"How do you do, madam? Anything in my way? Capital beets these—the most delicious spinach. Celery, bright and crisp enough to suit an alderman—sold five bunches for the supper-room at the City Hall, not half an hour since. Everything on the stand fresh as spring water, sweet as a rose. Two bunches of the celery, yes ma'am: anything else? not a small measure of the potatoes? Luscious things, always come out of the saucepan bursting their jackets; only one measure? Very well—thank you! Cranberries, certainly!"

Thus extolling her merchandise, busy as a bee, and radiant with good humor, stood our old huckster woman, by her vegetable stand in Fulton Market, on the morning after Julia Warren was cast into prison. No customer left her stand without adding something to the weight of his or her market-basket. There was something so hearty and cheerful in her appearance, that people paused spite of themselves, to examine her nicely arranged merchandise; and though all the adjoining stalls were deserted, Mrs. Gray was sure to have her hands full every morning of the week.

On this particular day she had been busy as a mother bird, serving customers, making change, and arranging her stall, now and then pausing to bandy a good-humored jest with her neighbors, or toss a handful of vegetables into some beggar's basket. The words with which our chapter opens, were addressed to a quiet old lady in deep mourning, who carried a small willow basket on her arm, and appeared to be selecting a few dainty trifles from various stalls as she passed along.

"Cranberries! Oh, yes, the finest you have seen this year, plump as June cherries; see, madam, judge for yourself."

The good woman took up a quantity of the berries as she spoke, and began pouring them from one plump hand to the other, smiling blandly now at the fruit, now at her quiet customer.

"Yes, they are very fine," said the old lady; "do up a small measure neatly, they are for a sick person."

Mrs. Gray looked over her stand for some paper, but her supply was exhausted. Nothing presented itself but the Morning Express, with which she usually occupied any little time that might be hers, between the coming and departure of her customers. This morning she had been too busy even for a glance at its columns; but as her neighbor seemed to be out of wrapping paper also, she took up the journal, and was about to tear off the advertising half, when something in its columns arrested her eye. She held the paper up and read eagerly. The rich color faded from her cheeks, and you might have detected a faint motion disturbing the repose of her double chin, a sure sign of unusual agitation in her.

"You have forgotten the cranberries!" said the customer, at length, looking with some surprise at the paper, as it began to rustle violently in the huckster woman's hands.

Mrs. Gray did not seem to hear, but read on with increased agitation. At length she sat down heavily upon her stool, her hands that still grasped the paper, dropped into her lap, and she seemed completely bewildered.

"Are you ill?" inquired the old lady, moving softly around the stand. "Something in the paper must have distressed you."

"Yes," answered the huckster woman, taking up the journal, and pointing with her unsteady finger to the paragraph she had been reading, "I am heart sick; see, I know all these people; I loved some of them. It has taken away my breath. Do you believe that it is true?"

The lady reached forth her hand, and taking the paper, read the account of Leicester's murder and Mr. Warren's arrest, to the end. Mrs. Gray was looking anxiously in her face, and, though it was white and still as the coldest marble, it seemed to the good woman as if it contracted about the mouth, and a look of subdued pain deepened around the eyes.

"Do you believe it?" questioned Mrs. Gray, forgetting that the person she addressed was an entire stranger.

"Yes," answered the lady, speaking with apparent effort—"yes, he is dead!"

"What! murdered by that old man? I don't believe it. It's against nature!"

"He died a violent death," answered the lady, shrinking as if with pain.

"Then he killed himself," answered Mrs. Gray, recovering something of her natural energy, "it was like him."

"Oh! God forbid!"

The lady uttered these words in a low, gasping tone, as if Mrs. Gray's speech had confirmed some unspoken dread in her own heart. The noble old huckster woman saw that she was giving pain, and did not press the subject.

"Then some other person must be guilty; it was not old Mr. Warren; I haven't seen much of him, true enough, but he's a good man, my life on it! He's sat at my table—a Thanksgiving dinner, ma'am! I remember the blessing he asked, so meek, so full of gratitude, with as fine a turkey as ever came from a barn-yard tempting him to be short, and he with hunger stamped deep into every line of his face. I haven't heard such a blessing since I was a girl. This man charged with murder! I wouldn't believe it though every minister in New York swore against him."

The old lady opened her lips to speak again, but Mrs. Gray suddenly laid a hand upon her arm.

"Hush! you see that old woman coming up the market, it is his wife!—Mr. Warren's wife!—see how broken-heartedly she looks about from stall to stall; maybe it is this one she wants. Yes! how her poor eyes brighten. A friend in need is a friend indeed; she knows where to look, you see."

By this time the forlorn old woman, who came wandering like a ghost up the market, caught a glimpse of the portly figure and radiant countenance, that always made the huckster woman an object of attention. Her pale face did indeed brighten up, and she forced her way through the people, putting them aside with her hands in reckless haste.

Mrs. Gray left her customer by the stall, and went down the market in benevolent haste, the snowy strings of her cap floating out, and the broad expanse of her apron rippling with the rapidity of her steps. She met Mrs. Warren with a kindly, but subdued greeting, and, without releasing the thin hand she had grasped, led the heart-stricken woman up to her stall.

"There, now, sit down upon my stool," she said, giving another gentle shake of the withered hand, before she relinquished it. "You are tired and out of breath; there, there, keep quiet; cry away, if you like, I'll stand before you!"

The good woman had seen tears gathering into the wild eyes of her visitor from the first—for if tears are locked in a grateful, heart, kindness will bring them forth—and with that intuitive delicacy which made all her acts so genial, she left the poor creature to weep in peace, shielding her from notice by the breast-work of her own ample person.

"Oh, the cranberries! I have kept you waiting!" she said to the customer who stood motionless by the stall, apparently unconscious of all that was passing, but keenly interested, notwithstanding this seeming apathy.

The lady started at this address, and without answer watched Mrs. Gray as she twisted half of the torn newspaper over her hand, and afterward filled it with berries. She took the paper, mechanically laid down a piece of silver, and waited for the change. All this was done in a cold, strengthless way, like one who does every thing well from habit, and who omits no detail of a life that has lost all interest. She stood a moment after receiving the parcel, and then drawing close to Mrs. Gray, whispered—

"Ask her where she lives!"

Mrs. Gray looked around, and saw that the pale face was bowed still, and that tears were pouring down it like rain. She leaned forward and whispered—

"Do you live in the old place yet?"

"No," was the broken answer, "I could not stay there alone, if the rent were paid. As it is they would not let me, I suppose."

"Where is your home, then? Where is your family?" said the lady, in her gentle way.

"They are in prison; my home is the street!"

"But where do you sleep?"

"Nowhere, I have not wanted to sleep since they took him!" was the sad reply. "I walk up and down all night; it is a little chilly sometimes, but a great deal better than sitting alone to think."

"She will go home with me," said Mrs. Gray, addressing her customer, and drawing one hand across her eyes, for their soft brown was becoming misty. "Of course she will—I don't know you, ma'am, but somehow it seems as if you would like to help this poor, unfortunate woman. She needs friends, and has got one, at any rate, but the more the better!"

"If—if you could only persuade the judge to let me stay in prison with them," said Mrs. Warren, lifting her face to the lady with an air of pleading humility. "I don't want a better home than that."

"They! Was it not they you said?" questioned the huckster woman. "Who is in prison besides Mr. Warren? Not Julia—not my little flower-angel—you do not mean that?"

"They let all go in but me!" answered Mrs. Warren, with a look of pitiful desolation.

"I never said it before!" exclaimed Mrs. Gray, untying her apron, rolling it up and twisting the strings around it with a degree of energy quite disproportioned to this simple operation—"I never said it before, but I'm ashamed of my country—it's a disgrace to humanity. I only wish Jacob knew it, that's all!"

"Hush!" said the lady, with her cold, low voice. "There's one stronger than the laws who permits these things for his own wise purposes."

Mrs. Warren looked up. A wan smile quivered over her face. "That is so like him—he said these very words."

"He is right! you must not feel so hopeless, or be altogether miserable—have faith! have charity!" added the gentle speaker, turning from the mournful eyes of Mrs. Warren, and addressing the huckster woman. "You cannot know how many other persons are suffering from this very cause. Let us all be patient—let us all trust in God."

She glided away as she spoke, and was lost in the crowd, leaving behind the hushed passion of grief and a feeling of awe, for the calm dignity of her own sorrow subdued the resentment which Mrs. Gray had felt, like the rebuke of an angel.

"Did you know her?" she questioned, drawing a deep breath, as the black garments disappeared. "One would think she understood the whole case."

Mrs. Warren shook her head.

"I suppose she was right," continued the huckster woman—"I know she was right, but we can't always feel the pious faith she wants us to have; if we did there would be no sorrow. Who minds wading a river when certain just how deep the water is, and while banks covered with flowers lie in full sight on the other side? It is plunging into a dark stream, with clouds hiding the shore, and not a star asleep in the bottom, that tries the faith. But after all, she speaks like one who knows what such things mean. So be comforted my poor friend, the river is dark, the clouds are heavy, but somewhere we shall find a gleam of God's mercy folded up in the blackness. Isn't there a hymn—I think there is—that says, 'earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot cure?'"

"Oh! if they would let me stay with him!" answered the poor old woman, with her wan smile, "I could have faith then, that is heaven to me!"

"You shall see him—you shall stay with him from morning till night, if you would rather! I'll go into court myself. I'll haunt the alderman like an office-seeker, till some of them lets you in. I'll—yes, I'll go after Jacob, he can do anything; you never saw Jacob—my brother Jacob, he's a man to deal with these courts. Strong as a lion, honest as a house-dog; been half his life in foreign parts. Knows more in ten minutes than his sister does in a whole year; he'll set things to rights in no time. Your husband is innocent—innocent as I am—we must prove it, that's all!"

Mrs. Warren did not speak the thanks that beamed in every lineament of her face; but she took the hand which Mrs. Gray had laid upon hers, and pressing it softly between her thin palms, raised it to her lips.

"Poh—poh, they will see you! Cheer up now, and let us consider how to begin. If Jacob were only here now, or even my nephew, Robert Otis, he would be better than nobody!"

"Thank you, aunt Gray—thank you a thousand times for this estimate of modest merit," said a voice at her elbow, whose cheerfulness was certainly somewhat assumed.

Mrs. Gray turned with a degree of eagerness that threatened to destroy the equilibrium of her stately person.

"Robert—Robert Otis," she cried, addressing the noble-looking youth, who stood with his hand extended, ready for the warm greeting that was sure to be his. "I was just wishing for you—so was poor Mrs. Warren; you remember Mrs. Warren's grand-daughter—she is in trouble—great trouble!"

"Yes, I know," said young Otis, remarking the painful expression that came and went on that withered face. "I have been to the prison!"

"Did you see him? Did they let you in?" exclaimed Mrs. Warren, beginning to tremble. "Oh! tell me how he was—did he miss me very much? Was he anxious about his poor wife?"

"I was too early—they did not let me in," replied the young man, bending a pair of fine eyes, full of noble compassion, on the old woman; "but I learned from one of the keepers that your husband was more composed than persons usually are the first night of confinement."

The old woman sunk back to her seat, with an air of meek disappointment.

"And Julia, my grandchild—did you inquire about her?"

Robert's countenance changed; there was something unsteady in his voice, as he replied; it seemed embarrassed with some tender recollection.

"I saw her!"

"You saw her! How did she look?—what did she say?"

"I got admission to speak with Mrs. Foster, the matron, a fine, pleasant woman, you will be glad to know; but it was early for visitors, and I only saw your grand-daughter through the grating."

"Was she ill?—was she crying?—did she look pale?"

"She looked pale, certainly, but calm and quiet as an angel in heaven."

"Oh! she is like an angel, that dear grand-daughter!"

"She was leading a little child by the hand, up and down the lower passage—a beautiful creature, who kept his quiet, soft eyes fixed on hers, as we sometimes see a house-dog gaze on its owner. I had but one glimpse, and came away."

"Then she did not seem unhappy?" questioned the old woman.

"I could not say that. Her eyes were heavy, as if she had cried a good deal in the night, but she was calm when I saw her."

"Would they let me look at her as you did, if I promised not to speak a word?"

"There is no reason why you should not speak with her and your husband too. If the keepers refuse, I will obtain an order from the sheriff."

"Do you think so, really? Can I see them to-day?"

"Be at rest; you will see them within a few hours, no doubt," replied the young man. "But your grand-daughter, at least, will, I trust, be at liberty. It was on this subject that I came to see you, aunt."

"And right glad I am you did come, nephew," replied the huckster woman. "I wanted to help the poor things somehow, but didn't know what on earth to begin with. I know just about as much of the law as a spring gosling, and no more. It costs heaps of money, that every one can tell you; but how it is to be spent, and what for, is the question I want answered."

"Well, aunt, the first step, I fancy, is to get the poor woman's grandchild out of that horrid place. I can tell you it made my blood run cold to see her among those women!"

"Yes—yes. But how is it to be done?"

"You must go up to court and give bonds for her appearance; that is, you agree to give five hundred dollars to the treasury, if this young girl fails to appear when her grandfather is put on trial. If she appears, you are free from all obligation. If she fails, the money must be paid."

"Fails! I thought better of you, nephew. How can you mention the word? Haven't I trusted her with fruit? Didn't I go security for half the flowers in Dunlap's green-house at one time within this very month? Robert, Robert, the world is spoiling you. How could you speak as if that girl—I love her as if she were my own niece. Robert—how could you speak as if she could fail, and her poor grandmother sitting by?"

Was it this energetic rebuke that brought the blood so richly into the young man's cheek, or was it the little word "niece" that fell so affectionately from the old huckster woman's lips? It could not be the former, for a bright smile kindled up the flush, and that, a rebuke, however kindly intended, was not likely to excite.

"You cannot feel more confidence in her than I do, dear Aunt Gray," he said; "but I thought it right to place the responsibility clearly before you!"

"That was right—that was like a man of business. Never mind what I said, nephew," cried the great hearted woman, shaking the youth's hand till the motion flushed his face once more. "Aunt Gray always was an old fool, seeing faults where they never existed, and making herself ridiculous every way, but never mind her—she'll give bonds for the poor child, of course; but then the old gentleman, how much will the law ask for him?"

"I'm afraid it will be out of your power to free him, aunt."

"What, they ask too much, ha? You think Aunt Gray must not run the risk; but she will, though. I tell you that old man is honest, honest as steel. They might trust him with the prison doors open; he will do what is right without fear or favor. I'll give bonds for him up to the last shilling of my savings, if the court asks it. He's innocent as a creeping babe, and I, for one, will let the world, yes, the whole world, know that this is my opinion."

"You will not hear me, out. Aunt Gray, I did not advise you against giving bonds, far from it; but Mr. Warren is charged with a crime for which no bonds can be received."

"I did not know that," answered Mrs. Gray, sinking her voice, "still something can be done; see how earnestly she is looking at us! My heart aches for her, Robert."

"Heaven knows I pity her," said the young man, "for I tell you fairly, aunt, the evidence against her husband is terribly strong."

"But you, Robert—you cannot think him guilty?"

"No, aunt, I solemnly believe Mr. Leicester killed himself. But what is my belief without evidence?"

"Then you solemnly believe him innocent?"

"As I believe myself innocent, good aunt."

"I won't ask you to kiss me, Robert, because we are in the open market, and people might laugh—but shake hands again. Next to faith in God I love to see trust in human nature—faith in God's creatures—it's a beautiful thing! The good naturally have confidence in the good. That old man is a Christian, treat him reverently in his prison, nephew, as you would have bowed before one of the apostles; his blessing would do you good, though it came from the gallows."

"I believe all this, aunt; something of mystery there is about the man, but it would be impossible to think him guilty of murder! Still there must have been some connection between him and Mr. Leicester yet unexplained."

"I know nothing of this—nothing but what the papers tell me; but one thing is certain, Robert, no one ever had anything to do with Mr. Leicester without suffering for it. He was kind to you once, but somehow it seemed to wear out your young life. The flesh wasted from your limbs; the red went out from your cheeks. It made me heart-sick to see the boy I loved to pet like a child, shooting up into a thoughtful man so unnaturally. I remember once, when Leicester boarded at our house, Robert, there was a cabbage-rose growing in one corner of the garden. I haven't much time for flowers, but still I could always find a minute every morning before coming to market for these rose-buds when the blossom season came. That summer the bush was heavy with leaves, still there was but a single bud, a noble one, though, plump as a strawberry, and with as deep a red breaking through the green leaves. I loved to watch the bud swell day by day. Every morning I went out while the dew was heavy upon it, and saw the leaves part softly, as if they were afraid of the sunshine.

"One morning, just as this bud was opening itself to the heart, I found Mr. Leicester bending over the bush, tearing open the poor rose with his fingers. His hands were bathed in the sweet breath that came pouring out all at once upon the air. The soft leaves curled round his fingers, trying to hide, it seemed to me, the havoc his hands had made. It was hard to condemn a man for tearing open a half-blown rose, nephew, but somehow this thing left a prejudice in my heart against Mr. Leicester. The flower did not live till another morning. I told him of this, and he laughed.

"'Well, what then? I had all the fragrance at a breath,' he said. 'Never let your roses distil their essence to the sun, drop by drop, Mrs. Gray, when you can tear open the hearts and drink their sweet lives in a moment.'

"I remember his answer, word for word, for it came fresh to my mind many times, when I saw you, my dear boy, pining away as it were, under his kindness. It seemed to me as if he were softly parting the leaves of your young heart, and draining its life away!"

"And you really thought my fate like that of your rose, dear aunt?"

The youth uttered these words with a pale cheek and downcast eyes. The good woman's words had impressed him strangely.

"It kept me awake many a long night, Robert."

"But you did not think that Uncle Jacob was at hand? Had he been in your garden, Leicester would not have found an opportunity to kill your pet rose—he might have breathed upon it, nothing more."

The huckster woman looked earnestly into that noble young face; and Robert met her glance with a frank, but somewhat regretful smile.

"And Jacob, my brother, stood between you and this bad man," she said at length, with a degree of emotion that made the folds of her double chin quiver.

"He made me wiser and better—he was my salvation, Aunt Gray."

"God bless my brother—God bless Jacob Strong!" cried the huckster woman, softly clasping her hands, while her eyes were flooded with tears—grateful tears, that hung upon them like dew in the husks of a ripe hazelnut.

"Amen!" said the young man, in a low voice.

"Now, aunt, let us go to this poor woman—observe how earnestly she is watching us."

The aunt and nephew had stepped aside as their conversation became personal; and old Mrs. Warren had been eagerly regarding them all the time. They were the only friends she had on earth. To her broken spirit, they seemed to hold the power of life and death over the beings she loved so devotedly. Robert had promised that she should see her husband and her grandchild; the heart-stricken woman asked for nothing more. She never, for an instant, questioned his power, but sat with her eyes turned reverently upon his fine person and noble features, as if he had been an angel empowered to unlock the gates of heaven for her.

Robert and his aunt approached her as their conference ended, and the young man took out his watch.

"Is it time? Would they let me in now?" questioned the poor woman, half rising as she saw the movement.

"Are you strong enough?" he answered, observing that she trembled.

"Oh, yes! I am strong—very strong. Let us go!"

With her thin, eager hands, she folded the shawl over her bosom and stood up, strong in her womanly affections, in her Christian humility, but oh, how weak every way else!

Mrs. Gray folded herself in an ample blanket shawl, and tying on her bonnet, led the way out of the market, forgetting for the first time in her life, that her stall was unattended.