say it?--she sinned. Turn not
away from her, O you, her sister, who have never known a want or felt a
woe! Turn not away. It was not for herself; she would have died--gladly
have died! It was for her sick, starving child that she did it. Could
she, _should_ she have seen him STARVE?

Some months after that, she noticed in the evening paper, among the
arrivals at the Astor House, the name of John Hallet. That night she
went to him. She was shown to his room, and rapping at the door, was
asked to 'walk in.' She stepped inside and stood before him. He sprang
from his seat, and told her to leave him. She begged him to hear
her--for only one moment to hear her. He stamped on the floor in his
rage, and told her again to go! She did not go, for she told him of the
pit of infamy into which she had fallen, and she prayed him, as he hoped
for heaven, as he loved his own child, to save her! Then, with terrible
curses, he opened the door, laid his hands upon her, and--thrust her
from the room!

Why should I tell how, step by step, she went down; how want came upon
her; how a terrible disease fastened its fangs on her vitals; how Death
walked with her up and down Broadway in the gas-light; how, in her very
hours of shame, there came to her visions of the innocent
past--thoughts of what she MIGHT HAVE BEEN and of what SHE WAS? The mere
recital of such misery harrows the very soul; and, O God! what must be
the REALITY!

As she finished the tale which, in broken sentences, with long pauses
and many tears, she had given me, I rose from my seat, and pacing the
room, while the hot tears ran from my eyes, I said; 'Rest easy, my poor
girl! As sure as God lives, you shall be avenged. John Hallet shall feel
the misery he has made you feel. I will pull him down--down so low, that
the very beggars shall hoot at him in the streets!'

'Oh! no; do not harm him! Leave him to God. He may yet repent!'

The long exertion had exhausted her. The desire to tell me her story had
sustained her; but when she had finished, she sank rapidly. I felt of
her pulse--it scarcely beat; I passed my hand up her arm--it was icy
cold to the elbow! She was indeed dying. Giving her some of the cordial,
I called her child.

When I returned, she took each of us by the hand, and said to Franky:
'My child--your mother is going away--from you. Be a good boy--love this
gentleman--he will take care of you!' Then to me she said: 'Be kind to
him, sir. He is--a good child!'