Rose found the new quarters to which Captain Lucas had directed her, very comfortable. Her French landlady seemed altogether too busy, attending to her domestic matters, and nursing her poodle, to trouble herself about Rose's private affairs. This of itself was an infinite relief, for she had learned to shrink from the scrutiny of strangers. Her apartment was furnished neatly, and Charley's delight was unbounded to be able to pursue his educational baby instincts, untrameled by the pitching of the vessel. But Rose counted every moment lost, in which she was not pursuing her search for Vincent; a night of broken slumber, a hurried breakfast, a hasty toilet, and she started with Charley in her arms on her almost hopeless errand, she scarce knew whither.

Past the large hotel, on whose broad piazza strangers and citizens congregated, past the busy stores, past the quays and wharves, turning hastily the street corners, gazing into shops, now startled by the tone of a voice, now quickening her pace at the deceptive outline of a distant form. Fear found no place in her throbbing heart, and if it had, was there not an angel in her arms? It is a sweet thought, that the presence of a little child is often to an unattended woman the surest protection. The abandoned idler recognizes and respects this holy tie. He, too, was once a pure and stainless child—the lisping little voice seems to whisper in his sin-dulled ear, "Go and sin no more."

Rose could not have told why, of all the Southern cities, she had selected New Orleans for her search for Vincent. Had you asked, she could have given no reason for the magnetism which had drawn her thither.

Still she pursued her search day after day, spite of discouragement; still the great busy human tide ebbed and flowed past her, bearing on its surface barks without ballast—barks without rudder or compass—drifting hither and thither, careless how surely Time's rapids were hurrying them on to the shoreless ocean of eternity.

It was evening. Rose had put Charley in his little bed to sleep, and sat at the open window, as she had done many an evening before, watching and listening. It was now a fortnight since she came to New Orleans, and still no clew of Vincent. She could not always live in this way; she had not the purse of Fortunatus; she must soon again seek employment. Rose's heart grew sick and faint with hope deferred.

A low moan of pain fell upon her ear. She started to her feet and ran up to the little bed. It was not Charley; he was quietly sleeping. She looked out of the window; a woman had fallen upon the pavement beneath it. Rose ran down the steps to her assistance. She had only turned her ankle, but the pain was so acute that she was unable to rise unaided.

"Lean on me," said Rose, as she gently placed her arm at her disposal, and guided her up the steps and into her little parlor; then kneeling before her, she gently drew off the stocking, and laved the pained foot with cold water. It was a pretty foot, small, white, and if a high instep, as some would have us believe, is proof of "blood," an aristocratic foot. The stranger might have been twenty-five years of age, and had the remains of great beauty.

"You are very kind," said she, at length, opening her large eyes; "very kind—and beautiful too; more's the pity. I was once beautiful; look at me now. You don't believe it, perhaps. He thought so; he said, 'my eyes were stars, my teeth pearls.' Did you ever love? It is very sweet to be loved. My mother died; my father had a new wife. In their happiness they forgot me, and in my loneliness I prayed for death. Then he came. Oh, now I prayed to live! he made earth so fair to me. I was glad that I was beautiful for his sake. He asked me to be his wife. So one night, when the stars came out, I put my hand in his, and looked on my home for the last time. I knew my father and his new wife would not miss me. Oh, I was so happy! I did not see the face of the priest who married us; it was down by the old church, and the stars were the only witnesses. That night I slept on my husband's breast, and I wished my mother were living to know how blest was her child. You are glad I was so happy; you think some day you will be happy too; you think you will madden some fiery heart with love. So you may; and then you will be the blighted thing I am; for our marriage was a mockery; the priest was his servant. One night, as I sat at the window watching for him, I heard voices; I heard him, my husband, speak my name lightly to this servant. I, who believed myself his wife; I, who had thought to turn my back on misery forever, and hug happiness to my bosom; I, who had trusted all, given all, and asked for no surety! I heard him plan with his servant to decoy a young school-girl to his arms, and blight her as he had me. The roof over my head stifled me; I did not stay to upbraid him; I could not have taken a drop of water from his hand had I been dying. I fled from the house;—but oh! not as I left my childhood's home! I sought labor; for I loathed sin. None would employ me; I hungered for bread; all turned coldly away. Then one saw me, who knew my story, and wherever I turned, scorn pointed her finger. The 'good' closed their doors, and said, 'Stand aside, I am holier than thou;' the bad opened theirs, and said, 'Eat, drink, and be merry.' Then Despair took me by the hand, and led me in. Sin fed me, clothed me; sin baptized my child.

"One night, with other revelers, he came to that unholy place; he, my 'husband!'—oh, it was gay! He smiled the old smile; he said, 'Right, my girl, a short life and a merry one; there is no future—we die and there's an end!' My tortured soul gave these false words the lie; but I smiled back—he was to be my victim now! Peace was lost, heaven was lost; what should hold me back? The wine cup went round. 'Pledge me,' I said, 'here's to your happy future!' He drained it, poison and all, to the dregs—why not? Men make the laws to suit themselves, so they make no law for the seducer. I had to be judge and jury; oh it was gay! He writhed—why not? What was it to the writhings of my spirit every hour in that accursed gilded prison-house! He died, my seducer; then I fled hither.

"Down—down—down I am going; beauty buys me no bread now; down—down!" and the fire died out from her eyes, and her head drooped upon her breast.

"Dreadful," said the horror-struck Rose, "don't talk so, I am a stranger here; but surely," and the crimson flush overspread her cheeks, "there must be Magdalen Asylums here."

"Oh, that's gay," said the half-crazed woman, laughing hysterically, "gay; they write 'Magdalen' over the door where you go in and out, they tell visitors you are a Magdalen,' when you want to hide your shame, and be good. They drag you away from heaven, and then tell you to go there. Listen," and she lowered her voice, and laid her thin hand on that of Rose. "Listen, and I will tell you a story. Once, at the Magdalen Asylum, a young girl, half starved, and out of employment, came and asked for a shelter. They asked her 'if she was virtuous,' she said 'yes,' then they shut the door in her face, saying 'that their house was for Magdalens;' she wept, and wrung her hands, as she turned away into the dark night. Next day she came back, and said, 'take me in, now, I'm a Magdalen, now I shall have a shelter.' Oh it was gay; children of this world are wiser in their generation than the children of light. Satan is too busy; down, down. If Vincent sees your pretty face you'll go down, down, too, but Vincent's dead. Good-by, you are beautiful, more's the pity."

The poor, half-crazed creature pressed Rose's robe to her lips, and limped away, and like one under the influence of night-mare, Rose sat gazing spell-bound, after her retreating form without the power of speech or motion.

Shine on, as ye have shone, gentle stars!

Look down upon crushed innocence and triumphant guilt, upon ragged virtue, and ermined vice—upon the wretched who pray to die, and the loved and loving whose uplifted hands, and tears of agony, fail to stay death's dart.

Roll on, gentle stars!

Shall not He, who feedeth your never-consuming fires, yet make every crooked path straight, every rough place plain? What though the tares grow amid the wheat until the harvest, shall not the great Husbandman surely winnow them out, and gather the wheat into the heavenly granary?

Roll on, gentle stars!