lured thither by harpies in search of new
supplies of human victims to repair the frightful waste perpetually
made, the region keeps up its dense population, and the work of
destroying human souls goes on. It is an awful thing to contemplate.
Thousands of men and women, boys and girls, once innocent as the
babes upon whom Christ laid his hand in blessing, are drawn into this
whirlpool of evil every year, and few come out except by the way of
prison or death.

It was toward this locality that Pinky Swett directed her feet, after
parting with Mrs. Bray. Darkness was beginning to settle down as she
turned off from one of the most populous streets, crowded at the time by
citizens on their way to quiet and comfortable homes, few if any of whom
had ever turned aside to look upon and get knowledge of the world or
crime and wretchedness so near at hand, but girdled in and concealed
from common observation.

Down a narrow street she turned from the great thoroughfare, walking
with quick steps, and shivering a little as the penetrating east wind
sent a chill of dampness through the thin shawl she drew closer and
closer about her shoulders. Nothing could be in stronger contrast than
the rows of handsome dwellings and stores that lined the streets through
which she had just passed, and the forlorn, rickety, unsightly and
tumble-down houses amid which she now found herself.

Pinky had gone only a little way when the sharp cries of a child cut the
air suddenly, the shrill, angry voice of a woman and the rapid fall of
lashes mingled with the cries. The child begged for mercy in tones of
agony, but the loud voice, uttering curses and imprecations, and the
cruel blows, ceased not. Pinky stopped and shivered. She felt the pain
of these blows, in her quickly-aroused sympathy, almost as much as
if they had been falling on her own person. Opposite to where she had
paused was a one-story frame house, or enclosed shed, as unsightly
without as a pig-pen, and almost as filthy within. It contained two
small rooms with very low ceilings. The only things in these rooms that
could be called furniture were an old bench, two chairs from which the
backs had been broken, a tin cup black with smoke and dirt, two or
three tin pans in the same condition, some broken crockery and an iron
skillet. Pinky stood still for a moment, shivering, as we have said. She
knew what the blows and the curses and the cries of pain meant; she had
heard them before. A d