“From there I went to the home of the friend in whose house I had met Mr. Winslow, then with that feeling of trust and confidence, I told her all; she blandly stated that she was sorry, but that I should have known better. Oh! that bitter sting, and from this woman, who could have taken me in her arms and heard my sobs, that act alone, I think, would have consoled me some; but no; she who could have replaced me upon the pedestal from which all women shine, said, ‘Well, run along now, I must dress for Mrs. ⸺’s reception. Maybe some day I will talk it all over with you.’ “‘But, oh, please hear me! just a little. Help me,’ I begged. “‘I will see; I heard of some one who wanted a good girl, and I will try to find out, for you see, Lillian, you could do housework.’ “Bah! ruined, turned into the street, scorned, too miserable to live, afraid to die. “I was not too good, nor too proud to work, but that was not what my heart yearned for; pity, love, sympathy, a kind look, a gentle touch would have done much to heal my troubled mind. I came back to Chicago. I went to Mr. Winslow’s cousin; she told me the cold, hard, cruel truth. I had been enticed to the city for the one purpose of gratifying the amorous desire of Mr. Winslow. The truth had long ago forced itself upon me, but the confession by the woman who had assisted in the plot made me desperate. “What to do? Where to go, were the questions. Home I had none; true friends were far away and unknown things to me. The lake! Oh, at last a friend, who could receive me in all my sorrow and shame, a refuge which never failed to take suffering humanity into its safe retreat, giving solace to all pain. Yes, I would write to my aunt and Jamie; I would confess to them what I was afraid to confront God with. My plans were all completed; I had one dollar to my name, enough to pay for a night’s lodging at some fairly respectable hotel. There I could write to them, and then when all was quiet, steal out to the pier and * * * then.” * * * * * “Four o’clock next morning I was ready. I stole out of the hotel, wended my way to the nearest place where I could walk far out on the timbers which projected into the moaning water. No hesitancy on my part; I deliberately tied the cord which I had brought around my skirts, let my hair down, so that the long plaits hung below my waist, then pressing the locket, (this locket) which contained my father’s miniature, to my lips, I leaped as far out as I could. “Down, down, below the gurgling waters, up to the surface, then down again, with just a faint dreamy view of the lights on Michigan avenue, then all was dark, all I could see was Jamie, as I felt myself being pulled along by some irresistible force. I only remember saying, ‘Good-bye, Jamie.’” * * * * * “‘Oh, I think she is alive yet, Capin’,’ was what I heard a voice say long before I was able to assure the speaker that he was correct.