A few minutes pass, and the woman seems to revive and brighten up.  Mine host has set a light on the chair, at the side of the cot, and left her alone with the stranger.  Slowly she opens her eyes, and with increasing anxiety sets them full upon him.  Their recognition is mutual.  “Madame Flamingo!” ejaculates the man, grasping her hand.

“Tom Swiggs!” exclaims the woman, burying her face for a second, then pressing his hand to her lips, and kissing it with the fondness of a child, as her eyes swim in tears.  “How strange to find you thus—­” continues Tom, for truly it is he who sits by the forlorn woman.

“More strange,” mutters the woman, shaking her head sorrowfully, “that I should be brought to this terrible end.  I am dying-I cannot last long-the fever has left me only to die a neglected wretch.  Hear me-hear me, while I tell you the tale of my troubles, that others may take warning.  And may God give me strength.  And you,—­if I have wronged you, forgive me-it is all I can ask in this world.”  Here Tom administers another draught of warm brandy and water, the influence of which is soon perceptible in the regaining strength of the patient.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

A story with many counterparts.

A very common story is this of Madame Flamingo’s troubles.  It has counterparts enough, and though they may be traced to a class of society less notorious than that with which she moved, are generally kept in the dark chamber of hidden thoughts.  We are indeed fast gaining an unenviable fame for snobbery, for affecting to be what we never can be, and for our sad imitation of foreign flunkydom, which, finding us rivals in the realm of its tinsil, begins to button up its coat and look contemptuously at us over the left shoulder.  If, albeit, the result of that passion for titles and plush (things which the empty-headed of the old world would seem to have consigned to the empty-headed of the new), which has of late so singularly discovered itself among our “best-known families,” could be told, it would unfold many a tale of misery and betrayal.  Pardon this digression, generous reader, and proceed with us to the story of Madame Flamingo.

“And now,” says the forlorn woman, in a faint, hollow voice, “when my ambition seemed served-I was ambitious, perhaps vain-I found myself the victim of an intrigue.  I ask forgiveness of Him who only can forgive the wicked; but how can I expect to gain it?” She presses Tom’s hand, and pauses for a second.  “Yes, I was ambitious,” she continues, “and there was something I wanted.  I had money enough to live in comfort, but the thought that it was got of vice and the ruin of others, weighed me down.  I wanted the respect of the world.  To die a forgotten wretch; to have the grave close over me, and if remembered at all, only with execration, caused me many a dark thought.”  Here she struggles to suppress her emotions.  “I sought to change my condition; that, you see, has brought me here.  I married one to whom I intrusted my all, in whose rank, as represented to me by Mr. Snivel, and confirmed by his friend, the Judge, I confided.  I hoped to move with him to a foreign country, where the past would all be wiped out, and where the associations of respectable society would be the reward of future virtue.