Lexus IS200T, IS250, IS300, IS350 Electrical Wiring Diagram_2017

Lexus IS200T, IS250, IS300, IS350

Electrical Wiring Diagram_2017
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It is no wonder that the first man fell, when "tempted of a woman."
It is idle to talk of our power to withstand their seductive arts. Otis
was entrapped again. The sight of Athalia's beauty inflamed his
already wine-heated blood, and he readily offered Mrs. Laylor a
hundred dollars to bring about a successful negociation. This was
just what she intended—what she expected—she had baited her trap
high, and the game was already caught. And he was not the only
one she intended to catch with the same bait. She intended to use
her as a profitable investment upon all her "regular customers"—for
all such houses boast of such—as long as she could make the lie of
"fresh from the country," pass as current coin. She little thought, and
cared less, how many lies she had to contrive and tell Athalia, before
she could accomplish her purpose. It does seem as though, when a
woman loses her own virtue, that she imagines all her sex have lost
or would lose theirs just as easy as herself.
"I drag down," should be graven upon the brow of every one of her
class. Whether man or woman, whoever comes within their influence
—and who does not, since they are permitted to go forth at noonday
through the thoroughfares of this city, seeking whom they may
devour, and all night long they show their brazen faces in the
streets, "picking up" poor fools for victims, whom they drag down—
true, they go willingly—to their dens of destruction.
It does seem as though when a man loses his balance so far as to
fall into the influence of such a woman, that he is "ready to believe a
lie even unto his own damnation." How else could Walter Morgan—
there are a great many Walter Morgans—leave such a wife as Athalia
for such a Jezebel as he did? How else did such a man as Otis,
whose business it was to watch the fold, allow the wolf to enter and
carry off the shepherd? Why, after he had found out how much he
had been cheated, did he believe the lies of the cheat again? Who
can answer? I cannot. I can only say, that in this branch of
intoxication, the only safe rule is that of the teetotaller, "touch not,
taste not, handle not;" and it must be more rigidly applied in the one
case than the other. A man may possibly touch liquor and drink not.
Can he play with a harlot and not fall? Otis should have preached a
sermon, not to his congregation, but to his own conscience in his
own closet, from this text:

"For a whore is a deep ditch: and a strange woman is a narrow

pit.
"She also lieth in wait as for a prey, and increaseth the
transgressions among men."

She certainly had increased the transgressions in the case of Otis,

and she lay in wait for Athalia as a prey.
Otis would have sought an introduction immediately, for wine had
mastered reason; wine, that is made expressly for such houses, had
inflamed his blood.
This the master-piece of iniquity knew would never answer. But she
promised him that for the sum named, she would bring about the
desired interview.
"To-night?"
"Yes. At least she would try."
"To-night or never! To-night is the last night that I shall ever set foot
in your house. I have registered a vow in heaven to that, and I will
keep it."
So he did. He had good cause to remember that night.
Mrs. Laylor saw that he looked as though he intended to keep it, and
as he had been fool enough to tell her so, she at once determined to
fool him to her own profit. So she promised him that he should have
his utmost desire, and upon that she ordered up another bottle of
wine, urged him to drink and amuse himself with the young ladies,
while she went up and "smoothed the way."
There is but little need of smoothing the way that leads nearly every
young man, who visits such places, to destruction. But she had a
way to smooth. It was her last chance with this victim, and she
determined on profit and revenge.
In due time she came in, and reported favorably.
"The lady would see him, in consideration of his profession, upon
one condition—that he would not seek to learn her name, or
anything about her, and that he should not see her face."
What did he care for that, since he had already seen it, and it was
daguerreotyped upon his heated imagination, so that he would know
her whenever he should meet her afterwards in the street.
Let the curtain of night fall. The sun shone into an eastern window
of No. — H——n street the next morning, while Otis still slept. Its
bright rays awakened him to the startling consciousness of having
over-slept himself after a night of debauch. How should he get away
without being seen? The thought troubled him sorely. But he soon
determined what he would do; he would steal the veil from the face
of the sleeping beauty to hide his own, and then slip out by the
basement door, perhaps unseen. What harm could it do to her, since
he had seen and knew the face so well?
He dressed himself hurriedly, then gently drew the veil away, with a
salvo to his conscience that he would not then see her face, he
would look the other way. His conscience would have been more
easy afterwards if he had kept that resolve. He could not. The
glance at Athalia's beauty the night before had maddened him, and
he turned, as he was going out of the door, to look back where she
slept, and steal—"Thou shalt not steal"—he had forgotten that—steal
one more glance. He did, but instead of the face of Athalia, he saw
that of a common street-walker—a young harridan—and he rushed
from the room with the full weight of a burning conscience for his
folly, with a feeling of self-degradation at being victimized a second
time by the same deceitful woman; hating himself and everybody
else; dreading to meet any one he knew, and, finally, encountering
in the basement hall, striving to get out in the same sly way, the
very man whom he had first taken to task for visiting this den of
infamy. What a recognition! Neither could speak, so intense was the
thought in the mind of each that the other might ruin him by simply
revealing the truth. Strange that neither thought how little the other
would dare to speak, least it should be inquired, "How did you know
he was there? Where was you?"
Otis said afterwards to an acquaintance of mine, a physician, whom
he was obliged to consult in consequence of that sinful night, that
he could not conceive any agony more intensely painful in this life
than that which he endured the next Sabbath, when he arose in the
pulpit and looked down upon the congregation, but saw nothing,
could see nothing, but that one pair of eyes glaring upon him just as
they did the morning he met them in the hall of that house where he
had been so disgraced.
"I little knew then," said he, "as I did afterwards, that he felt just as
bad as I did, for he told me that it seemed to him that I was about
to denounce him to the whole congregation. So intense had this
feeling become, that he was on the point of seizing his hat and
rushing out when the words burst from my lips, 'if thou knowest
aught of thy brother's failing, cover it up from the rude gaze of the
world, for it can profit them nothing to know of his faults.'
"'Go to him privately and speak kindly, and he will reform!' So he did,
to our mutual benefit."
This relieved the mind of Otis, but it did not save him from the sad
effect of a poisoned, neglected system, but it cured him from visiting
places where he was ashamed to show his face. It taught him that
"the way of the transgressor is hard." He had one more trial. He had
not paid Mrs. Laylor the hundred dollars promised while heated with
wine, for he felt that she was not entitled to it, and he had no such
sum to spare. Late one Saturday night he received a note from the
lady, requesting immediate payment, and threatening exposure in
church the next day if he failed to make it instanter. He had not so
much money in the world, and knew no way by which he could get it
immediately. He was in an agony of fear all the evening. The only
man to whom he dared apply either for money or advice, the man
who was equally guilty, was out of town. What should he do? He did
what every Christian should do. He opened his Bible, and the first
words, that his eyes fell upon were, "ask and it shall be given you."
He did ask, and ask earnestly, what shall I do? Before he had done
asking, the door bell rang and a letter marked "private—by express,"
was laid upon his table. A glance at the superscription told him it
was from the man he was so anxious to see.
He opened and read:

"My Dear Friend Otis,

"I have had a sort of presentiment upon my mind that you were
about to be distressed for that hundred dollars, and as I am well
aware that you never would have been placed in jeopardy if I
had not first done wrong, I beg you to accept the enclosed
check for that amount.
"I need not say who it is from."

How strange, how opportune, how quick the answer to his asking
had come back. What a load it lifted off his mind. It is not the first
load that prayer, earnest, sincere prayer, has lifted. He was relieved
in more ways than one; he had repented of his folly, and had
become a better and a wiser man. Gold is refined of its adhering
dross by fire. Otis still lives, and every day he warns some one, not
only of the folly and sin, but the danger, of visiting that class of
houses, if only from curiosity. They are all traps for the unwary, and
gulfs into which the soul sinks blindfold down to perdition.
We have lost sight of Athalia. Let us return to her—she will need all
our sympathy, for she stands upon the very brink of a precipice, over
which though many have fallen, few ever returned.
Mrs. Laylor manifested the greatest sympathy for Athalia that one
friend could for another. She gave her the most private room in the
house, and assured her that she should be welcome to it just as long
as she pleased; "but of course," she said, "you will not remain a
moment, after you get your things from that wicked woman. Now
what can I do to assist you?"
This was said in such a kind, sympathizing manner, that a more
suspicious mind than hers might have been deceived; and she
answered, "Oh, you can do a good deal. I am afraid to go out,
particularly to go to that house, or that woman, and I want my
keepsakes. I have got seventy dollars, and I will give it freely if I can
get them again."
She did not see the glisten of the eye, or the avaricious clutch of the
hand, as that miserly woman thought, "I will have that." She only
heard the soft tones of her voice as she said, "my dear Mrs. Morgan,
I will take it and see what I can do, but I am really afraid it is not
sufficient to induce her to part with them, as you say they are
actually worth more money."
"What shall I do then? I feel as though I could not part with them,
and in such a way too, that is worse than all. I would have sacrificed
them in a moment for that man, if he had been sick and suffering,
for want of food or medicine."
"Well, well, my dear friend, do not worry yourself. Remember that
you have friends, kind sympathizing friends, who will do more for
you than they would for themselves. I will go directly and see what
can be done if you will give me the money."
So she did, and by dint of threats, and coaxing, and promises to
Josephine, to try and get something out of "the poor fool's wife," for
her, she gave them up, and Mrs. Laylor, before night, had them
safely locked in her own iron chest.
"Why did she not give them to Athalia at once?"
Simply, because she intended to keep both money and things. So
she told Athalia, that Josephine had not yet returned from Coney
Island, where she knew she had gone with her husband, wearing
her watch, passing for his wife, spending her money, which he had
collected for the making of the dress that he had stolen away
without her knowledge.
But she had come back; where was Walter?
Somewhere with his set. He had not yet dared to face his injured
wife. He intended to skulk home late at night. In the evening he
went to see his dear, sweet, amiable mistress. She was in about the
same state of mind after Mrs. Laylor left her, that a female tiger
would be, on arriving at her lair, after a little pleasure excursion, in
which she might have killed a couple of Indian children, but was
driven off before her appetite for blood was satisfied, and now found
that some other equally ferocious animal had despoiled her of her
own young.
Walter and she had had "a good time" together, and parted lovingly
only a few hours before. How he was surprised as he entered her
room carelessly, to hear her tell him with a terrible oath—oaths are
ten times more terrible in woman's than in man's mouth—to leave
the room or she would take his life. At first, he thought she was in
sport. One look was enough to convince him of his error. Then he
thought she was mad, because he had entered without knocking,
and found her engaged in dressing for the evening debauch and
usual scenes of dissipation, and began to rally her on her Eve-like
appearance.
That was more than some more amiable women can bear. No matter
how ill dressed or undressed, a woman does not like to be rallied on
her personal appearance.
It was more than such a human tiger could, or would bear. She
darted at him, and proceeded vigorously in the task of reducing him
to the same state, so far as his toilet was concerned, as herself. It
did not take long. First, she crushed his hat. His dress coat was fine,
and it was tender, for it was old, and she tore it into ribbons, in an
instant. His vest and shirt followed, and she made vigorous efforts at
the remaining garment, and then he broke and ran from the wild
fury. She overtook him at the top of the stairs, gave him a vigorous
kick that sent him, naked and insensible, down to the lower hall,
where he was picked up by the police, and carried to the station
house; there he had his bruises attended to, and there he would
have got a passport to "the Island," only that he happened to be
known, and when he told where he lived, one of the officers said,
that was the fact, that he knew his wife, and a most excellent
woman she was, and it would be a pity, on her account, to send him
up this time, and so he volunteered to go home with him, and get
some clothes and see what his wife wanted done with him. Walter
found his trunk and all that he could claim as his own—it was not
much, hardly enough for present necessity—where Athalia had left
it, in the next-door shop, and there he learned the facts about the
sale, and his wife going off in a carriage with two ladies, and a
Negro driver; but he did not learn why she had gone, he needed no
words to tell him that, a monitor within spoke louder than words.
"A guilty conscience needs no accuser."
What should he do? It is easy to say what a man should do. He
should go and find his wife, and fall down upon his knees; yes, bow
his face into the dust, pray for forgiveness, and promise reform. And
he would be forgiven. That is woman's nature. The Forgiver of all
sins, is not more forgiving.
"What did he do?"
That is just as easy said. He sold his last good shirt—one that his
wife had just made—to procure the means of getting drunk.
"What a pity that there should be any places where such a man
could get liquor; or that such places, if they do exist, should be kept
by wretches who will take the shirt off the back of the poor inebriate
for rum."
Yes, it is a pity. It is the cause of ruin of more men than all other
causes.
From this last fall Walter never recovered. He went down, step by
step, to the final termination of almost every young man who
surrenders his reason to such vile influences. You heard Reagan say
what that end was. Let his epitaph be,

"Requiescat in Pace."

With various excuses, Athalia was kept in daily expectation of

recovering her property, until continued disappointment made her
heart sick. In vain she begged for something to do. Everyday it was
promised, and every day the promise broken. She was kept from
going out of the house by continual tales about her husband
watching it day after day, and night after night. Of course this was
all sham. He had been told that she had gone out of town, and he
believed it; he never got sober enough to think of inquiring or caring
whether she was dead or alive.
Finally, when Athalia could not be kept any longer upon such lying
promises, Mrs. Laylor told her "that she had finally got Josephine to
consent to give up the watch, and chain, and locket, and the Bible,
for a hundred dollars."
Where was the poor girl to get the other thirty. She knew it was
more than they were worth to anybody else, but she felt as though
she would give it freely if she had it. To add to her distress of mind,
just at this time she overheard a conversation in the next room
between Mrs. Laylor and one of the girls—it was got up on purpose
—to this effect:
"To be sure she will pay for her board. Of course she cannot expect
to have the best room in the house ten weeks for nothing. But I
shall only charge her seven dollars a week."
"Seven dollars!" thought Athalia; "that takes the whole of my
seventy dollars, and my watch and Bible still remain in the hands of
that red-headed——Oh, dear! what shall I do?"
The two continued their conversation.
"But, Aunt, you have promised to give that seventy dollars, and
thirty more with it, to redeem her traps; how are you going to get
seventy dollars more? or if you take that for her board, and let the
watch go, what is she going to do in future? she has got no money,
and don't work any."
"Don't work any," thought she. "How can I work shut up here? I
would work, if I had it to do. I could have earned that sum before
this time." And again she said "Oh dear! what shall I do?"
It was just what they wanted she should say. Mrs. Laylor replied:
"Do! Why, she must do what other folks have to do. Frank Barkley is
dying to do for her, the fool that she is; he would give her any
amount of money, if she would be a little more agreeable when he
calls. It was a long time before I could persuade her to drink a glass
of wine with him. Some girls would have helped me to sell two or
three bottles every evening. I shall tell her to-day that she has got to
do something. I cannot keep anybody in the house this way much
longer."
What a dose of gall and wormwood was this to poor Athalia! This
was boasted friendship. Forced by one specious pretence after
another to remain; purposely kept without work, that she might get
in debt, for that would put her in her creditor's power; and robbed of
her money—worse than robbed; and yet she was only served just as
innumerable poor girls have been served before, and will be again; it
was enough to make her cry out, "What shall I do?"
And then to be accused of being ungrateful. That was worse than
all. Then she thought that perhaps she had been. Mrs. Laylor had
told her several times how much wine some girls could induce
gentlemen to buy, and how much profit she made upon every bottle;
and more than that, she had hinted very strongly how much money
such a handsome woman as Athalia could make, if she was disposed
to; and then she told a story about a young clergyman that used to
come there, and what a great fool he was when he drank a little
wine, and how she made a hundred dollars out of the simpleton,
and a great deal more; but she did not tell her how she cheated
him, nor how she had cheated Athalia out of her seventy dollars, nor
that Frank Barkley had paid her board, which she was now trumping
up an account for, so as to drive her to the seeming necessity of
selling her body and soul to escape from the tangled web which this
human spider was weaving around this poor weak fly.
In the course of the day, after this overheard conversation, Mrs.
Laylor came to tell Athalia "that she had succeeded at last in
obtaining her watch and Bible, by paying thirty dollars out of her
own pocket, although she did not know how in the world to spare it,
but she supposed Mrs. Morgan would repay it almost immediately."
Repay it! How could she? And so she said bitterly that she had no
hope. Her heart was almost broken. Mrs. Laylor, of course, condoled
with her, soothed her, reassured her of her pure friendship, took out
the watch and put the chain over her neck, sent down and had the
Bible brought up, and with it a bottle of wine, one of the half brandy
sort, and insisted upon her drinking of it freely, and driving off the
blues; and then, after she had got her into a state of partial
intoxication, and fit for any act of desperation, sent for Frank
Barkley, who had just arrived, to come up to Athalia's room, and
play a game of cards. She had never before consented to that, but
now Mrs. Laylor was there, and she desired it, and so he came. It
had been all previously arranged that he should, and that he should
order another bottle of wine—mixed wine—and then Mrs. Laylor was
called out, and went suddenly, saying as she did so:
"Let the cards lie, I will be back in a minute."
That minute never came. That night was the last of conscious purity
which had so long sustained Athalia through all her trials.
For the next six months she never allowed herself to think. She was
lost. The instruments of darkness had betrayed her into the deepest
consequences.
The scene shifts.
Shall we see Athalia again?
Wait.
 CHAPTER XIII.
THE LITTLE PEDLAR.—MORE OF ATHALIA.

"Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile,"

And thus at this may laugh the scoffer.
"Let those laugh who win."

We started in the first chapter of our volume of "Life Scenes," to

take an evening-walk up Broadway. How little progress we have
made. We turned off at Cortland street, to follow Mrs. Eaton and her
children home, and then we went with the crowd to the fire. Then
we came back to listen to the cry of "Hot Corn, hot corn! here is
your nice hot corn, smoking hot!" that came up in such plaintive
music from the mouth of Little Katy, in the Park. Then we followed
her to her home, and to her grave. What a ramble I have led you,
reader. Occasionally our route has led us back again and again into
this great, broad, main artery of the lower part of this bustling
world, this great moving, living body, called New York. There are
several other broadways in the upper part of the city. We have but
one in the lowest portion of it—that is for carriages. There are a
good many broadways of the town, through which pedestrians go,
where they "put an enemy in the mouth to steal away the brains,"
an enemy

"Whose edge is sharper than the sword: whose tongue

Out-venoms all the worms of Nile; whose breath
Rides on the winds, and doth belie
All corners of the world; kings, queens, and states,
Maids, matrons," all in one fell swoop,
To earth struck down.
Such a broadway may be seen, nay, must be seen, by all who enter
the great, high, oaken doors of the granite portal of one of the best
of the great Broadway hotels in New York, for the way is wide open,
inviting the weary traveller to enter the great, dome-shaped
"exchange"—exchange of gold, health, peace of mind, domestic
blessings, for a worm that will gnaw out the very soul; a worm with
teeth, "whose edge is sharper than the sword."
That granite pile is a creditable ornament to the city. Its walls have a
look of solidity as enduring as the hills. Yet it contains an element
within that has settled the strong built fabrics of a greater Master
Builder than the architect of that house, down to the very dust, in a
few short years, carrying with it marble palaces and granite walls.
That building was erected by one who sprang, from a class as lowly
as the day laborer who helped to rear its walls, to almost
immeasurable wealth, by a life of industry, free from the vice or
misfortune of drunkenness.
At first it did not contain that great broadway to death. True, death
had his abode there, but he kept in a cave out of sight. He did not
thrust his hideous visage into the face of every guest, as he does
now. The place of his "exchange" was then a place of green grass
and flowers and sparkling fountains, upon which all the interior
windows of that great caravansery looked down with joy and
gladness, smiling o'er the perfumed atmosphere, and beauty
admired beautiful flowers, and listened to love-inspiring songs of
birds, and pattering of falling water in the great marble basin. Ah!
that was a court, worthy of such a traveller's home. But it did not
produce the profit that flows to the owner through another liquid
channel, where that fountain once leaped, played and sparkled in
the sunshine. Lovely eyes still look down from the surrounding
chamber windows, not upon the flowers and birds and crystal
waters, but upon an unsightly dome, and in fancy through its roof,
and there they see their husbands, brothers, fathers, friends, putting
an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains. How fancy will
work; how it will send sharp pangs to the heart; sharper than a two-
edged sword; how the feeble wife will look down upon that roof, and
pray for it to give up her husband. Other wives have prayed the
tomb for the same object, both equally effective. Both will pray to
both again, and both will feel that hardest of all pangs for a wife to
bear, the pang that tells of a lost husband; lost in one case almost as
sure as the other; the loss more hard to bear, when lost while living,
than when lost by death.
I was sitting, one night, in the corridor of this, with the exception of
its drinking "exchange," really good, well managed hotel, looking
over the balustrade, at the in-coming and out-going throng, counting
the numbers that went rum-ward as three to one, to those who
went up the solid stone steps, already deeply worn by the constant
dropping of feet, and trying to read the varied countenances of the
ever-changing, varying scene before me. It is a useful study, to
study our own kind; it is a good place, in the corridor of a great
hotel, to practice. Every now and then, a face beamed out from the
mass which made me sensible that it was not new, but whether an
old acquaintance, or one seen before in some other crowd, I could
not tell. Once only I was sure that the face which riveted my
attention was that of one I had called friend, yet, for my life, I could
not tell when or where. It was one of those faces which we never
forget. It was one which a child would approach with confidence, to
ask for a favor. It was one, which a stranger in his walk through the
city, would pick out among a hundred, to ask for a direction to a
particular street. Ten chances to one, he would not be satisfied to
give that stranger a direction in words, but would turn round, and go
a little out of the way to show the inquirer the best route, or stand
upon the side-walk until one of the right line of stages came up so
as to be sure that he went right. There are a few such faces, which
go far to redeem the mass from the charge of coldness or
selfishness, which does seem to be the distinguishing mark of the
majority.
I followed this one up the steps, and as far as the vision extended,
as he walked away to one of the parlors. He was an elderly man,
silvering with age, neatly, but plainly dressed, and I could not help
feeling that he looked in everything about him, as though it would
rejoice his very soul to have a chance to do a good action. I was not
mistaken. You will not be if you read on. I could not sit still after he
had passed up. I went into a long train of thought upon the mental
question, the one absorbing question, "Who is he?" The argument
grew intensely painful, and I became so much absorbed in it, that I
almost forgot for a moment where I was, until I was brought back to
consciousness by a little voice in my ear, of, "Please to buy these,
sir." I almost said, no, without deigning to look up at the quasi
beggar, as the frequency of the question, in all public places, is such
that it is somewhat annoying. But there was a something in the tone
of the voice that sent its magnetic power through me, and put down
that spirit which gives the cold shoulder to the poor, and bids them
"call again to-morrow."
"There is a Providence in all things," many a pious heart will
aspirate, as the truths of this little incident are made manifest. It
does, certainly, seem a little singular that this little pedlar girl should
be the chosen instrument of connexion between me and that
benevolent gentleman, whom I had been vainly endeavoring to
recognise in thought, and also another character, with which the
reader is already acquainted.
What is there in a word, or tone, the mere sound of the voice, that
sends a stream of magnetic fluid through the system, to repel or
attract the speaker?
What singular means are used to bring about strange results! I was
magnetized by that voice. What the result was, you shall see. But
after the fluid had once entered my brain, I could no more repel the
voice, or its owner, or drive it away, than the iron can disengage
itself from the magnet. I looked up, and a little girl with a basket
upon her arm was standing by my side, holding up a pair of
suspenders while she uttered the "Please buy these, sir?" close to
my ear. She was a pretty child, between twelve and thirteen years
old, rather precocious in appearance; was neatly dressed, and
possessed of such a mild, sweet voice, that the mocking-bird might
imitate it in his dulcet notes.
I could not say, no, in such tones as would send her away, and so I
replied, pleasantly, "No, my girl, I do not wish to buy them."
The timid take courage at mild words. Was she too, attracted by
mine? There is magnetism in the human voice.
"Then, perhaps, you will buy a box of matches?" "No." "Or a comb."
"No." "Oh, do buy something, sir, it is getting late, and I am so
anxious to sell a few shillings' worth more. Will you buy a pair of
gloves? you wear gloves, don't you? Oh! do let me sell you a pair,
you look as though you would buy something of me if you wanted
anything. Will you buy a shirt collar? There is a nice one, sir, one
that my sick mother made, sir. Will you buy that?"
"No, my girl, I never wear collars, but I will buy a pair of gloves, if
you will answer me a few questions."
"Will you? Well sir, if they are such as I may answer, I will, and I
don't think you would ask me any other—some men do, though."
"That is just one of the questions I wanted to ask you."
"Oh, sir, I wish you would not ask me what some men say to me, it
is so bad; only yesterday evening, one very bad man—but I cannot
tell."
And she burst into tears.
"Well, then, don't tell if it distresses you so."
"It won't now, and I want to tell you, because I should like to let you
know what a good man that grey-headed old gentleman is that
came in just before I did."
"What, the one with a gold-headed cane?"
"Yes, sir, a tall man, with a grey frock-coat, and such a good-looking
face."
"Then, I do want you to tell me, if it is anything about him. I think I
have seen him before."
"Then, I hope you will again, for he is one of the real good men.
Well, sir, yesterday evening, I was here, and I offered to sell some
things to a young gentleman, and he talked so clever, that I felt glad
to think how many things he was going to buy, for he picked out a
pair of gloves and six shirt collars, and several other things, and told
me to come up to his room, and get the money, and I went up; I did
not think it any harm, for I had been up several times before to
gentlemen's rooms, and they never acted bad to me, but this one
did, and I was so frightened that I screamed, and then he caught
me, and put his handkerchief to my mouth, and I don't know what
he would have done, but just then I heard a rap at the door, and
somebody demanded to come in, but the door was locked, and he
could not, and so the man that held me told him, but it did no good,
for he was a strong man, and he burst the lock off in an instant, and
how he did talk to the one in the room, and he made him pay me for
all the things he had picked out, and then he told him to pack up his
trunk, and leave the city by the first boat or railroad in the morning.
And then he told him how he had watched his manœuvres, and then
he took me in his room, and talked to me so good, so kind, and
asked me all about my mother, and where she lived, and what she
did, and why I went about peddling, and all that; and then he asked
me if I would not like to go and live with some good family in the
country? and then I told him that I should like to live with him, for,
indeed, sir, I loved him, he talked so good to me. Then he gave a
little sigh, and said, 'Ah, my girl, I wish I had a home to take you to,
but I have none; I am a lone man in the world, but I will go and see
your mother, and see what we can do for you, as you have grown
too big for such work as this. You must quit it, or ruin is your doom,'
and a great deal more, he said."
"And why have you followed it till now?"
"Because my mother would not let me quit it—in fact, sir, I do not
see how we could live if I did quit, for I make about three dollars a
week, and that is more than my mother can make with her needle,
and work every day till midnight; and then she is sick sometimes,
and so I must do something, for mother is very feeble and says she
is almost worn out, and that I shall soon have nobody but myself to
work for. I am sure I don't know what will become of me then; do
you, sir?"
I thought, but dared not give it utterance. And I almost wept at the
certainty of her sad fate, if she remained in the city; a fate she could
not escape from, without abandoning her helpless mother, one of
the poor sewing women of this pandemonium.
"Now, will you buy the gloves, for I have answered all the questions
you asked?"
"One more. What is your mother's name?"
"May—Mrs. May. If you should want any shirts made, sir, there is her
name and number on that little card."
"Is that your mother's writing?"
"Yes, sir; don't she write pretty? I can write too, but not like that."
"Well, I shall call and see your mother, if I want work. Here is the
money for the gloves."
"I cannot make change; have you got the change, or shall I run out
and get it changed? I will if you will keep my basket."
"No, no; I do not wish any change. You may keep it all."
"Oh, that is just the way that good old gentleman said last night—
keep it all. Ah, me!"
And she gave a little start of surprise as she looked at the individual
who seemed to be standing behind my chair.