Nannette, when she learned the facts, was furious. She would have gone in and torn her heart out. She said she never did have anything to do with a married man, if she knew it. George had lied to her, and never should see her but once again--once, to get her blessing. Athalia was calm. She sat down a few minutes, to recover from this last stab in the heart, and then said she would look once more and then go home. She did look, and saw her husband locked in the arms of that red-headed fury. Then she went home; she did not go to bed; she worked all night putting her things in order. Next day, at ten o'clock, a red flag was fluttering at her window, and while Walter and his mistress were going down the Bay, her furniture was "going, going, gone," to the highest bidder. At sundown she was homeless, friendless, worse than husbandless, alone, in the streets of New York! CHAPTER XI. LIFE AT THE FIVE POINTS. MADALINA, THE RAG-PICKER'S DAUGHTER. "Youth is bought more oft, than begged or borrowed." Some wounds do never heal. Although all my scenes are connected, and bear some relation one to the other, yet they are not continuous. Like the Panorama of Niagara, we must go back, cross over, look up, look down, first from this point of view, then from that, to see all the scenes of that wonder of wonders. So here, where a mighty torrent rushes on, sweeping a multitude down the great cascade, we have to look at scene after scene, before we can join them all together into one panoramic view. Our scenes, too, are as real and life-like as those. Sometimes a tree here, a flower there, then a little spray, then a cloud, or the natural color, a little heightened to give effect, and make the picture more vivid; but the rocks and rushing torrent, the real foundation of the picture, are all as nature made them. So it is with my present panoramic view of "Life Scenes in New York." Again I shift the scene. Still you will find characters that you have met before, will meet again. It is a tale of sorrow, but a tale of truth. A little girl was weeping there, Pearl drops of bitter tears, And hope with her was sleeping where She spent her youthful years; Her useless life was fleeing fast, Her only school the street; The future, gloomy shadows cast, Where e'er she set her feet. Her ev'ry day had one sad end, Her ev'ry night the same; Or sick, or well, she had no friend, 'Twere worthy of that name. A mother gave this child her birth, Or else she had not been; But Judas like that mother's worth-- She sold her child to sin! For gold she gave her child to sin, For gold her child betray'd; What gold would you, dear mother, win, Your own to thus degrade? What gold would you to others give, From sin such others save? Though gold is good to those who live, 'Tis useless in the grave.