Unresolved whether to give vent to her passion, or make an effort to inspire his better nature, she stands a few moments, as if immersed in deep thought, then suddenly falls upon her knees at his feet, and implores him to save her this last step to her ruin. "Hear me, oh, hear me, and let your heart give out its pity for one who has only her virtue left her in this world;" she appeals to him with earnest voice, and eyes swimming in tears. "Save my father, for you have power. Give him his liberty, that I, his child, his only comfort in his old age, may make him happy. Yes! yes!--he will die where he is. Will you, can you--you have a heart--see me struggle against the rude buffets of an unthinking world! Will you not save me from the Poor-house--from the shame that awaits me with greedy clutches, and receive in return the blessing of a friendless woman! Oh!--you will, you will--release my father!--give him back to me and make me happy. Ah, ha!--I see, I see, you have feelings, better feelings--feelings that are not seared. You will have pity on me; you will forgive, relent--you cannot see a wretch suffer and not be moved to lighten her pain!" The calm, pensive expression that lights up her countenance is indeed enough to inspire the tender impulses of a heart in which every sense of generosity is not dried up. Her appeal, nevertheless, falls ineffectual. Mr. Keepum has no generous impulses to bestow upon beings so sensitive of their virtue. With him, it is a ware of very little value, inasmuch as the moral standard fixed by a better class of people is quite loose. He rises from his chair with an air of self-confidence, seizes her by the hand, and attempts to drag her upon his knee, saying, "you know I can and will make you a lady. Upon the honor of a gentleman, I love you--always have loved you; but what stands in the way, and is just enough to make any gentleman of my standing mad, is this here squeamishness--"