“Good evening,” said a woman to me one night as I was going to the Parliament buildings. The voice was harsh and hoarse. She passed as close to me as possible, but her tone implied that she would not be surprised if she got no answer. I was not in a hurry and I stopped. “Do you want to see me?” I said. She exhibited some signs of fear now. Probably she thought I was one of the brigade of the famous police mashers. “No, I guess not,” was the answer, as she peered inquiringly at me. “I was feeling lonesome and I just passed the time o’ day.” “Feeling lonesome, eh; what makes you lonesome?” “I’m lonesome because my fellah doesn’t come along.” “Don’t you feel cold?” “A little chilly; but I know where we can be warm.” Ghastly humor! The little laugh with which it was accompanied raised A FIT OF COUGHING, which she vainly tried to control. It shook her shivering frame beneath the flimsy rags until she staggered on the sidewalk. After the paroxysm had subsided I said, “That’s a bad cough you have. Have you had it long?” “Oh, no; I am as strong and good as ever I was. I got a little cold the other night,” she said, as she placed her hand upon her thin breast in a vain endeavor to check another outburst. If she had only known. That cough would prove a better extractor of coin from men’s pockets than the disgusting arts of her wretched trade. Her physical frailties would appeal more to men’s hearts than her withered and sickening leer. After some further conversation, which need not be repeated, I said: “Cease being a curse to men, and a curse to yourself! Before you die, repent, and make peace with your Maker, whose image you disgrace.” She looked wonderingly for a moment, then cast her eyes to the earth. “My God, sir, I must have a place to sleep to-night. If I sleep out another night it’ll kill me.” If all the men and women of this land could have heard the despair in that woman’s voice! A thousand maxims on virtue, a thousand sermons on sin could not produce the effect of these words wailed out in the night. This is the end of the “lark”—traversing the dismal streets, hawking about the very jewel of womanhood for the price of a ragged quilt and a covering from the skies. The charity of a stranger gave her a bed for that night and for other nights. There came a night when she didn’t, and in the morning a group of laborers stood looking at a form huddled close against a fence. Her nails were full of sand, and the torn turf told the story of her agony as the purple blood from her lungs had gushed in great clots from her lips. Her face was pinched and drawn and the eyes stared awfully. The blood had flowed down her cheek and mingled amid the strands of her hair. A paragraph in the papers next day told that “the Mayor yesterday granted an order for the burial of the poor woman found on Garrison street.” She had enacted the part chosen by her in life. She had been born and had found a grave. THE END. Transcriber’s Note