in a loftier and purer atmosphere.

"Poor, but virtuous--virtue ennobles the poor. Once gone, the world
never gives it back!" she muses, and is awakened from her reverie by a
sweet, sympathizing voice, whispering in her ear. "Woman! you are in
trouble,--linger no longer here, or you will fall into the hands of your
enemies." She looks up, and there stands at her side a young female,
whose beauty the angels might envy. The figure came upon her so suddenly
that she hesitates for a reply to the admonition.

"Take this, it will do something toward relieving your wants (do not
open it now), and with this (she places a stiletto in her hand) you can
strike down the one who attempts your virtue. Nay, remember that while
you cling to that, you are safe--lose it, and you are gone forever. Your
troubles will soon end; mine are for a life-time. Yours find a
relaxation in your innocence; mine is seared into my heart with my own
shame. It is guilt--shame! that infuses into the heart that poison, for
which years of rectitude afford no antidote. Go quickly--get from this
lone place! You are richer than me." She slips something into Maria's
hand, and suddenly disappears.

Maria rises from her seat, intending to follow the stranger, but she is
out of sight. Who can this mysterious messenger, this beautiful stranger
be? Maria muses. A thought flashes across her mind; it is she who sought
our house at midnight, when my father revealed her dark future! "Yes,"
she says to herself, "it is the same lovely face; how oft it has flitted
in my fancy!"

She reaches her home only to find its doors closed against her. A
ruthless landlord has taken her all, and forced her into the street.

You may shut out the sterner sex without involving character or inviting
insult; but with woman the case is very different. However pure her
character, to turn her into the street, is to subject her to a stigma,
if not to fasten upon her a disgrace. You may paint, in your
imagination, the picture of a woman in distress, but you can know little
of the heart-achings of the sufferer. The surface only reflects the
faint gleams, standing out here and there like the lesser objects upon a
dark canvas.

Maria turns reluctantly from that home of so many happy associations, to
wander about the streets and by-ways of the city. The houses of the rich
seem frowning upon her; her timid nature tells her they have no doors
open to her. The haunts of the poor, at this moment,