For four days she had not tasted food. Her child was sick. She had _begged_ a few crumbs for him, but even _he_ had eaten nothing all day. Then the tempter came, and--why need I say it?--she sinned. Turn not away from her, O you, her sister, who have never known a want or felt a woe! Turn not away. It was not for herself; she would have died--gladly have died! It was for her sick, starving child that she did it. Could she, _should_ she have seen him STARVE? Some months after that, she noticed in the evening paper, among the arrivals at the Astor House, the name of John Hallet. That night she went to him. She was shown to his room, and rapping at the door, was asked to 'walk in.' She stepped inside and stood before him. He sprang from his seat, and told her to leave him. She begged him to hear her--for only one moment to hear her. He stamped on the floor in his rage, and told her again to go! She did not go, for she told him of the pit of infamy into which she had fallen, and she prayed him, as he hoped for heaven, as he loved his own child, to save her! Then, with terrible curses, he opened the door, laid his hands upon her, and--thrust her from the room! Why should I tell how, step by step, she went down; how want came upon her; how a terrible disease fastened its fangs on her vitals; how Death walked with her up and down Broadway in the gas-light; how, in her very hours of shame, there came to her visions of the innocent past--thoughts of what she MIGHT HAVE BEEN and of what SHE WAS? The mere recital of such misery harrows the very soul; and, O God! what must be the REALITY! As she finished the tale which, in broken sentences, with long pauses and many tears, she had given me, I rose from my seat, and pacing the room, while the hot tears ran from my eyes, I said; 'Rest easy, my poor girl! As sure as God lives, you shall be avenged. John Hallet shall feel the misery he has made you feel. I will pull him down--down so low, that the very beggars shall hoot at him in the streets!' 'Oh! no; do not harm him! Leave him to God. He may yet repent!' The long exertion had exhausted her. The desire to tell me her story had sustained her; but when she had finished, she sank rapidly. I felt of her pulse--it scarcely beat; I passed my hand up her arm--it was icy cold to the elbow! She was indeed dying. Giving her some of the cordial, I called her child. When I returned, she took each of us by the hand, and said to Franky: 'My child--your mother is going away--from you. Be a good boy--love this gentleman--he will take care of you!' Then to me she said: 'Be kind to him, sir. He is--a good child!' 'Have comfort, madam, he shall be my son. Kate will be a mother to him!' 'Bless you! bless her! A mother's blessing--will be on you both! The blessing of God--will be on you--and if the dead can come back--to comfort those they love--I will come back--and comfort _you_!'