

'Like a book,' replied the police officer. 'No doubt the scoundrel has had a hand in abducting this girl. You have done well in securing the services and friendship of that negro, I know him well, and you may depend upon him. Besides, he is a shrewd fellow. He at one time assisted me in catching a rogue.'

'I am glad to hear such a good account of him,' said Mr. Hapgood. 'I have liked him ever since I heard of some of his good deeds.'

'I have no doubt that money would induce Tom to disclose all the facts if he could be assured of being saved harmless in the affair,' added Dick.—'But I think we may find the girl without letting the rascal escape punishment. If I should induce him with money to tell where the girl is on the promise of saving him harmless. I must keep those promises sacred. I am known to be as good as my word among that class to which Tom belongs, and if I should break any promises, my influence would be very much impaired. You understand me.'

'I do,' replied Mr. Hapgood. 'And I should be sorry to have such a villain escape the punishment due to his crimes. Do you know the haunts of this fellow? Perhaps if you could see and converse with him you might find out something by him.'

'He is a very shrewd fellow, and would be on his guard when talking with me,' replied Dick. 'He knows me and my business. However, I think I shall sound him.'

'Do so, and if the girl cannot be found without making a bargain with him, that bargain must be made, at any reasonable cost. The girl must be found; and that is, before she is forever ruined.'

'I understand you,' added Dick.—'Leave that to me. My opinion is, that Tom may be found at some bad house; for the keepers of such hells, generally have such fellows about their premises as sort of bully's to guard them and fight whenever occasion may demand. I will endeavor to hunt him up and see what can be got out of the fellow.'

They separated, and Old Dick went about the business in hand, and Mr. Hapgood returned home to assuage the grief of his wife. He found her laboring under great excitement. She met him at the door.

'Have you heard any thing?' she anxiously inquired. 'Speak, husband. What have you heard?'

He told her that he believed he had got some clue to the affair, but did not disclose the particulars lest such disclosure might excite her more violently. He informed her, that he had engaged one of the shrewdest police officers in the city and indulged strong hopes that Fanny would be restored to her arms ere long.

Old Dick was exceedingly fortunate in running across the track of Tom. He found him standing in front of Madame Sonati's establishment.

'Well, Tom, are you doorkeeper to this whited sepulchre?' asked Old Dick, smiling.

'Just as circumstances may happen,' replied Tom. 'I go about from place to place, trying to help the widows and the fatherless.'

'Is it a widow who keeps this house?' asked Dick.

'O, a kind of widow bewitched like all the rest of them,' answered Tom. 'She pays well and you of the police understand that perfectly. Yes, madame pays well, I always work > for pay, but sometimes my work has produced rather unpleasant pay.'

'I should think so,' added the police officer.

'You are not far out of the way in your thoughts,' replied Tom. 'Sometimes I receive such pay for my labor that I think the less I receive for it the better. But not when it comes in the shape of good current bank notes.—They are mighty convenient articles to have about one's clothes in a city like this. You police men understand that quite as well as I do; and if you all had your deserts you would sometimes receive such pay for your labor as I have for mine.'

'That may be very true,' added Dick. 'But how many of our street-walkers stop at this house? I do not mean men, for I suppose you could not well keep count of them.'

'Yes, yes, I understand,' replied Tom, winking, and looking very sly. 'I never tell tales out of school. You understand that, money often closes a man's mouth, and sometimes opens it. You police gentry also understand that.'

'I rather think you gentry understand that full better than we do,' added Dick. 'But I have a word to say to you.'

'Very likely,' said Tom, smiling. 'I wonder what is in the wind now?'

'A young girl is lost,' replied Dick. 'And, perhaps, your services might come into play in finding her.'

'A young girl!' repeated Tom, while the officer was steadily fixed upon the pock-marked face of the burglar, as if he would read his most secret thoughts.

'A young girl! Is she handsome and old enough for these widows that are bewitched?'

'She may be so, and have you seen such an one?' asked Dick. 'Money is bid on finding her.'

'Of course, or you would not be engaged in the hunt,' added Tom, smiling. 'But how much of a fund could be raised for finding the lost lamb?—Much depends upon that; but you understand.'

'O, the reward would be very liberal,' replied Dick 'The gentleman is abundantly able to shell out to those who find her.'

'I have heard of the affair,' said Tom. 'There was a flying report that a beautiful girl had been carried off, and I think I could lend some aid in finding her; but the payment must be very liberal. You understand that. I should be willing to share the reward with you.'

'But do you think you can trace the bird to the cage?' asked Dick.

'I might, and also point out the old hawk who has done the mischief,' replied Tom. 'Where the pullets are hawks generally are found. The cat is found where mice are won't to abound. How much do you suppose we might obtain for finding this pullet?'

'A generous reward, no doubt,' replied the police officer. 'But I will see you again and ascertain how much we can have.'

'Very well,' said Tom, looking very sly, as if he could find the girl.

Old Dick walked along, and felt quite sure that Tom knew all about the affair and would tell provided he could be well paid, and saved harmless.

CHAPTER XIX

ONE WAY TO GET AT A SECRET. NEGRO CUNNING. THE WORKING OF PASSION. A CLUE TO THE LOST GIRL. THE HAPPY GROUP. THE POWER OF TRUTH UPON A GUILTY CONSCIENCE.

EVENING came, and Tom Breakshop was seen by Ben, the negro servant, as the former approached Captain Robinson's house. The negro's master was not at home. Ben met this villain as he was about to ring the door-bell.

'No use ringing,' said the negro. 'Massar not at home, just now. Gone out. And may be he gone to get de money for you.'

'Get money for me!' said Tom.—'What do you mean by that?'

'O, noting, only about that beautiful gal,' replied Ben; 'O, massar lub de pretty gals, and pay well for them.—Den you found her and carried her off! O, massar, gib you much money for dat. Did she cry and take on badly arter she found she could not get back? Ah, you play dat card fuss rate, and massar pay you for it, too; for he be generous for all sich tings. Is de gal berry handsome? O, gorry, how glad massar be when he come to see.'

'Then you seem to know something about the affair,' said Tom, somewhat surprised that the master should have told this servant such a secret.

'O, yes, massar and me be on good terms,' replied Ben. 'He hab confidence in dis child. And hab you got de pretty gal all safe so she cannot get away?'

'I never do my work at the halves,' answered Tom. 'When I undertake a job, I always go through with it.'

'And how in de world did you make her go with you?' asked Tom. 'Dat is de mystery in my mind. You must hab great charms for de fair sex.'

'You may well say that,' replied Tom. 'They like a large stout man with a noble heart like mine; for they feels as if he would protect them.'

'Ah, yes, just as de iby clings all round de ole oak tree,' said Ben. 'Iv'e seen dat ting many times down South where I came from. But dat mystery. How did you coax her to go with you right in de day time?'

'The thing was done as easy as to turn your hand over,' answered this villain. 'You see the girl was very anxious to find her mother whom she had not seen since she was an infant; so I told her to jump into a carriage and I would carry her to a house where her mother was. She jumped in, and away we went, that was all.'

'Dat ting was well done,' said Ben. 'And hab you got her safe so massar can find her?'

'O, yes, Madame Sonati will keep her close enough, I will warrant,' said Tom. 'She has had practice enough, and knows how to manage these young girls. She has had scores of them.'

'Dat is fuss rate, and massar be liberal to you,' said Ben; feeling sure now that he had wormed all the secret from this scoundrel he wanted.

'No doubt he will do as he promised, and if he goes a little beyond them and hands over a trifle more I shall not cry,' said Tom.

'Dat would be jus like massar, when a pretty girl is in de case,' said Ben.

'I hope I shall find him so,' added Tom. 'But think your massar will return soon?'

'I tink so,' replied Ben. 'Will you walk in and wait? Young missus Jane and some ob de young gals be in de house.'

'No, I will not go in to disturb them,' said Tom; feeling ashamed to enter a parlor in a gentleman's house.

'You must not tell massar de conversation you hab wid me, no how; for he no like to hab me tell tings out ob de school,' said Ben. 'You understand dis child.'

'O, yes, perfectly well,' replied Tom, entirely mistaking the motive of the cunning negro. 'I will not say a word to him about you. If he pays me money, that is all I want.'

'Oh, massar, pay you all he agreed, added Ben. 'Dere, dat is he coming, and I will leave. Mum be de word and no mistake.'

Tom reassured the negro that his name should not be mentioned. And Ben slipped into the house while Tom went to meet the Captain.

'Ah, good morning,' said Captain Robinson. 'What success?'

'Good,' replied the villain. 'The girl is safe in the hands of Madame Sonati. I obeyed your instructions, and she jumped at the chance of seeing her mother.'

'I thought she would; but what did she say when you introduced her to Madame,' asked the Captain. 'Did she believe Madame was her mother?'

'Ah, Captain, that part of the game failed,' replied Tom. 'The girl happened to know the character of the house, and could not be made to believe that Madame Sonati was her mother. She shrank from her instead of embracing her, although the artful woman endeavored to act the part of a mother according to her best ability. Soon as the girl was brought into her presence, Madame, exclaimed, "O, my child! my child!" but the charm of those words would not work. The girl gazed upon her for a moment and shrunk. Saying you are not my mother! I have seen you before! Let me go, I don't want to stay here! And she attempted to go; but madame declared she was her mother and would not let her go.—"I must go," said the gal; but you shall not go, said the pretended mother. The girl at first cried, and then her spirit seemed to be aroused, and she endeavored to break away from her grasp; but she could not. I pitied the girl, hard-hearted as I am. But she is a beauty, Captain, and a great prize for such an old libertine as you are.—Now, Captain, the money, and our business for the present is closed. And the thing has been managed so adroitly, perhaps, you will be liberal enough to go a little beyond your promises. You know I ran a devil of a risk and am now liable to be hauled up, if proof could be obtained.'

'I'll give you the sum agreed upon, and, perhaps, I may make you a fine present if every thing works well,' said the Captain.

The money was paid over, and the two villains parted. Tom was now desirous to see Old Dick; for he was ready to make a bargain with him, and disclose the house in which he left the girl.

The Captain entered his own house and was greeted by his daughter and her companions who had dropped in that evening on a social visit. They were all very glad to see him, and he made himself as agreeable to them as he could under the circumstances; but his mind was not there. He was anxious to see the lovely Fanny, once more, believing that success would now attend his exertions; for the girl was completely in his power.

'Where is Frank this evening?' he asked, addressing his daughter.

'I told him my companions were coming here this evening,' she replied; 'but he said he had a previous engagement.'

'I am sorry he is not here; but I hope you will enjoy yourselves,' he added. 'I have some business to attend to this evening which will call me away from your very agreeable and pleasant company.'

They all expressed their regret.—After giving some directions to his negro about seeing the young misses safely home, he hurried his steps to Madame Sonati's establishment. The negro had no doubts about the place he was going to; but he concealed his feelings from his master.

Madame Sonati ushered him into her parlor, and smiled to see him.

'Then the girl is here,' he said.

'Yes, Captain the bird is caged,' she replied. 'But she is as willful a thing as I ever had any thing to do with I confess, however, she is a most beautiful girl. Ah, Captain, you know how to select female beauty, and well you may; for you have been engaged in it these forty years.'

'Receive me!' she repeated, while a frown passed over her brow. 'The little jade gazed upon me a moment, and then shrank back as if I were a viper and was about to sting her.'

'I always knew Fanny had some very bright instincts,' he replied, smiling. 'I did not much expect you to succeed in passing yourself off as he mother upon her. You found her a little too bright for that.'

'Joke away, Captain; for it is your privilege,' she added. 'The beautiful, the voluptuous Fanny, is probably quite lonely in her room. Here is the key. But before you go let me say one thing as a kind of offset for your jokes.—She begged of me if you came to the house not to let you know she was in it. Some how she hates the sight of you; but I endeavored to crack you up as a nice, virtuous man. The task, however, was about the hardest I ever undertook in my life. My conscience really smote me.'

'Your conscience!' he repeated.—'Your conscience smote you! Well, that is the last thing I have heard, and I'm quite certain it is the very best thing I should ever have thought of. Your conscience! Shiver my timbers, if that don't beat old Nicholas, himself. But never mind. Show me up to the beauty and I will see what virtue there is in soft words, and pleasant smiles.'

She conducted him to the door of the chamber in which Fanny was confined, and then left him. She heard the sounds of his heavy tread, and instinctively feared that the person approaching was the much dreaded Captain. At that moment it seemed to her that an unseen Power nerved and supported her, and she resolved to defend herself at all hazards.

The Captain turned the key and opened the door, when he saw his intended victim sitting in a chair and gazing upon the live coals in the grate. As he entered, she turned her eyes upon him a moment and then gazed upon the grate again. She did not tremble at his presence so much as she expected to.

'Good evening, my dear,' he said, 'I am very glad to see you so comfortably situated. You have a very nice room, end every thing convenient. Your kind mother has provided well for you.'

'Kind mother!' repeated Fanny.—She made no other reply; but her face showed the contempt her heart felt.

'Yes, my dear Fanny, your kind mother,' he added. 'The woman is your mother; and O, if you knew how much grieved she is, because you disown her as your mother, you would certainly repent and embrace her. Ah, dear Fanny, she feels very badly, and you must not wonder that she refuses to permit you to leave her.'

'She is not my mother!' said Fanny, in a firm voice. 'I have seen her, before, and know what she is called.—My mother never could be such a woman she would never keep such a house as this is. I know the house and have passed it a great many times.—Go away, and leave me alone! Don't touch me, if you do, I will scream murder as loud as my voice will let me!'

'O, now, Fanny, be calm,' he replied. 'If you knew how much I love you, I know you would not talk so to me! No, no, I know you would not. Your heart is too good for that. Now be calm and quiet. Your mother desires you to be so.'

'That charm is broken,' she said. 'I never now expect to see my mother in this world; but I shall see her in another. Go away and leave me alone! I don't want you here.'

'But, Fanny, do not talk so,' he said, assuming a beseeching tone and manner. 'I would not injure, but make a great lady of you. My love for you has induced me to call and see you this evening. Nothing but love has lead me here.'

She sat silently gazing into the coal fire as it burnt in the grate, and made no reply. Her silence somewhat encouraged him and he approached very near to her, when she suddenly rose and retreated to a corner of the room, where she stood steadily gazing upon him like an accusing Spirit. For a moment he felt rebuked by her determined manner, and beaming countenance. Her whole soul was aroused, and she stood almost as motionless as a statue. He stood a moment when both passion and a degree of anger excited at her obstinacy drove him on. He advanced two or three steps towards her.

'Stay!' she exclaimed. 'How know you but in your absence from home some bad man is now in a room with your daughter, seeking her ruin as you are mine? O, God, if it were so, it would be but a just punishment for you. But, Heaven knows I cannot wish such a punishment as that to overtake you!'

'But, hear me, my dear Fanny,' he said.

'It seems to me, I now hear some libertine's voice, saying, but hear me dear Jane,' she said. 'And O, if that lovely Jane should be ruined, how very keenly would the father's heart be wrung with anguish! Yes, it now sounds in my ears. But hear me, dear Jane!'

'Enough, Fanny, for one night,' he said, in a trembling voice; leaving the room, and going down stairs.

'Why, Captain, you have very soon accomplished your object,' said the vile keeper of that house.

'I have not accomplished my object; but I do not know but she has hers,' he replied.

'And what is that?' she asked.

'Convinced me that I am a villain,' he answered.

She was astonished at his reply; but he informed her not of what the girl had said to him. That he kept a secret, and left the house.

CHAPTER XX

THE CONSPIRACY AGAIN SUCCESSFUL.—THE FORGERY. THE FATE OF GAMBLING. A FATHER'S TROUBLE. THE DANGER OF BAD EXAMPLES. HORRID DREAMS. THE MEETING. THE STINGS OF CONSCIENCE.

WHILE Captain Robinson was receiving such a rebuke from the girl he intended to seduce, his son Frank was at the gaming table with young Saunders. Tom Breakshop, and one other blackleg. Frank was in funds. He having ascertained that his father had deposited several thousand dollars in a certain bank, he communicated the information to Saunders, and they held a consultation over the matter.

'You have brought some samples of your father's handwriting have you?' asked Saunders.

'I have,' replied Frank. 'And also some blank checks. Besides, I have been practising.'

'Well, how much money has your father deposited in the bank?' asked Saunders.

'As near as I can learn he has about eight thousand dollars,' replied Frank. 'But I understand he will use it shortly in the purchase of some stocks, therefore I think I had not better make a check for more than a thousand.'

'O, yes, make it for two thousand,' said Saunders. 'It may be you will want that sum. Much money is sometimes lost in gambling for the want of funds to carry on the game. Now is the time for us to strike for a good round sum, and I believe we shall obtain it.'

Frank agreed to the proposition, and signed a check for two thousand and obtained the money in person. Perhaps if the check had been presented by any one else at the counter, the teller or cashier might have examined it more closely and detected the counterfeit; but being presented by the son, the whole seemed on its face to be a fair business transaction.

Young Saunders appeared to be in fine spirits, and expressed strong hopes of winning. Frank, too, caught his companion's spirit and entered the gambling hell with a confident step.—He had never before been in possession of so much money. He felt very much like many other young men just before their ruin at the gaming table. He and young Saunders were partners, and sat down against Tom Breakshop and his companion.

The game now commenced for small stakes; but the excitement soon increased with them, and the play became interesting.

Frank and his companion won the first and second games. The former was very much elated, and begun to fancy that fortune would favor him.—He even dreamed of restoring to his father the money he had stolen from him, and having a large sum left.

'Come, you fellows,' said Tom, 'you must treat; for you are the winners.'

'Agreed!' quickly responded Frank, calling for brandy smashes, and feeling as if he was soon to become a rich man.

The liquor was soon forth coming, and found its way down their necks.—It stirred up Frank and made him desperate.

'Let us double the stakes and not play such paltry games,' said Frank, as he drank the last drop of his brandy smasher.

'I agree to that,' said Saunders, smacking his lips, and setting down his glass violently upon the table by way of giving an emphasis to his remarks. 'This is small business. Double the stakes I say.'

'O, yes, no doubt you are willing for that now you are the gainers,' said Tom, slyly looking at his partner.—'What say you, partner?'

'I never take a stump,' replied his partner. 'We will go it now, if you say so.'

'A small game, truly!' said Frank. 'Let us not be cowards and play all night for a few hundreds when thousands would make the game more interesting.'

'No doubt of that when fortune is on your side,' replied Tom.

'It may take a turn on our side; for she is a fickle jade,' said Tom's partner. 'I am not frightened, I am for doubling the stakes and going ahead.'

'Just as you say, partner,' said Tom. 'I do not wish to show them the white feather.'

The stakes were again doubled and consequently, the excitement increased. Tom and his partner won, and that only excited Frank and made him the more desperate.

Having got Frank into a proper state of mind, these conspirators proceeded accordingly; letting him win occasionally lest he might despair before his money was all gone.

The game continued till past midnight, and poor Frank was stripped of every dollar of his money. And in addition to that he became beastly drunk. Perhaps, we ought to ask pardon of the brutes that perish for using the word beastly in such a connection, as they are never known to become intoxicated.

Poor Frank Robinson! Having once stolen his father's money and gambled it away, he could not be satisfied with that: but he must commit forgery and lose a still larger amount. Such is the magic power of gambling; and such the passion when it has once seized upon the soul.

Young Saunders tried every means in his power to sober off his friend so that he might see him safely home and get him off his hands. He did not leave Frank, but attended upon him until the power of locomotion was restored to him and he was able to reach home.

While Frank was lying drunk, these conspirators made a division of their ill-gotten gains. Tom Breakshop was highly pleased with the operation, and thanked Saunders for introducing such a good customer as Frank.

'You may thank me, for the result has been glorious,' said Saunders. 'But we must make the most of this good luck; for we shall never find him so flush with funds again.'

'Then you do not think that he can be induced to sign another check and draw upon the old Captain's funds,' said Tom, smiling.

'Not a bit of it, for the forgery will soon be detected and Frank find a short home in the Tombs,' replied young Saunders.

'And if justice had her due, you would be his companion in that interesting place,' added Tom. 'I know the locality, for I have tarried there more than one night.'

'Yes, and ought to be placed there again,' said Saunders.

'The truth is, we are all liable, but as my partner says, nothing venture, nothing have,' replied Tom. 'The world is full of gamblers, and he who wins the most is the best fellow.'

'That is, if justice and law do not overtake him,' added Saunders.

'A very good proviso,' replied Tom, laughing. 'I do not think on the whole it is a very great crime to fleece old Captain Robinson of his money; for he is a great gambler himself. The only difference between him and me is, that he gambles for pretty women, and I gamble for shining gold.'

'Then you know him!' said young Saunders.

'Like a book,' replied Tom. 'I am his right hand man in all enterprises where the ladies are concerned. I took a couple of hundred from him in the early part of the evening for services rendered in coaxing off a beautiful young girl in whom he has had he lascivious eyes for a long time, and I presume he is now in the beauty's arms, that is, if she was not too willful for his accommodation. Ah, he is a confounded old libertine, and his love for women will be the last pulse that beats in him.'

'I was not aware that he was such a character,' said Saunders. 'Well, I care nothing about his losing money, but really I do pity Frank.'

Frank had now become somewhat sobered off, and Saunders accompanied him home. The walk greatly improved his physical condition, but his mind was much troubled. Young Saunders however, endeavored to console him as well as he could, and left him at his father's door.

The Captain did not immediately return home from his visit to Fanny, but called on a friend and passed the night. He arrived home, however, some hours before his son, and in no desirable state of mind.

Having been defeated in an object which had lain so near his heart that very evening, and also having received a severe lecture from her whom he intended to sacrifice upon the altar of his base passions, his mind and conscience, too, were greatly stirred up, and he felt as if he had long been a fool. No wonder that such impression should be upon him.

The Captain sat down in his parlor, not, however, before he ascertained that his son was absent. That fact added to his other troubles which bore with a crushing weight upon his guilty soul. Midnight came, and still no Frank.—His soul was greatly agitated, and at times he felt as if wished he could sink into nothing and entirely forget himself. There were moments when he wished for annihilation.

He called his servant Ben, for he could not bear to be alone. The negro had but just gone to bed, having been to see Mr. Hapgood and to communicate to that good man the secret he had so adroitly obtained from Tom, that notorious villain. He could not go in the early part of the evening because his orders were to see the young ladies home who were on a social visit to Jane. But as soon as he had performed that duty he hurried his steps to Mr. Hapgood's.

The joy which the story this faithful and adroit negro related, occasioned in the hearts of Mr. Hapgood and his wife may be imagined by the reader, for we shall not attempt to describe it.

The negro immediately obeyed the summons of his master and came into his presence; fearing that Tom had communicated to him the conversation that had passed between them. And that fear was greatly increased when the negro saw the agitated countenance of his master.

'Is father in bed?' asked Frank, in a whisper, walking in, when he met his father in the hall before Ben had time to answer the question.

They met, and how wildly they gazed upon each other. The father's heart was too full for utterance, and he stood silently gazing upon his truant son, while the son trembled in every joint in his body.

'You have come, have you?' asked the father, in a voice choked with rage. 'Now it is almost morning. I have a great mind to string you up and take the skin from your back, you foolish boy! Go to your bed, and don't leave the house again for one long month! I will see, if I can't be obeyed.'

The Captain was much enraged; but his own conscience smote him so hard that he was not in a fit mood to chastise his son, and therefore sent him to bed. Frank felt as if he should sink into the earth. He threw himself upon the bed and wept bitter tears of anguish. That night had been full of trouble enough; but the thought of the morrow when his crime of forgery might come to light was more severe than any other thought that coursed through his agitated mind.

CHAPTER XXI

THE RESCUE. THE PROCEEDINGS OF A POLICE FORCE. THE GUILTY PUNISHED, AND THE INNOCENT SET FREE. THE HAPPY MEETING. CONVICTION, AND ITS EFFECTS.

SOON as the Captain's negro servant had related his conversation with the burglar Tom, to Mr. Hapgood, the latter gentleman lost no time in seeking out Old Dick Grabwell, and communicating to him what he had heard.

'And do you know where the house is this Madame Sonati keeps?' anxiously inquired Mr. Hapgood.

'Perfectly well; but that is not her true name,' replied Dick, smiling. 'She makes the verdant ones believe that she is an Italian lady, but her true name is Betsy Barnwell. She originally came from some of the back towns in New Hampshire, and earned her living here with her needle; but being unprincipled and ambitious, she dropped her needle and engaged in other business in which she has accumulated a large fortune. The rich and the aristocratic as well as many in the more humble walks of life have contributed to fill her coffers until she now rides in her own carriage, keeps her own servants, and dresses in the very height of the fashion. So far as outward circumstances go, she is quite equal to the codfish aristocrasy up town.'

'Call out any force you please,' said Mr. Hapgood. 'I will pay them all generously for their services. Here are now a hundred dollars to begin with.'

'And shall you accompany us?' inquired Dick, smiling, as if he thought the name of revolvers might frighten him.

'Certainly I shall,' replied Mr. Hapgood. 'In a good cause I have no fears.'

Much time did not elapse before this adroit and prompt police officer obtained all the force he deemed necessary. He engaged but four men, and soon the six were on their way to the cage that contained the bird. Mr. Hapgood hired a carriage and all rode. As they reach the house the city clocks told the hour of midnight. A light was burning in the hall lamp, and several rooms in the upper stories were dimly lighted. Fanny had gone to bed, but no sleep had visited her eyelids. After Captain Robinson had left her Madame Sonati took her in hand and endeavored by soft words and splendid promises to induce her to remain in the house; but Fanny showed no disposition to remain. Madame Sonati then assumed a more authoritative tone, and said that she had a right to keep her because she was her own legal mother. These arguments she used with much force, and almost exhausted her ingenuity and skill; yet the girl remained untouched by the woman's tender appeals and unmoved by her assumed authority. The last words this vile woman uttered were 'Do as you please—slight all my generous offers, disregard a mother's appeal and be obstinate; yet, I have you in my power, and you shall not leave my house until you yield to my wishes.' The poor girl was in great trouble and her pillow was wet with her tears, and yet she did not wholly despair. Her spirit was not to be conquered although her body might be confined.

'That is the house,' said Dick Grabwell. 'Now I will lead and you must follow. We may not have much trouble, and yet may meet with formidable opposition.'

Thus speaking, he alighted from the carriage, followed by the others, and soon > his hand was upon the knob that moved the door-bell. It gave a ring through the long, spacious hall, and roused Madame Sonati from a sort of drowse in which she was indulging in a rocking chair. There were quite a number of customers at her house that night, and among them were several married gentlemen whose wives were anxiously, and some of them impatiently, waiting for them.

Madame Sonati came to the door, and as soon as she recognized the face of Old Dick, she attempted to close the door upon him; but he was too quick for her, and stood in the hall under the lamp. Mr. Hapgood was next to him; full of courage and hope, not fearing revolvers or any thing else. The other for men stood on the threshold of the doors, waiting for the orders of their leader.

'What mean you by this midnight entrance into my house?' asked the mistress, while her eyes flashed fire, and her cheeks were red with excited blood.

'Be easy, Betty,' he added, taking some papers from his pocket, and holding them up before her. 'Here are the documents, and show me where that young > girl is confined, or I will break down every door in your house. Be quick, or I shall proceed. I know my duty and will perform it.'

'Stir not an inch farther into my house at the peril of your life!' she exclaimed, drawing a revolver from her bosom and shaking it at Dick.

'Put up your weapon, or I will send a bullet through your corrupt heart,' said the officer, drawing a pistol from his pocket and aiming it at her. 'Seize the woman who thus defies the law and threatens the lives of its officers.'

The four men advanced towards her when she put back her revolver and appeared more calm and somewhat subdued. The men stopped as they saw her motions.

'Wait a moment,' said Dick. 'Do you fear a night's lodging in the lock-up? Tell where that young girl is, or I will have you arrested in less than two minutes.'

Here the officer took out his large silver Lever watch and held it in his hand. There was a deliberation and coolness about that which told Madame Sonati what she might expect if she did not comply with his request. Mr. Hapgood stood close to the door with his head bent down and his ear to the key-hole.

'I hear her moving within,' said Mr. Hapgood. 'I believe it must be Fanny.'

'I know that voice!' exclaimed poor Fanny, standing upon the other side of the door with her ear at the key-hole. 'Let me out of this prison, Mr. Hapgood. It is poor Fanny who speaks!'

'I hear you, my good girl, and the door shall soon be opened,' replied the excited and anxious man. 'Be patient but a moment.'

'Come, Betty, the second hand of my watch says two minutes are gone, and I always keep my word. Quick! or the handsomely painted door goes.'

She took the key from her pocket and flung it at him. Mr. Hapgood picked it up from the floor, nervously thrust it into the key-hole, turned it and Fanny instantly pulled the door open, and fell into his arms.

'O, God, thou hast heard my prayers,' exclaimed the almost frantic girl.

'And mine, too!' responded Mr. Hapgood, embracing Fanny, pressing her to his beating heart.

'O, you ugly old Betty,' said Dick. 'How you have lied in your throat. I will have you in the Tombs, if you do not hand over some of your ill-gotten gains to pay for all this trouble.—Pointing a revolver at a police officer is no small offence. Do you understand that.'

'I was in fear,' she said . 'I intended to have brought the girl down to you if you had not come up here. I know nothing of the girl. A gentleman asked me to keep her for him, and he would pay me. I did not know but he might he her father.'

'O, what a lie!' exclaimed Fanny. 'She has pretended to be my mother, and urged me to yield to the awful wishes of Captain Robinson. He has been trying to ruin me for a good while; but O, sirs, you have saved me!'

'There, old Bet, that sounds like truth, every word of it,' said Dick. 'Hand over the gold you have wrung from those you have ruined. By heavens hear me, and understand, when I say, Gold or the Tombs!'

'You are a cruel man,' she said, in a voice that told how deeply her dark soul was agitated.

'Not half so cruel and steeped in sin as you are,' replied Dick. 'Only five minutes; for we can wait no longer. Stir your stumps, or we shall ours.—You understand that.'

She started to go down stairs, and Dick followed close at her heels; for he was determined she should not make her escape. Having the advantage of her he was resolved to improve it. All descended to a parlor; but Dick stuck to her like a burr. At last she unlocked a desk and took out five sovereigns, and gave them to Dick.

'Try again, old revolver,' he said, holding the coins in his hand, and smiling. 'This is only a priming. Now give us a full charge.'

'I have no more,' she replied, locking her desk.

'Stop, don't lock that strong box yet,' he said. 'There's much more where this came from. Don't lock it; if you do, I have a tool that will soon wrench the lock off. Hand over a whole handful or your ill-gotten gold, or fare worse. By heavens, I mean what I say! No woman shall point a revolver to me unless she pays for it. The law would have justified me if I had blown out your wicked brains.—Come, quick!'

She handed out five more pieces; but he demanded more and threatened her still more severely. Finally he made her disgorge nearly three hundred dollars, when they departed. Dick was liberal, and gave the four men fifty dollars each, and then kept the remainder.

Mr. Hapgood and Fanny took a carriage and were soon conveyed to his house. The anxious wife was impatiently waiting the return of her husband, and when the carriage stopped before the house, she flew out, and Fanny was soon in her arms. They entered the house; but the feelings of husband, wife and the rescued girl, must be left to the reader to imagine. Their joy was great, and their cup of bliss running over.

It was nearly morning before Fanny had answered all the questions Mrs. Hapgood asked her. It was a most happy and joyous meeting. We must leave them and turn to some other scenes.

A sleepless night did Captain Robinson pass. His conscience was awakened, and his soul troubled. And yet he knew not the extent of his son's depravity.

Morning came, and poor Frank was excited and feverish. What with the liquor he had drank, the crime he had committed, and the loss of the money, produced a state of mind beyond what his physical constitution could bear.—He was in extreme trouble, insomuch that thoughts of suicide entered his soul; but he strove to drive them back. For some days he had drank freely, but managed to conceal it, in some good degree from his father. The negro servant attended upon him, and sympathized with him, but his nerves had received a terrible shock, and the light of reason seemed to grow dim in his mind; at least, so thought the negro. His father did not go to the chamber to see him that morning, because Ben told him he thought it would make him worse. He often called for liquor, but the negro gave him coffee.

In the forenoon the Captain walked out with a heavy heart to go to the bank, having promised money that day to a gentleman who had bargained with him for some stocks. On his way he met Mr. Hapgood who was coming to see him.

They met, and the Captain would have silently passed along if Mr. Hapgood had not spoken to him.

'I think, sir, you once spoke to me of revenge,' said Mr. Hapgood.

'I did, sir, and felt just as I spoke.' replied the Captain. 'I thought you used me ill and attempted to throw ridicule upon me.'

'And did not your conscience accuse you more severely than I did?' asked Mr. Hapgood. 'Remember, sir, that vengeance belongs to God and not to us worms of the dust. I believed then, and now know, sir, that you had it in your heart to ruin a young and innocent girl.'

'You know!' repeated the Captain. 'You believed and now know!'

'Yes, sir, I said that, and how does your conscience correspond with that truth?' asked Mr. Hapgood.

The Captain was silent, and Mr. Hapgood continued. 'That young girl was rescued from your power at midnight. She was found imprisoned in a house of ill fame, and you were to foot the bills. And have you now forgotten the lecture she gave you? How does your conscience answer that?'

'Rescued!' repeated the Captain, in a voice of trembling? 'Who has betrayed me?'

'God looketh on the heart, and your conscience needs no accuser,' Mr. Hapgood replied. 'You may yet have space for repentance. And may you improve it for the good of your soul, here and hereafter .'

Thus speaking, Mr. Hapgood passed on, leaving this wicked man to his own bitter reflections. And his reflections were indeed bitter.

Slowly, and with a heart full of trouble and a conscience flushing convictions into his soul, the Captain proceeded to the bank to negotiate his business. He drew a check for his money on deposit; but judge of his surprise when told by the Cashier that he had overdrawn two-thousand. When told what his son had done, he was thunderstruck, and sunk into a chair and wept like a child! Conviction was now at work, and how fearful at that moment was the vision of his past life!

CHAPTER XXII

CONCLUSION.

IT seemed that the old libertine's cup of misery was not yet full, and yet he had drank freely at the fountain.—After a lapse of a short time, the Captain rose, and left the bank to go, he knew not where. It seemed to him he had no home, and he felt like an outcast in the world. As he was slowly walking in Park Place he met Tom Breakshop, who had just come from Madame Sonati's, having learned from this vile woman all the circumstances connected with the rescue of Fanny from that sink of infamy and shame.

'Good morning Captain,' said Tom. 'The devil is to pay!'

'The devil must always be paid sooner or later by his followers,' replied the Captain.

'That girl was rescued last night, and Madame Sonati bled to the tune of some hundreds by that rascal Dick!' added Tom. 'And d——n her old soul she accused me of revealing the secret of where the girl was. I'll be revenged upon her for that! She said I was always absent when my services were most needed, and now refuses to pay me monthly wages for dancing attendance round her old rookery.'

'And didn't you reveal that secret?' asked the Captain, suspecting Tom had received a reward for such a breach of confidence.

'No mortal got any thing from my lips, I can swear,' answered Tom.—'Your negro servant talked with me about it and seemed to understand all the affair, and I supposed you had revealed it to him.'

'My negro servant!' repeated the Captain in great surprise. 'He's the last person to whom I should reveal such a secret. I never intimated a single word to him in connection with that affair, but on the contrary have been very cautious in keeping his eyes blinded to my true character.'

'Damn the cunning black rascal!' added Tom. 'He mistrusted you, and then pretended to me to know all about it for the very purpose of finding it out. He's a cunning black dog.'

'He is, indeed but an honest fellow as ever breathed,' had the Captain.—'I would to Heaven I were half as good as he is, and then I should not feel what I now feel.'

The Captain was in no suitable mood to hold converse with such a fellow, and passed on towards home. His emotions were exceedingly painful, and his conscience was fully awakened.—He began seriously to reflect upon himself as a father, and to believe that he was more in fault than his son, It began to appear to his awakened mind that all the troubles he then had to encounter were a just punishment for his own crimes.

He now fully believed that if he had been a better father he should have had a better son. With such views and feelings he sought his son. He found him in a very distracted state of mind. The fever run high, and the young man's reason was dethroned. When his father entered the room poor Frank shrieked and dazed wildly about. Delirium tremens had seized him and his sufferings were great.

'How long has he been so raving?' asked the father, speaking in a whisper to the negro.

'A short time, and I tink he hab dat terrible disease the drunkard dies with. I forget now what dey calls him,' replied Ben. 'I was just going for de doctor.'

'Go quickly,' said the master, gazing upon the wild, agitated countenance of his son.

The negro hurried away, leaving father and son alone; for the negro had told Jane she must not visit her brother at present.

'Yes, father, I did do it!' exclaimed Frank. 'And Tom Breakshop and another fellow won all the money! O, God! See! Ten thousand devils are creeping round the walls of the room. See! They come! keep them away. O, there, there, don't you see the flashing eyes. See! O, serpents! snakes. O, they come. Forked tongues. Fire coming out of their mouths! Keep them off. O, there, there!'

And the young man suddenly rose and would have leaped from the bed, if his father had not held him back by physical force.

Soon the physician and the negro came, and the father, overcome by his own emotions, left the room and retired to another, where he attempted to pray to that Power which he now believed was the only one that could save him or his son.

Yes, this wicked man was on his trembling knees, pleading for mercy. The arrows of conviction had sank deep into his soul. He prayed. Yes, this man humbly prayed for the first time in his life. O, how fearful was the array of his past sins before his soul's vision. They were like an army terrible with banners. But he prayed, fervently prayed that God would forgive him in that hour of his need. And who ever prayed fervently and sincerely and did not find forgiveness? But this penitent's cup of sorrow was not yet full. The ways of a kind Providence are past finding out.

The disease of the son baffled the physician's skill. The young man lingered and suffered but a few hours, and died!

And terrible was that death. It was, however, the legitimate result of the violation of Nature's Laws. Severe penalties are always attached to these Laws, and therefore let mortals beware how they violate them.

We draw the curtain over this scene, and turn to another less exciting but more joyous.

The next day, after the rescue of the innocent, the lovely and the resolute Fanny. Mr. Hapgood, his wife and the idolized girl were sitting in the parlor and conversing upon the events of the few past hours.

Mr. Hapgood had said not a word to his wife in relation to the small package he found in the lame woman's tin box at the time of her death; but he was anxious to do so at the earliest opportunity. Mrs. Hapgood was questioning Fanny about her past life and her age.

'The old woman who brought me up told me I was born on the fourth of July, and that next fourth of July I should be sixteen years old,' said the beautiful Fanny.

'Gracious heavens!' exclaimed Mrs. Hapgood, gazing anxiously into her husband's face. 'How remarkable.—What a coincidence. You know, dear husband, what I mean! No, no! It cannot be; and yet how strange the circumstances.'

'Yes, it can be, and is,' replied the husband, smiling, and looking at his wife's anxious countenance, at the same time, taking from his pocket the little package.

'What,' exclaimed the deeply moved wife. 'O, Heaven! How! Is it?—Read! Keep me in suspense not a moment longer.'

'Will you not read it, my dear?' he asked, presenting her the paper.

'No, no. Read quickly,' she replied, in trembling accents. 'I have not the power to read!'

He read in a clear, distinct tone of voice with a pleasant smile on his countenance, as follows:—

'To whom it may ever concern.—The child whom I have named Fanny Dumont, and left in the care of Mrs. Rudolf, is the daughter of Elizabeth Grant, a girl twenty-two years old, and of excellent character and sweet disposition. I am the father and love the mother as I do my own life. But temptation assailed me in this city of temptations, and to relieve my pecuniary embarrassments while on the eve of being married. I committed the crime of forgery. When that crime was perpetrated I hoped it would enable me to restore my lost credit and to furnish me with the means of forever concealing the criminal act from the world; but Fate ordered otherwise. My affairs were hopeless, and my wicked deed about to be exposed. I gathered up what money I could, took my child from the old nurse and left it with this poor, but I trust, honest and virtuous woman, together with five hundred dollars. The mother had not seen the child since it was a few days old. Why I did so God only knows; but I thought it would be better for the heart-stricken mother! That it may prove so is my earnest prayer. I have solemnly sworn Mrs. Rudolf not to open this sealed package until Fanny was arrived at the age of sixteen years. May God protect my child and prosper its mother! I sail for Europe this very day, and may never return.

'EDWIN MELVILLE.'

'My own, my long lost child!' exclaimed Mrs. Hapgood, embracing the trembling Fanny, and pressing her to her heaving bosom. 'God! I thank thee for watching over and protecting my child! Thou hearest the young ravens when they cry, and giveth them food. She is restored to a mother's arms!'

The excited mother could say no more; but sank exhausted upon a sofa, while Fanny's countenance beamed with extatic joy; and Mr. Hapgood gazed upon the scene with emotions that can find no human tongue or pen to express them.

At that moment Mrs. Melville entered the room. She had heard of Fanny's rescue and came to see her.

'Read, read this,' said Mr. Hapgood, handing the document to Mrs. Melville.

The good woman took and read it with inexpressible emotions.

'Edwin Melville was my husband's younger brother,' exclaimed this good widow, falling on Fanny and covering her lovely face with kisses. 'How mysterious are the ways of Providence, and yet how good and kind.'

We will not undertake the task of describing the emotions that interview occasioned, but turn to other matters connected with these chronicles of city life.

The winter passed and the spring opened.

Young Saunders, after passing his career for a few short months was overtaken and grappled by the iron hand of the law. He, too, had committed a forgery to a large amount, but was detected, convicted and imprisoned for a long term of years.

His proud spirit was broken, and he committed suicide by cutting his throat in his cell some few days after his imprisonment.

Tom Breakshop's quarrel with old Bet, as Dick Grabwell properly called her, grew more and more intensely exciting to both parties. And he shot her through the heart in her own house at the hour of midnight and attempted to make his escape; but the police surrounded him and a desperate fight ensued. During the fight Tom shot at and seriously wounded one of the officers, when he received a mortal wound and died in a few hours.

Captain Robinson, after the death and burial of his son, became a changed man and a good Christian, striving in works of charity and benevolence to atone for his past life.

In the course of the year Captain Robinson became the husband of the widow Melville, and no persons were more active in ministering to the wants of the poor than they were.

Their daughters were warmly attached to each other, and Fanny was their favorite companion, and became one of the most beautiful and accomplished belles of the city.

The Captain's faithful negro servant was the favorite of all, and Fanny and her mother felt as if they could not do enough for him. Money was showered upon him in such profusion that he became quite independent, and married a very beautiful mulatto girl and lived happily and in very respectable style.

Our Canadian friend and his beloved Clara did not return to New York, but after their marriage, they made a bridal tour to Canada West, and lived with his mother in the beautiful town of Belleville ville on the shore of the beautiful Bay of Quinto.

In the course of the following summer, a young gentleman, who was taking a pleasure tour in Canada called upon them. Mrs. Henderson, the young wife was greatly surprised at seeing him whom she at once recognized as the young Philadelphian who visited her at the hotel in the city of Brotherly Love.

'Be not surprised at this call,' he said, smiling, and bowing very courteously. 'I came to tender you the homage of a grateful heart. You will remember the lecture you gave me in my own native city. That was a sermon never to be forgotten. It struck the arrows of conviction deep in my heart; and through the goodness of God, I am a reformed man!'

'Then am I satisfied,' she replied. 'Heaven be praised for making me the instrument of your reformation. The time will come, I hope and trust, when a mere healthy tone of public sentiment will prevail—when the world shall believe that woman as well as man can rise from its degradation and become a useful member of society—when the erring of my sex shall not be crushed down by the weight of man's opinion, and scorned by that of their own!—Let public opinion fall upon both sexes alike, and then woman's rights will be respected.'

The young man listened with great attention to her remarks and fully endorsed the doctrine she so eloquently advocated. He remained awhile in her presence and wished he had such a wife. He went out into the world and became a zealous and eloquent advocate of woman's rights. Well has the immortal Bard of Avon said of a good wife,

'A loss of her.
That, like a jewel, has hung twenty years
About his neck, yet never lost her lustre;
Of her, that loves him with that excellence
That angels love good men with; even of her
That, when the greatest stroke of fortune falls,
Will bless the King.'

THE END.