"I care not," said Mary, "I told you I was desperate." "Desperate, my pretty love," said the woman; "a girl with beauty like yours should never be desperate; come with me." Mary stepped forward and struck her, so full and true that the woman reeled backwards, and stood whimpering and astonished. "Out! you false jade," said Mary; "you are one of those devils that Saxon told me of, who come whispering, and peering, and crowding behind those who are penniless and deserted; but I have faced you, and struck you, and I tell you to go back to your master, and say that I am not for him." The woman went crying and frightened down the street, thinking that she had been plying her infamous trade on a lunatic; but Mary sat down again and nursed the child. But the wind changed a little, and the rain began to beat in on her shelter; she arose, and went down the street to seek a new one. She found a deep arch, well sheltered, and, what was better, a lamp inside, so that she could sit on the stone step, and see her baby's face. Dainty quarters, truly! She went to take possession, and started back with a scream. What delusion was this? There, under the lamp, on the step, sat a woman, her own image, nursing a baby so like her own that she looked down at her bosom to see if it was safe. It must be a fancy of her own disordered brain; but no--for when she gathered up her courage, and walked towards it, a woman she knew well started up, and, laughing wildly, cried out, "Ha! ha! Mary Thornton." "Ellen Lee?" said Mary, aghast. "That's me, dear," replied the other; "you're welcome, my love, welcome to the cold stones, and wet streets, and to hunger and drunkenness, and evil words, and the abomination of desolation. That's what we all come to, my dear. Is that his child?" "Whose?" said Mary. "This is George Hawker's child." "Hush, my dear!" said the other; "we never mention his name in our society, you know. This is his too--a far finer one than yours. Cis Jewell had one of his too, a poor little rat of a thing that died, and now the minx is flaunting about the High-street every night, in her silks and her feathers as bold as brass. I hope you'll have nothing to say to her; you and I will keep house together. They are looking after me to put me in the madhouse. You'll come too, of course." "God have mercy on you, poor Nelly!" said Mary. "Exactly so, my dear," the poor lunatic replied. "Of course He will. But about him you know. You heard the terms of his bargain?" "What do you mean?" asked Mary. "Why, about him you know, G---- H----, Madge the witch's son. He sold himself to the deuce, my dear, on condition of ruining a poor girl every year. And he has kept his contract hitherto. If he don't, you know--come here, I want to whisper to you." The poor girl whispered rapidly in her ear; but Mary broke away from her and fled rapidly down the street, poor Ellen shouting after her, "Ha, ha! the parson's daughter too,--ha, ha!"