In the garret room of a little two-story house in Philadelphia, sat two women, both of whom were foreigners. A child reclined in the lap of one of them, who was haggard and thin, yet beautiful. Her features were of the Grecian cast, with a most fascinating smile, and hair of a light auburn, that curled naturally and in profusion around her finely modeled head.

The appearance of the other woman was common-place, but she had a frank and kind expression that redeemed her bad looks. They were both French; the blonde had evidently a Parisian air, whilst the other as evidently came from one of the provinces.

“Ah, Madame Eboli!” said the latter, “now that I am going to join my husband in New Orleans, what is to become of you? You must not stay in this tiresome Philadelphia, where the women have no grace, no tournure; and the men never wear a moustache! not even an imperial! It is not astonishing that I should be able to bear it, having been condemned from my earliest youth to a country-life, where I was sometimes compelled to bring myself in contact with such rusticity! But you who come from our dear Paris, what a blow to your feelings to be placed among these savages! What a horror!”

“My dear friend,” returned Madame Eboli, “the world has of late altered in my eyes. The outward forms of men had once an effect on me; now, I see little beauty in even the finest features where there is no expression of sympathy for the unfortunate. As to remaining any longer in this city it is impossible. My funds had been exhausted two days previous to your sending me that last piece of sewing. I cannot get sufficient employment by my needle to support myself and Eleonore, and if I could I should fear the consequences. Bending over my work from early morning till late at night, makes me very ill. I have now a constant pain in my side. It is but nine months since I crossed the sea, when my poor husband died, and I wish to be near the sea, for then I do not seem so far away from him whose grave it is—”

“You are a good musician, can you not teach the piano or the guitar?”

“Ah, Madame Persaune! I have tried that, but no one would take lessons of a stranger. My garb was an evidence of my poverty, and in their eyes of my inefficiency; my face had the sufferings I have endured written upon it.”

“It is true that the ground is occupied by those of high reputation and long standing, and I see no other means by which women can earn a livelihood in this detestable country. Now in France you might go into one of the shops kept by women, or make pastry in a confectionery. But in this country men monopolize all the labor, with the exception of sewing and taking care of the children. However, I must go now and pack my trunks. God be with you and dear little Eleonore! You must accept this from me. God bless you!”

The good woman hurried away before Madame Eboli could speak. Her friend had left her a well-filled purse. “There is money enough,” thought she, “to take me to New York. In New York I shall find countrymen, and it may be friends. If I die, they will then take care of Eleonore.”

“Dear mother, kiss me!” said the little three-year-old Eleonore.

“Yes, my child, and we will leave this place, and I will take my angel to New York, where I may find some old friends. My aunt thought of going there with my boy cousins. Were I only to see her dear face once more! She always loved me, and when I married poor Gustave and my father and mother cast me from them, she addressed me with words of kindness. Dear aunt!—and my sweet sister too. Alas! I shall never see her more. Dear sister Eugenie! so young and so beautiful. But come, Eleonore, bring thy doll; we will go to New York this very day.”

The poor woman was too ill, however, to accomplish this, so it was put off till the following day. A good dinner gave her renewed strength, it being the first she had eaten for many weeks.

They were several days on the journey, and late on the afternoon of the day of their arrival, Madame Eboli, with her child in her arms, stopped at the door of a small house in Seventeenth street. By dint of gestures and broken English, the Irish, who were its inhabitants, were induced to relinquish a room to her. She had wandered the city through, until weary and way-worn, her feet refused her further support.

She sank on a bed exhausted with fatigue, anxiety, and want of food. Her child she had fed with cakes, and the little creature had fallen asleep, wearied by the excitement of the day.

Many and bitter were poor Madame Eboli’s reflections. She cared little for herself, but she thought that her tender and beautiful Eleonore was without a home and without friends. Not a countryman had she seen that whole day, and she had been followed by the jeers of the rude and ignorant German and Irish who form our suburbs, and who felt no pity for the poor stranger who could not make herself understood.

——