CHAPTER XIII.


Arthur heaved an involuntary sigh, as he gazed upon those sad wrecks of
womanhood, striving to harden their sense of degradation by its impudent
display. But an expression of bewildered and sorrowful surprise suddenly
overspread his countenance. Seated alone upon a cushioned stool, at the
chimney-corner, was a young woman, her elbows resting upon her knees,
and her face bent thoughtfully upon her palms. She was apparently lost
in thought to all around her. She was thinking--of what? Perhaps of the
green fields where she played in childhood; perhaps of her days of
innocence; perhaps of the mother at whose feet she had once knelt in
prayer. But she was far away, in thought, from that scene of infamy of
which she was a part; for, in the glare of the gaslight, a tear
struggled through her eyelashes, and glittered like a ray from heaven
piercing the glooms of hell.

Arthur walked to her, and placed his hand softly upon her yellow hair.

"Oh, Mary!" he murmured, in a tone of gentle sorrow, that sounded
strangely amid the discordant merriment that filled the room.

She looked up, at his touch, but when his voice fell upon her ear, she
arose suddenly and stood before him like one struck dumb betwixt
humiliation and wonder. The angel had not yet fled that bosom, for the
blush of shame glowed through the chalk upon her brow and outcrimsoned
the paint upon her cheek. As it passed away, she would have wreathed her