“_Such_ a place!” as her mother had, weeping, said. Not a table, or chair, or bedstead, or article of furniture in it, of any description. On the mantle-piece stood a beer-bottle with a half burnt candle in its nose. A few broken, dirty dishes stood upon the shelf, and a quantity of filthy rags lay scattered round the floor. The grandmother was holding by the hand a sweet child of eight years, with large, bright eyes, and auburn hair (like poor Mary’s) falling about her neck. An older girl of twelve, with a sweet, Madonna face, that seemed to light up even _that_ wretched place with a beam of Heaven, stood near, bearing in her arms a babe of sixteen months, which was not so large as one of eight months should have been. Its little hands looked like bird’s claws, and its little bones seemed almost piercing the skin. The old lady went up to her daughter, saying, “Mary, dear, this is the gentleman who is willing to take you to his house, if you will try to be good.” “Get out of the room, you old hypocrite,” snarled the intoxicated woman, “or I’ll----(and she clutched a hatchet beside her)--I’ll show you! You are the worst old woman I ever knew, except the one you brought in here the other day, and she is a fiend outright. Talk to _me_ about being _good_!--ha--ha”--and she laughed an idiot laugh. “Mother,” said the eldest child, sweetly laying her little hand upon her arm,--“_dear_ mother, don’t, please don’t hurt grandmother. She is good and kind to us; she only wants to get you out of this bad place, where you will be treated kindly.” “Yes, dear mother,” chimed in the younger sister, bending her little curly head over her, “mother, you said once you _would_ go. Don’t keep us here any longer, mother. We are cold and hungry. Please get up and take us away; we are afraid to stay here, mother, dear.” “Yes, Mary,” said the old lady, handing her down a faded, ragged gown, “here is your dress; put it on, wont you!” Mary raised herself on the pile of rags on which she was lying, and pushing the eldest girl across the room, screamed out, “Get away, you impudent little thing! you are just like your old grandmother. I tell you _all_,” said she, raising herself on one elbow, and tossing back her auburn hair from her broad, white forehead, “I tell you all, I _never_ will go from here, _never_! I _love_ this place. So many fine people come here, and we have such good times. There is a gentleman who takes care of me. He brought me some candles, last night, and he says that I shan’t want for anything, if I will only get rid of these troublesome children--_my husband’s_ children.” And she hid her face in her hands and laughed convulsively. “You may have _them_,” she continued, “just as soon as you like--baby and all! but I never will go from this place. I _love_ it. A great many fine people come here to see me.”