“Oh, I guess you are a great deal,” said he, as he passed his hand down the woman’s bare arm, with a soft caress, from her shoulder to the hand that hung listlessly at her side. In spite of the man’s maudlin condition, his touch was soft and gentle; the stroke seemed to soothe the mind of the girl; tears sprang into her eyes as the man took her hand and patted it in a kindly manner; hope seemed to take root in her breast and the man, throwing off all assumption of intoxication, looked her squarely in the eyes and said: “Come, now, I know you have a story. The thrill which your soft hand sends through me tells me that you have known better things, that you have graced a throne more becoming to womanly instincts, with which your nature is so bountifully supplied.” “Don’t, oh please don’t talk like that,” cried the girl, “it—it—makes me so sad.” “Have you ever told your story,” asked the man, paying no attention to the now sobbing girl. “N—o—, but—I have wanted to, oh so much, for some time I shall die, and while I have sinned much, I want some one to know that I was reared right, and that even after I had fallen from the great white throne of purity I had some good thoughts, but I have always been afraid to tell any one especially since⸺” here the creature broke down entirely, moaning and writhing in bitter agony. “Since when?” asked the man, gently, as she seemed to get her grief partially under control. “Oh, since I have gotten so low.” “Come, now, you’re not so bad off, and besides you are going to tell me the truth, and I am going to believe you, for a woman never gets too low, even in her own estimation, to tell the truth when she refers to a beautiful past.” “Oh, yes, if it were all as you say, but then I think I will tell you,” said the girl, bravely.