have a romance and may be dreaming at this moment of some sweet voiced
Italian maiden.

Later in the day all the fashionable world is astir. Elegant carriages
with gaily dressed occupants are dashing along. There is a carriage with
the paint scarcely yet dry and seated within is a red-faced vulgar
looking woman, the carriage, the horses, the woman, all painfully--_new_.
At the same time hurrying along in shabby dress and mean attire is a
fragile delicate woman whose garb shows evidences of much mending and
patient darning, but the shabby dress cannot hide the fact that here is
a _lady_, as with easy grace she moves down the street.

The afternoon is somewhat advanced and the occasional glimpses which we
get of the flower girl show that her basket has been replenished but she
does not move quite so quickly as in the morning. Her limbs are getting
weary, and there is a pathetic little note in her voice now as she
offers her flowers for sale.

But see! on the bridge is the figure of a woman. No need to hear her
history, the face tells its own story of sin and misery. She is looking
down at the river which flows sluggishly on; down perhaps at her own
reflection in the water, down perhaps deeper still into her own soul.
The face is hardened and set and there is scarcely a trace of womanly
likeness left. A life of sin and shame has almost obliterated all that
is good in her nature, almost I say, for no one, no matter how low or
degraded, can be wholly bad. But here it is difficult to discern one
soft look, as she leans wearily over the railing of the bridge--a
silent, sad, sin-stained creature. Soon there is a sound of wheels and
gay laughter and a carriage rolls by, and there can be no mistaking the
nature and errand of the occupants. A young girl, with sweet, pure face,