hrown off her wings to illustrate the uncertainty of
fortune.

Course follows course, of viands the most delicious, and sumptuously
served. The wine cup now flows freely, the walls reecho the coarse jokes
and coarser laughs of the banqueters, and leaden eyelids, languid faces,
and reeling brains, mark the closing scene. Such is the gorgeous vice we
worship, such the revelries we sanction, such the insidious debaucheries
we shield with the mantle of our laws--laws made for the accommodation
of the rich, for the punishment only of the poor. And a thousand poor in
our midst suffer for bread while justice sleeps.

Midnight is upon the banqueters, the music strikes up a last march, the
staggering company retire to the stifled air of resplendent chambers.
The old hostess contemplates herself as a princess, and seriously
believes an alliance with Grouski would not be the strangest thing in
the world. There is, however, one among the banqueters who seems to have
something deeper at heart than the transitory offerings on the
table--one whose countenance at times assumes a thoughtfulness
singularly at variance with those around her. It is Anna Bonard.

Only to-day did George Mullholland reveal to her the almost hopeless
condition of poor Tom Swiggs, still confined in the prison, with
criminals for associates, and starving. She had met Tom when fortune was
less ruthless; he had twice befriended her while in New York. Moved by
that sympathy for the suffering which is ever the purest offspring of
woman's heart, no matter how low her condition, she resolved not to rest
until she had devised the means of his release. Her influence over the
subtle-minded old Judge she well knew, nor was she ignorant of the
relations existing between him and the accommodation man.

On the conclusion of the feast she invites them to her chamber. They are
not slow to accept the invitation. "Be seated, gentlemen, be seated,"
she says, preserving a calmness of manner not congenial to the feelings
of either of her guests. She places chairs for them at the round table,
upon the marble top of which an inlaid portfolio lies open.

"Rather conventional," stammers Mr. Snivel, touching the Judge
significantly on the arm, as they take seats. Mr. Snivel is fond of good
wine, and good wine has so mellowed his constitution that he is obliged
to seek support for his head in his hands.

"I'd like a little light on this 'ere plot. Peers thar's somethin' a
foot," re