What else have I got to live for? What lower hole can I sink to? Me, a mother. A mother! Mother of that shameless girl, do you see her, there in that bed, before her mother's eyes?" "Yes, and a pretty looking, bright-eyed girl she is." "Bright-eyed. Yes, bright-eyed. I would to Heaven she had none--that she had been born blind. Her bright eyes have been her ruin--a curse to her and the mother that bore her--they are a curse to any poor girl among such villains as you are. Ye are men--how many hearts have you broken?--withered, trampled on?--there, go, go. I hate the sight of all men." "Who is this man I see with your daughter; is he her husband?" "Husband! husband! Do the like of her get husbands? Where is my husband?" "We cannot tell, can you?" "Tell! who can tell where a man is that died drunk--died--murdered in your man-killing city prison, and the priest not there to give him absolution. What had he done? What crime? Drank rum that you licensed him to sell--beat me because I drank too. What next? Next come your dirty police--the biggest scoundrels in the city--mad at my husband because he would not 'touch their palms,' and drag him to the Tombs--a right name--good name--true name--Tombs indeed--a tomb to my husband." "Did he die there?" "No! he was murdered there. Look here. Can you read? Yes, yes, I know ye can. So can I. Do you see that account of prisoners dying by suffocation--poisoned by carbonic acid gas--there, read it,"--and she thrust a crumpled paper before us--"read how ye reform drunkards--shut them up in prison cells, and in spite of their prayers, and groans, and dying cries for air, ye let them die. Are ye not murderers? Do you see that name? That is--that was my husband. Ha, ha, ha! Now, what is he, where is he? Don't answer--I know your answer; but if he is in hell, who sent him there? Who, who, who?" And she sank down upon one of the pallets which were spread over the floor, in a paroxysm of wild, delirious grief and rage, speechless as her dying boy, lying unheeded and unheeding, by her side. What could we do? Nothing here; much elsewhere; and we looked up and registered a vow, that much as she hated us for what we had not done, yet had permitted our fellows to do without crying out against them, that she should be avenged. If we could do nothing here--if we could not pull down the sturdy oak by taking hold of its topmost branches, yet, although its mighty strength defies our weak efforts thus applied, we can and will dig around its roots--we will take away the life-sustaining earth--and that strong tree shall be made to feel our power--it shall wither, dry up, and die, and time shall rot down its strong trunk, and the place that once knew it, shall know it no more.