Nevertheless, the resolution of a helpless female does not protect her from the insults of heartless men.  She returns home to find that Mother Rumor, with her thousand tongues, is circulating all kinds of evil reports about her.  It is even asserted that she has become an abandoned woman, and is the occupant of a house of doubtful repute.  And this, instead of enlisting the sympathies of some kind heart, rather increases the prejudice and coldness of those upon whom she has depended for work.  It is seldom the story of suffering innocence finds listeners.  The sufferer is too frequently required to qualify in crime, before she becomes an object of sympathy.

She returns, one day, some work just finished for one of our high old families, the lady of which makes it a boast that she is always engaged in “laudable pursuits of a humane kind.”  The lady sends her servant to the door with the pittance due, and begs to say she is sorry to hear of the life Miss McArthur is leading, and requests she will not show herself at the house again.  Mortified in her feelings, Maria begs an interview; but the servant soon returns an answer that her Missus cannot descend to anything of the kind.  Our high old families despise working people, and wall themselves up against the poor, whose virtue they regard as an exceedingly cheap commodity.  Our high old families choose rather to charge guilt, and deny the right to prove innocence.

With the four shillings, Maria, weeping, turns from the door, procures some bread and coffee, and wends her way to the old prison.  But the chords of her resolution are shaken, the cold repulse has gone like poison to her heart.  The ray of joy that was lighting up her future, seems passing away; whilst fainter and fainter comes the hope of once more greeting her lover.  She sees vice pampered by the rich, and poor virtue begging at their doors.  She sees a price set upon her own ruin; she sees men in high places waiting with eager passion the moment when the thread of her resolution will give out.  The cloud of her night does, indeed, seem darkening again.

But she gains the prison, and falters as she enters the cell where the old Antiquary, his brow furrowed deep of age, sleeps calmly upon his cot.  Near his hand, which he has raised over his head, lays a letter, with the envelope broken.  Maria’s quick eye flashes over the superscription, and recognizes in it the hand of Tom Swiggs.  A transport of joy fills her bosom with emotions she has no power to constrain.  She trembles from head to foot; fancies mingled with joys and fears crowd rapidly upon her thoughts.  She grasps it with feelings frantic of joy, and holds it in her shaking hand; the shock has nigh overcome her.  The hope in which she has so long found comfort and strength-that has so long buoyed her up, and carried her safely through trials, has truly been her beacon light.  “Truly,” she says within herself, “the dawn of my morning is brightening now.”  She opens the envelope, and finds a letter enclosed to her.  “Oh! yes, yes, yes! it is him-it is from him!” she stammers, in the exuberance of her wild joy.  And now the words, “You are richer than me,” flash through her thoughts with revealed significance.