There is a row of dens all along upon the east side of that street, full of those whom hope has forsaken, and misery has in her household. Above ground, below ground, in cellar or garret, back room or front, black and white, see how they swarm at door and window, in hall and stairway, and out upon the sidewalk, all day in idleness, all night in mischief, crime, and sin. Elbow your way along among the standing, and step over the prostrate drunken or sleeping women and children along the side-walk. Stop here--here is a sort of hole-in-the-ground entrance to a long, dark, narrow alley, let us enter. "No, no, not there," you will exclaim. "Surely human beings cannot live there?" Yes, they do. That girl has just gone down there, and we will follow. "Better not go there," says a young urchin in the crowd; "a man was stabbed down there last night." Encouraging; but we enter, and grope along about a hundred feet, and a door opens on the right, the girl we have followed darts out, up like a cat, over a high fence, on to a roof, up that, into a garret window, with a wild laugh and ringing words, "You didn't do it this time, you old Protestant thief, did you? You want to catch me, to send me to 'the Island.' I know you, you old missionary villain you. I heard Father Phelan tell what you want to do with the poor folks at the Points; you want to turn them out of house and home, and build up your grand houses, and make them all go to hear you preach your lies; you do, you old heretic, but you didn't catch me. I'll plague you again to-morrow." We entered her home--the home that the missionary was trying to turn her out of. Can it be possible that human nature can cling to such a home, and refuse to be turned out, or occupy a better one. The room is one of a "row," along the narrow dark corridor we entered, half sunken below the ground, with another just such another row overhead, each ten or twelve feet square, with a door and one little window upon this narrow alley which is the only yard; at the end of which there is a contagion-breeding temple of Cloacina, common to all. In "the house" that we enter, a man lies helplessly drunk upon a dirty rug on the floor; a woman, too much overcome to rise, sits propped up in one corner. There is altogether, perhaps, fifty cents worth of furniture and clothing in the room. And this is the loved home of one of the smartest, brightest, most intelligent little girls in this God-forsaken neighborhood. The missionary made known his errand and was told that he might do anything he pleased with the girl, if he would catch her and tame her. "For," said her mother, "what do we want with her at home--_at home_!--She is never here, only to sleep." Only to sleep! Where did she sleep? On the damp, bare floor, of course, where else could she sleep in that home? The next morning various devices were contrived to catch her, to force her into a better home. All failed. When did force ever succeed with one of her sex?