The furnishings of the hall had a shabby-genteel look, till we reached the basement stairs, when every thing became bare, and dark, and dirty. The woman led the way down, and opened the door of a front-room--the only one on the floor, the rest of the space being open, and occupied as a cellar. This room had a forlorn, cheerless appearance. Its front wall was of the naked brick, through which the moisture had crept, dotting it every here and there with large water-stains and blotches of mold. Its other sides were of rough boards, placed upright, and partially covered with a dirty, ragged paper. The floor was of wide, unpainted plank. A huge chimney-stack protruded some three feet into the room, and in it was a hole which admitted the pipe of a rusty air-tight stove that gave out just enough heat to take the chill edge off the damp, heavy atmosphere. This stove, a small stand resting against the wall, a broken-backed chair, and a low, narrow bed covered with a ragged patch-work counterpane, were the only furniture of the apartment. And that room was the home of two human beings. 'How do you feel to-night, Fanny?' asked the woman, as she approached the low bed in the corner. There was a reply, but it was too faint for me to hear. 'Here, mamma,' said the little boy, taking me by the hand and leading me to the bedside, 'here's a good gentleman who's come to see you. He's _very_ good, mamma; he's given me a whole dollar, and got you lots of things at the store; oh! lots of things!' and the little fellow threw his arms around his mother's neck, and kissed her again and again in his joy. The mother turned her eye upon me--such an eye! It seemed a black flame. And her face--so pale, so wan, so woe-begone, and yet so sweetly, strangely, beautiful--seemed that of some fallen angel, who, after long ages of torment, had been purified, and fitted again for heaven! And it was so. She had suffered all the woe, she had wept for all the sin, and then she stood white and pure before the everlasting gates which were opening to let her in! She reached me her thin, weak hand, and in a low voice, said: 'I thank you, sir.' 'You are welcome, madam. You are very sick; it hurts you to speak?' She nodded slightly, but said nothing. I turned to the woman who had admitted me, and in a very low tone said: 'I never saw a person die; is she not dying?' 'No, sir, I guess not. She's seemed so for a good many days.' 'Has she had a physician?' 'Not for nigh a month. A doctor come once or twice, but he said it wan't no use--he couldn't help her.' 'But she should have help at once. Have you any one you can send?' 'Oh! yes; I kin manage that. What doctor will you have?' I wrote on a piece of paper the name of an acquaintance--a skillful and experienced physician, who lived not far off--and gave it to her. 'And can't you make her a cup of tea, and a little chicken-broth? She has had nothing all day.'