“‘Later.—I have discovered you. My love is buried in sorrow; I have nothing to live for, no ambition, no soul, no heart. I have but one request, which is as follows: You will find enclosed negotiable papers to all the wealth which I possess. It is yours; the same as my life has been yours. I want you to take it and spend it in saving the blossoms of this earth. I have yet enough confidence in you to cause me to believe that if the circumstances were conducive to honor and purity that you would court the same with the ambition and zeal which is a part of your nature. I leave the method of restitution entirely in your hands; only asking you in closing to put forth your every effort to snatch the burning brands from the fiery furnace which is ever ready to engulf the innocent, unsophisticated representative of purity. “‘As ever yours, JAMIE.’ “Well,” said I, as I handed the letters back to the woman, “do you make much money here? I suppose you had a good time while Jamie’s cash lasted?” “Jamie’s cash is still lasting,” said she. “You don’t mean to tell me that you have the heart to support this place as a house of ill-repute by spending poor Jamie’s money in that way?” “Bless your heart, no. I own this property, a monument to Jamie’s pure devotion and good intentions. It not only serves to remind me of where I last looked upon him alive, thereby making the associations more pleasant, but also keeps fresh in my mind the night that I leaped in the darkness and landed into the mire of debauchery.” “Do your girls know your story?” “In part, yes.” “Do they enjoy the existence of soiled doves?” “But, my dear sir, they are not soiled doves; they are brands which I have snatched from the burning.” “Then this is not a house of⸺” “No, sir! This is an harbor of restitution, where souls may be anchored to hope, where hope fills the heart with a longing for better and purer things; a home where I am trying to atone for my own misdeeds.” TALE EIGHT. THE VICTIM OF A DRUG. “Blank the mind, sad the heart, Supple the form, sweet the face; Pure the soul, sold on the mart, To suffer ever in vile disgrace. “Neither bended knees, Pure hands held out, Sad sighs, deep groans, nor Silvery-shedding tears, Could penetrate the uncompassionate shout That, in spite of all, fell on her bloodless ears.” “I am sorry,” said the girl, “that you have concluded to abandon the detective business, for I am sure that you accomplished much good while thus engaged.”