aid the gentleman; and taking a gold coin from his pocket, he
gave it to Nance, who, stooping down, secreted it in her stocking; then
she noiselessly opened the front door and left the house, singing in a
hoarse voice, as she sped on her way towards Ann street, (where she
lived,) these barbarous words:--

"The lamb to the wolf is sold, sold, sold;
No more she'll return to her fold, fold, fold--
And Sow Nance will dare another to snare,
And the wolf shall have her for gold, gold, gold!"

The gentleman (I use the word _ironically_, reader,) re-entered the
parlor, advanced to where Fanny was seated, and laying his heavy hand
upon the young girl's shoulder, glued his polluted lips to her pure
cheek. She sprang from his profaning grasp with a cry of terror, and
fled towards the door--it was _locked_! The gentleman laughed, and
said--

"No, no, my pretty bird, you cannot escape from your cage so easily; and
why should you wish to? Your cage shall have golden wires, and you shall
be fed on delicacies, my little flutterer--so smooth the feathers of
your bright wings, my dear, and sing your sweetest notes!"

Fanny burst into tears, and fell on her knees before the old
libertine.--Young and innocent as she was, a dark suspicion of his
purpose came like a shadow over her soul, and she cried in piteous
accents--

"Pray, good sir, let me go home to my poor grandfather and my little
brother--they will be expecting me, and will feel worried at my absence.
Surely, sir, you will not have the heart to harm me--I am but a poor
fruit girl, without father or mother. Pray let me go, sir."

That appeal, made touching by the youth and innocence of the speaker,
and by her profound distress, might have melted a heart of iron--but it
moved not the stony heart of the old villain, and he looked upon her
with his cold, hard eyes, and his disgusting smile, as he said--

"Your tears make you doubly interesting, my sweet child. I am afraid
that your poor grandfather and your little brother, as you call them,
will be obliged to wait a long while for your return, let them worry
ever so much at your absence. You say truly that I have not the heart to
harm you, a poor fruit girl,--no, I will make a lady of you; and as you
have, you say, neither father nor mother, I will supply their place, my
pretty dear, and be your _lover_ into the bargain. Those coarse garments
shall be changed for silks and satins,--that shining hair shall be ma