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 lip mechanically with the pert smile of her vocation, but the smile was frozen ere it reached her lips, and the coarse words she would have spoken died into a murmur and a sob.  She sank down again upon the cushion, and bent her face low down upon her hands.

“Oh, Mary! is it you! is it you!  I pray heaven your mother be in her grave!”

She rose and escaped quickly from the room; but he followed her and checked her at the stairway.

“Let me speak with you, Mary.  No, not here; lead me to your room.”

He followed her up-stairs, and closing the door, sat beside her as she leaned upon the bed and buried her face in the pillow.

It was the child of his old nurse.  Upon the hill-sides of his native State they had played together when children, and now she lay there before him, with scarce enough of woman’s nature left to weep for her own misery.

“Mary, how is this?  Look up, child,” he said, taking her hand kindly.  “I had rather see you thus, bent low with sorrow, than bold and hard in guilt.  But yet look up and speak to me.  I will be your friend, you know.  Tell me, why are you thus?”

“Oh, Mr. Wayne, do not scold me, please don’t.  I was thinking of home and mother when you came and put your hand on my head.  Mother’s dead.”

“Well for her, poor woman.  But how came you thus?”

“I scarcely seem to know.  It seems to me a dream.  I married John, and he brought me to New York.  Then the war came, and he went and was killed.  And mother was dead, and I had no friends in the great city.  I could get no work, and I was starving, indeed I was, Mr. Wayne.  So a young man, who was very handsome, and rich, I think, for he gave me money and fine dresses, he promised me—­Oh, Mr. Wayne, I was very wrong and foolish, and I wish I could die, and be buried by my poor mother.”