Catharine brightened with the idea. A band of benevolent women, with abundant means and gentle compassion, ready for poor wanderers like her. It promised to be an oasis in the desert of her life. In every one of those women she imagined an angel of mercy ready to receive and comfort her. It seemed a great blessing that so much benevolence could be concentrated at one point, harvesting year after year for the good of humanity. Yes! she would apply to this society; if destitution and misery was a claim, where could a better right than hers be found? These angel-women would give her employment, they would point out some way of usefulness that she could pursue in peace. Mary Margaret gave up her day’s work, and accompanied Catharine to the home of benevolence. It would have done your heart good to hear those unsophisticated creatures congratulating each other that so much good yet existed in the world, and that women could be found willing to devote their fortunes and precious time to the helpless and the unfortunate. “Of course,” said Mary Margaret, “they’ll see the whole truth in yer innocent eyes at once, and all ye’ll have to do ’ill be just to hold out yer hand and take the money that their blissed hearts ’ill be jumpen to give. I shouldn’t wonder now,” continued the good woman, warming with her subject, “if one of the ladies should insist on takin’ ye into her own house and makin’ a lady on ye entirely.” Catharine smiled. There was something so hopeful in her companion’s voice, that she could not help yielding to its influence, though her heart was very heavy at the thought of leaving the poor orphan child, who had woven itself so closely around her wounded affections. At length their walk terminated. Mary Margaret rang, with no abatement of confidence, at the door of a large house, occupied by one of the principal officers of a society abundantly endowed by the trusting charity of many Christian women—generous, noble women, who, like our two friends, fancied that an institution like this could only be guarded by angels on earth, long-suffering, self-sacrificing angels, whose holy mission common mortals must not dare to investigate, much less condemn. The door was opened by a woman, who received them with an air peculiar to those who have been inmates of our penitentiaries. Her manner was subdued into a sleek, unnatural quietness, more revolting than her original audacity would have been. “The lady-directress was within,” she said, “but engaged just then. They could sit down in the hall and wait, if they liked, or come again.” There was something about the atmosphere of the house that chilled Catharine to the soul, and even Mary Margaret, whose faith in humanity would have extracted sunbeams from a snow-drift, felt anxious and depressed.