THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 PRIVATE LIBRARY OF 
 
 H. SCOF^IELD, 
 
 No 
 
 J..I.7AL
 
 PERDIDA. 
 
 A ROUND UNVARNISHED TALE TRUTHFULLY 
 DELIVERED. 
 
 BY 
 
 FREDERIC W. PANGBORN. 
 
 " Truth, whether in or out of fashion, is the measure of knowledge and the business 
 of the understanding ; whatsoever is besides that, however authorized by consent, is 
 nothing but ignorance, or something worse." LOCKE. 
 
 WRIGHT & COMPANY, 
 
 PUBLISHERS, 
 
 LONDON. NEW YORK. CHICAGO. PARIS.
 
 Copyrighted, 1899, 
 
 by 
 F. W. PANGBORN. 
 
 (All Rights Reserved.)
 
 TO THE CRITICS : 
 
 J I PRAY THEE, THEN. WRITE ME AS ONE THAT LOVES HIS FELLOW-MEN. 
 
 TO MY FELLOW-MEN: 
 
 " HE THAT IS WITHOUT SIN AMONG YOU. LET HIM FIRST CAST A 
 STONE AT HER." 
 
 990547
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAQE 
 
 PROLOGUE The Legend -of the Lily 7 
 
 BOOK ONE. THE STKUGGLE. 
 
 CHAPTER. 
 
 I. The Story is Begun 11 
 
 II. A Lost Opportunity 26 
 
 III. Extract from Nellie s Diary 37 
 
 IV. New Associations 46 
 
 V. A Friend Mr. Sappleigh s Mistake 63 
 
 VI. Maiden Meditations 80 
 
 VII. The Real Mr. Jadman 85 
 
 VIII. A Bitter Awakening 102 
 
 IX. From the Depths of the Heart 118 
 
 X. A Spell of Resting-time 133 
 
 XI. The End of Youth and Hope 149 
 
 XII. Lost 167 
 
 XIII. Cast Adrift... . 184 
 
 BOOK TWO. THE DEFEAT. 
 
 I. Beginning Life Again 198 
 
 II. A Woman s Hatred 218 
 
 III. A Lesson in Experience 229 
 
 IV. " Perdida" 244 
 
 V. In the Grasp of the Law 259 
 
 VI. "What Ami?"... . 275
 
 vi CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER. PAGE 
 
 VII. Still Drifting On 293 
 
 VIII. In the Valley of the Shadow 313 
 
 IX. The Mystery of the Private Office 331 
 
 X. Merely Existing 349 
 
 XI. Found ; 363 
 
 XII. But Yet a Woman. . . 378 
 
 BOOK THEEE. THE SURRENDER. 
 
 I. A New Responsibility 388 
 
 II. De Profundis 404 
 
 III. A Question of Inheritance 414 
 
 IV. A Life for a Life 425 
 
 V. Sue Dodge s Confession 441 
 
 VI. The Only Way 455
 
 PERDIDA. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE LILY. 
 
 THERE is a story of ancient Chinese origin that tells 
 of a valley, far back in the mountain country, where 
 nothing that is wholesome can live. Deep in the heart 
 of the untracked forests is a swamp, through which 
 runs a sluggish stream that reeks with filth and sends 
 its pestilental gases upward, as it passes through the 
 land, polluting the atmosphere until none but the vilest 
 creatures may dwell there. The earth that nourishes 
 its vegetation is foul with poisons, and the plant-life 
 that grows in riotous profusion on every hand is deadly 
 even to the touch. Here crawl serpents whose venom 
 is most potent; insects, that fly about and feed upon 
 the blossoms of the plants and upon one another, and 
 in turn become food for the reptiles, are themselves 
 so filled with the horrible elements of the swamp that 
 their bite is fatal; and the very leaves upon the trees 
 are dangerous to the birds that chance to wing that 
 way and rest among the branches. The place is called 
 "The Valley of the Poisons," and is shunned by all, 
 few having ventured to penetrate its grewsome pre 
 cincts, and these but for a brief inspection. 
 
 It is said that nothing that is planted in this land can 
 retain its pristine character. If it be originally of im 
 pure taint, its impurity will increase a hundredfold by
 
 8 PERDIDA. 
 
 nourishment from the soil; if it were of clean and 
 chaste extraction, a setting in the loam of the Valley of 
 the Poisons soon renders it as foul and fetid as the 
 other plants that there abound. The woorara and the 
 henbane, and all the deadly growths that find their 
 way to this place, become intensified in power with each 
 advancing year; and things most pure and harmless, 
 left to feed upon the juices of the marsh, even the 
 beauteous Chrysanthemum and the Sacred Lily, 
 planted here, depart from the ways of their ancestors 
 and in time exhale the foulness of the land. 
 
 Into this land a traveler, one who had studied deep 
 into Nature s secrets and was counted wise among the 
 wisest, came, one day, bearing in his hand a lily that 
 had been blessed by a loving father s tears and conse 
 crated to the welfare of succeeding generations. 
 
 "This," said he, "will be a test of my theory of the 
 power of purity to withstand the contact of the evil 
 ones. Surely, if anything that is can resist the con 
 tamination of this land, it will be the flower that bears 
 within itself the most sacred influence of the gods, a 
 father s blessing upon his descendants, the greatest of 
 all boons that life may know. Here will I plant this 
 emblem of purified purity, that it may grow among 
 these poison-laden things that shall have no powe~ to 
 harm it. Thus will I prove the incorruptibility of per 
 fect chastity and defy the evil ones by the presence of 
 the good." 
 
 So, selecting a spot where the vegetation of the 
 marsh land was most rank, he set the lily in its place, 
 and went away. 
 
 Another year the old man came again. Hope 
 showed in his eager glances, and in the spring of his 
 footstep, as he neared the spot. He paused a moment, 
 to make sure of the location, carefully noted the place
 
 PERDIDA. 9 
 
 where he had buried the lily root, and drew close to 
 the plant. 
 
 As he did so, a change came over his countenance, 
 and tears of sorrow rolled slowly down his aged face; 
 for he had seen that which he did not expect to see, and 
 the shock of a sudden revelation was upon him. He 
 had seen that his hopes were vain and that the lily was 
 not as it should be. 
 
 It had, in truth, grown rapidly, but the development 
 was like that of plants about it, coarse, monstrous and 
 vile. Its leaves, instead of being warmly green and 
 smooth, were rough and of a dark, unwholesome pur 
 plish hue that was possibly green or blue in tone yet 
 something that was neither; it stood high above the sur 
 rounding vegetation and had plainly outstripped it in 
 growth, but the plant was ugly and foul and bore no 
 resemblance to the parent stock whence it had origin 
 ally come ; and at its crest it bore a flower that was 
 indeed the lily of its birth- land in form and origin, but 
 was floridly veined like the brows of an angry man, 
 and in color no longer white and waxlike and wholly 
 pure, but red with the ghastly redness of new-shed 
 blood. 
 
 Sadly the old man gazed upon the plant and at the 
 flower, muttering to himself, "It cannot be; it surely 
 cannot be." Then, approaching it gently to get a 
 nearer view, in the hope that perchance he had mis 
 taken the spot and that he might yet find his lily grow 
 ing close at hand, he bent down above it and softty 
 touched it with his finger. As he did so, the odor of 
 the blossom swept his face and he felt a stinging sen 
 sation in his hand and arm; a sense of nausea and gid 
 diness came upon him and the stench of the flower 
 caused him to quickly withdraw from the place. At 
 the same time, he reeled and would have fallen had
 
 10 PERDIDA. 
 
 he not caught by a tree that grew close by. Standing 
 thus, he looked again upon the flower, and it seemed to 
 grow before his eyes as he gazed; and now he could 
 perceive that the atmosphere about it was heavy with 
 noisome gases that took on a yellowish hue, and that 
 even the vile insects that buzzed about the swamp ap 
 peared to avoid it. Then his sight grew dim, the 
 pain in his arm increased, and an attack of suffocation 
 overcame him and he slipped down from the support 
 ing tree and lay upon the ground. He was helpless 
 now and blind and only partly conscious, and he felt 
 that loathsome creatures crept about him, and that 
 death was near. Folding his hands upon his breast, 
 he prayed the gods to bear him swiftly away, and to 
 store no grudge against him for the experiment that he 
 had tried, since his motive had been good ; and as he 
 did so a voice that was clear, sweet and mellow filled 
 the air, and he heard it say : 
 
 " Fear not, son; thou hast meant well, though thou 
 hast done wrong. The gods alone can redeem the lily 
 that has been defiled. Therefore I say unto you, defile 
 it not." 
 
 And then he died. 
 
 But the gods came, so the story runs, and took the 
 plant away; and after a time it was purified and 
 found a new home among the immortals.
 
 PEBDIDA. 11 
 
 BOOK ONE. 
 
 THE S T RU GGLE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE STORY IS BEGUN. 
 
 THERE was a ripple of mild excitement among the 
 quiet people at Spring Valley, and the gossips had 
 a new theme for discussion. Nellie Brown was going 
 to the city to earn her living. Of course everybody 
 knew, and had always known, that this event was to 
 take its place in the annals of the community some day, 
 for Nellie had been studying a long time, and had 
 never made a secret of her intentions. But now that 
 she was really going, the actuality added interest to 
 the oft-talked-of topic and brought it into new promi 
 nence. Her Aunt Sarah, with whom she had lived 
 since her mother died leaving her with no other kin 
 dred, told the neighbors about it with bated breath, 
 and spoke of the future of the girl as something that 
 was positively awesome in its possibilities, and even 
 hinted that perhaps the day might not be far off when 
 they would all see her riding in her carriage beside the 
 wealthy husband who was certain to be waiting for 
 her in the town. 
 
 Old Mrs. Van Hogancamp, who was intimate with 
 Nellie s aunt, hoped that it would end that way, but 
 expressed a fear that it might not, and even went so
 
 12 PERDIDA. 
 
 far as to suggest that it would not be out of order to 
 warn the girl against the perils of city life, and to 
 caution her to avoid strange people and the assumption 
 of strange ways. 
 
 "You can t be too keerful, Mis Call," she said, 
 " bout givin a young thing like her plenty of advice 
 and lots of counsel. She s awful pretty and you know, 
 Mis Call, good looks is a dangerous heritage. Your 
 poor sister d a made a better match ef she hadn t been 
 so handsome as to ketch that idle feller that never was 
 much good to her." 
 
 "Oh, I ain t af eared for Nellie," replied her aunt. 
 "She s got lots of education now, what with goin reg - 
 lar t school an the help th master s given her, an I 
 low shell take care of herself. She s got a splendid 
 place, you see, an is goin to get eight dollars to begin 
 with, an Sue Dodge, what s been workin fer five 
 years, says thet she kin do well on that." 
 
 "Maybe, maybe," said Mrs. Van Hogancamp, shak 
 ing her head seriously, "we ll hope so anyway, fer 
 Nellie s a good girl. Do you think she s sweet on th 
 master? It hes somehow looked that way ter me, 
 when I ve seen em together." 
 
 "No; I think not," said Mrs. Call. "Nellie don t 
 seem to have no beaus. She s just good fellow with 
 all the boys; an now that she s goin away, she ll for- 
 git em, an take up with some rich city man, by and 
 by, I think. You know she s got high ideas." 
 
 "Yes, so I ve heard," said Mrs. Van Hogancamp, 
 "but high idees isn t allus good t hev." 
 
 "Not unless a girl s honest," replied the aunt, "an 
 Nellie s honest, if ever a girl was. But I must be off 
 now, cause there s lots to do, before she goes to-mor 
 row." 
 
 She left then; and old Mrs. Van Hogancamp
 
 PERDIDA. 13 
 
 watched her angular figure down the road, until she 
 was well out of sight, after which she delivered her 
 self of a soliloquy, that ran thus : 
 
 "Hum ! She ain t much worried bout th girl, thet s 
 plain. Well; them as ain t yer own s never too dear 
 t y . I low Mis Call hes done fair by Nellie, fed 
 her good, and kep her clothed, an hain t stood in the 
 way of her gettin edication an all thet. But I kin 
 see plain she ain t a bit sorry ter hev her gone an one 
 less on her hands. An yit she s got no one but her 
 self an old Mother Call an hes plenty ef she ain t rich. 
 Nell s a good girl, but ef she was mine, well I know 
 I d worry, thet s all. Th city s a dreadful place, an 
 it s full o sin an temptation, an a young girl thet s 
 pretty oughter hev a good home." 
 
 With this she betook herself to her kitchen to prepare 
 dinner, just as John Hadley, the schoolmaster arrived. 
 Hadley boarded with Mrs. Van Hogancamp, and was 
 a favorite. He followed her into the kitchen, sat 
 down upon the sill of an open window, and opened the 
 conversation with a blunt remark. 
 
 "Mrs. Van Hogancamp," said he; "Nellie Brown 
 goes away to-morrow. 
 
 The old woman eyed him slyly from the corner of 
 her half-closed lids, without change of expression, and 
 replied : 
 
 "She does." 
 
 "Yes," said he; "I thought you knew it. Do you 
 approve?" 
 
 A pause and another side glance. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Well," said he nervously, "I thought I d like to 
 know your views, that s all." 
 
 "Oh," said she, "ef thet s all, you kin hev my views 
 easy quick. It s just this. Nellie s got a right ter go
 
 14 PEEDIDA. 
 
 to the city ter git a livin ef she kin, an* she seems ter 
 be fit ter do it. Ef she was my daughter Id feel wor 
 ried about it, an want ter go too, but she ain t, so all 
 I kin do is just hope th best fer her an pray fer her 
 when she s gone. Her aunt don t care a rap, whether 
 you think so or not, an s ruther glad; so th girl s as 
 good as homeless anyhow, an must look out fer her 
 self. John Hadley," she continued, suddenly turning 
 upon him, "do you know what I d do ef I was you?" 
 
 "Why, what can I do?" said he weakly, looking 
 anxiously into her face. 
 
 "Huh!" said the old lady. "Men ain t what they 
 uster be. John Hadley, ef I was you, I d ask Nellie 
 Brown ter marry me." 
 
 The young man blushed at this, but there was noth 
 ing unmanly in his voice or manner as he replied : 
 
 "Mrs. Van Hogancamp, you are right. I love her, as 
 you seem to have found out easily, and would be very 
 happy if she were to be mine; but I have no reason for 
 believing she cares for me that way." 
 . "Then find out." 
 
 "What!" he replied. "Ask a girl, who does not 
 want me, to become my sweetheart and, later on, my 
 wife." 
 
 "Yes," said she, "jest that. She likes you right 
 well now, an she don t care specially fer nobody else, 
 an she s not likely ter ever marry any o th farmer 
 lads about here, cause she s edicated above em now; 
 so yer chance is good ef y push it." 
 
 "Do you really think so," he said eagerly. "If I 
 thought it possible, I would be the happiest fellow in 
 the land." 
 
 "Then go an try it," said the old woman. "It 
 can t kill ye ef she says no, an sometimes th no 
 don t last very long. I like you, John Hadley," she
 
 PEEDIDA. 15 
 
 continued, "yer a good honest man an I believe y ll 
 get up in the world some day; an that s why I want 
 ter tell you one thing now, an it s this. Ef y really 
 love Nellie Brown, an want her t be yourn sometime, 
 yer chance is now or never. I feel it in my bones, an 
 what I feel in my bones is so." 
 
 "But she has not even given me encouragement," he 
 pleaded. 
 
 "Don t wait fer thet," said Mrs. Van Hogancamp 
 earnestly. "Try it. I d ruther see Nellie engaged ter 
 you before she goes away than anything else just now. 
 Go to her like a brave lad an get her to listen ter you. 
 It ll be worth lots ter her." 
 
 "I think I will," he replied slowly. "Somehow you 
 have given me hope." 
 
 "Thet s right," she said, smiling into his eyes, that 
 were good eyes for any one to gaze upon. "But stop 
 wastin time on hopin . Jest go an say it out. Y 
 can t be any worse fer it, ef she isn t ready yit, an it ll 
 give her something ter think over when she s gone." 
 
 "Thank you," said the young man tenderly. "I 
 will try." 
 
 Supper finished, John Hadley, having donned his 
 best, strolled up the road that led to the Call place, and 
 resolved, as he walked along, that before he left, that 
 night, he would frankly tell his love to the girl who 
 had become the object of his affections. He was a re 
 tiring, almost bashful young man, and, long as he had 
 known her, had never dared so much as offer a hint of 
 the love that burned within his breast, fearing to ven 
 ture and always in doubt concerning her state of mind. 
 An almost womanish reserve and slyness, that is often 
 characteristic of studious and bookish men, prevented 
 him from pressing his suit, and had long kept him in
 
 16 PERDIDA. 
 
 suspense, when a bold declaration might have helped 
 him to win in the end, even if repulsed at first ; for 
 though Nellie had not actually fallen in love with 
 him, she was nearer doing so than she realized. 
 
 They had been together much for several years, in 
 fact from the time he took charge of the school, and 
 during one winter she had worked with him as assist 
 ant. The following year she attended school in a 
 near-by town, where she learned stenography and type 
 writing; but during this period, he had taught her pri 
 vately at the house after school-time, thus adding to 
 her education. They had, in truth, been fellow-stu 
 dents, and a sense of comradeship bad developed be 
 tween them that was pleasant. People in the village 
 commonly spoke of them as sweethearts, but this 
 never got to the schoolmaster, while Nellie herself 
 always turned off the suggestion with a laugh. She 
 had not yet learned to look upon him as a lover, 
 although she felt that he was dear to her. But with 
 him the case was different, and he would have given 
 half his life to have had the courage to tell her what he 
 felt. The situation was therefore peculiar. John 
 loved Nellie with the fervor of a strong secret affection, 
 yet she did not know it. Nellie liked John with a 
 sense of fondness that was not fully ripened love, but 
 was ready, at the first opportunity to bloom into a deep 
 and lasting attachment. Possibly his position as 
 teacher and guide tended to wall back the finer senti 
 ment. She simply did not know herself. 
 
 To night, however, John resolved that she should 
 know his heart. He would, he said, tell her his love, 
 let come what might. He knew she would be kind to 
 him, anyhow, and that would be something. And 
 why not, he said to himself, after all? She had no 
 other suitor. Mrs. Van Hogancamp was right. She
 
 PERDIDA. 17 
 
 might at least learn to think of him as a lover, and 
 later, perhaps, could learn to see it as he wished. He 
 would do it. 
 
 Arrived at the house, he found several of the people 
 of the village present. They were come to say good- 
 by to their young friend and to make merry for an 
 hour before the farewell. 
 
 The house that had been the home of Nellie Brown 
 since the death of her parents, which occurred when 
 she was but four years of age, was one of those old- 
 time Jersey farm-houses that have remained in one 
 family from generation to generation for over a cen 
 tury, and was still as sound and tidy as when the first 
 housewife, who was the great- grandmother of its pres 
 ent mistress, took charge of it and began her married 
 life among the sweet desolations of the hills that lie be 
 tween the borders of the Hudson and the mountains of 
 the Eamapo. At first it was the only building within 
 a radius of many miles, then, as people began to flow 
 into the rich lands of the Northern Jerseys, other 
 houses arose not far from it, and other farmers came to 
 settle there; until, by the time Mrs. Call s father 
 reached the good old age of eighty and passed away, 
 Spring Valley could really boast of being a village in 
 population as well as in name. Mrs. Call, now that 
 her sister, who married a handsome artist from the city 
 and died soon after the death of her husband, was gone, 
 was the sole possessor of the property. She was child 
 less, and had no dependents save her dead husband s 
 mother and the orphan girl, who would in time suc 
 ceed her. 
 
 It was a pleasant place and very homelike. Thrift, 
 and plenty, from the farmer s point of view, were 
 there, and life, though somewhat monotonous, was 
 peaceful. Neighbors were not numerous, but they
 
 18 PERDIDA. 
 
 were kindly and dissension was uncommon. The 
 young people were typical of their environment, healthy 
 good-tempered and sociable, and Nellie found her life 
 among them as agreeable as she could expect. And 
 yet in the home she had always realized that, while 
 properly cared for, she was not fondly loved. Her 
 aunt was never harsh or unreasonable, but she plainly 
 showed an indifference to the girl that caused her to feel 
 that, when it should become possible to do so, it would 
 be best that she learn to shift for herself. She was a 
 sensitive, warm-hearted creature, generous and im 
 pulsive, and all her life had yearned for affection and a 
 return of that ardor that she felt for those about her; 
 yet she could not remember that her aunt had ever 
 kissed her since the day she came to her, a trembling, 
 timid, sorrowing motherless child. 
 
 Among the neighbors Nellie was popular. Old and 
 young alike loved her, and she was a welcome guest 
 at any house. In childhood she had been the friend of 
 every schoolmate, and beyond dispute the favorite; in 
 later girlhood days she it was who was best beloved 
 among her comrades; and when, as budding woman 
 hood approached, she grew into their hearts, it was 
 always of Nellie Brov*n that they spoke as the dearest 
 lass in the village. The pastor of the little church 
 counted her among his most efficient co-workers, and 
 often found her invaluable in time of trouble, for no 
 appeal that came to Nellie ever passed unheeded. Was 
 there a sick child that needed nursing, Nellie Brown 
 stood ready to relieve the weary mother and watch the 
 little sufferer through the hours of the night; did the 
 lessons seem too hard, it was Nellie Brown who would 
 patiently devote the afternoon to help the dullard scholar 
 over the trying places; was Grandmother Nevin rest 
 less in her blindness while her son was absent at his
 
 PERDIDA. 19 
 
 work, it was Nellie Brown who went to her and be 
 guiled the time with stories, until he should return. 
 The people not only loved but honored her, for they felt 
 that she was a little better than themselves. She knew 
 more, had been at school longer than the average, could 
 teach other children and could play the organ and sing 
 in the church, and was therefore looked upon as a 
 superior person and a neighbor of whom they ought to 
 be proud. Had she been a less noble character, they 
 might have disliked her; but her gentleness and sincer 
 ity and a certain manner that old Deacon Popgrass 
 said remainded him "of th angels" made it impossible 
 to envy her or to feel toward her any but the kindliest 
 sentiments. God creates such women occasionally; 
 there is probably at least one in every village; sweet 
 clear-eyed souls who seem to have been born to lives of 
 goodness and to be without the common human taint of 
 guile. 
 
 That she was a pretty young woman none would 
 deny. There was not a lad in the place who did not 
 admire her, not a full-grown man who did not find 
 her a pleasing person to gaze upon. And, strange as it 
 may seem, her young mates found her beautiful too, 
 and always spoke of her as the prettiest girl in all the 
 country round. It seemed to be an admitted fact that, 
 no matter how handsome a girl might be, she could 
 never be so handsome as Nellie Brown, and, this being 
 accepted, none were jealous of her. 
 
 "An then, how could they be, anyhow," said Hilah 
 Banta, who was one of the prettiest herself, "when 
 everybody knows that she ain t one bit conceited, and 
 never seems to know how beautiful she is? Of course 
 we d all like to be as pretty if we could, but that don t 
 make no difference, because we can t. Y* just can t 
 help loving her, she s so good."
 
 $0 PERDIDA. 
 
 "That s true," replied Jane Westervelt, a plain 
 buxom lass, who sat near. "An with all her good 
 ness, she s not a bit stupid an vain and trying, like 
 some of those that s good. I m sorry she s going away. 
 Everybody ll miss her, an her Aunt Sarah ll lose a 
 treasure." 
 
 "Don t say that too loud," whispered Hilah, "Mis 
 Call s peculiar, an some folks say she ain t sorry Nel 
 lie s going." 
 
 "Yes, I heard that too," replied Jane, "but I can t 
 believe it s so." 
 
 The girls had been sitting in a corner somewhat 
 apart from the company and not so near Nellie that she 
 could overhear them in the general hum of talk that 
 rilled the room. There were about twenty persons 
 present who had dropped in to say good-by, and the 
 gathering was a very full house for Mrs. Call. She 
 had invited the people to come, and, it being a special 
 event in the home life, unbent sufficiently to become 
 an agreeable hostess on this occasion, which she felt 
 must reflect greatly to her credit. 
 
 For was it not she who brought Nellie up; and was it 
 not due to her wise care that the girl had become the 
 superior creature that was now about to take her flight 
 into the great world and prove herself aa honor to the 
 family? What would have become of her if it had 
 not been for the kind aunt who took her when she was 
 nothing but a baby, and raised her to ways of good 
 ness and paths of virtue? Who would have taught her 
 housekeeping and made her tidy and sent her to 
 school and given her all her education if not her own 
 mother s generous sister? To be sure, of course, with 
 out the bringing up that she had given, Nellie would 
 be no better than other girls, perhaps not so good. 
 Mrs. Call, as she thought over this and discussed it
 
 PERDIDA. 21 
 
 with the old ladies who sat about her in the room, real 
 ized that she herself was, in sooth, no secondary part 
 of the entertainment, and felt a sense of importance that 
 had not grown upon her until now. In truth, she took 
 the credit of the whole. Nellie had become what she 
 was because of what her aunt had done. If the girl 
 deserved any praise, it could only be a reflection of the 
 greater praise that was due her benefactor. There 
 have been other Mrs. Calls in the world. 
 
 There were children there, too, who wanted to bid 
 farewell to the lovely young woman about whose waist 
 they had been wont to cling at recess when in school, 
 and whose baby griefs she had often soothed when 
 things went wrong, children who loved her, as chil 
 dren will, without asking why, but simply because 
 they do. They clung about her now, as she chatted 
 with this one and that of her older companions, and 
 moved about the room, with a smile and greeting for 
 every person present. Little Mary Neal, an orphan 
 girl who lived with a married sister down the valley, 
 and whom Nellie had nursed through scarlet- fever, 
 was there with others, and, despite the cheering words 
 that Nellie spoke, could scarcely dry her tears at the 
 thought of losing her friend. The child had been a 
 favorite of Nellie s, and often spent the day with her, 
 and the affection that had grown in her young heart 
 for the "big beautiful aunty," as she called her, was 
 deep and tender. She was a slight, delicate creature, 
 that might not live to womanhood, passionate in tem 
 perament and naturally willful, but with Nellie she 
 had always been pliable and loving. She clung to her 
 now with a feverish clasp of the hand, as though she 
 could not let her go. 
 
 "You must not cry because I m going," said Nellie, 
 smiling down into the child s eyes, "because there is
 
 22 PERDIDA. 
 
 really nothing to cry about, you see. Aunty is not 
 leaving forever. She will come back soon and see 
 you, and perhaps, some day, you will come to the city 
 and see her, and that will be splendid." 
 
 "Yes," replied the child, "but I don t want you to go. 
 I want you to stay here. It s best here, I think." 
 
 "It is nice here, I admit," said Nellie, "and I feel 
 sad at leaving you and all the rest. But every one 
 must go away some time, dear. You ll understand 
 better by and by, and then, I am going to write you 
 nice letters, and tell you lots of lovely things, and you 
 will enjoy that." 
 
 "Yes," said Mary, "I d like that; and I ll write you 
 letters too, and you won t mind the crooked lines and 
 bad -spelled words when you are away; like you did at 
 school," she added, smiling through her tears, for she 
 was a merry lass, when happy. "I think you ll be glad 
 to get them just as I make them, when you ain t teacher, 
 but just only my big beautiful aunty." 
 
 "Indeed I will," said Nellie. "And you must write 
 me all you know." 
 
 She patted the child s hand tenderly, as she turned to 
 welcome John Hadley, who had just entered, and said : 
 
 "Now you must excuse me for a time, dear, because 
 I have to see all the others; but I will walk home with 
 you, as I promised your sister, when the party breaks up. 
 And perhaps Mr. Hadley will go too," she added, smil 
 ing, "so that we shan t be afraid of Things." 
 
 Hadley s comely face lighted up at this suggestion, 
 as he gravely answered : 
 
 "Of course I will. What could be nicer. And then 
 if Mary is tired, I can carry her pickaback, and that 
 will be good fun." 
 
 They laughed together at this, and Mary left them, 
 just as several older people came in. By this time
 
 PERDIDA. 23 
 
 Nellie was so busy entertaining the company that she 
 could give little time to each, for she had the good sense 
 to neglect no one and mingled freely with all the 
 groups in turn. Then somebody asked her to sing for 
 them once more before she should be gone ; so she sat 
 at the old pianoforte and charmed them for a half-hour 
 with the simple ballads that pleased them best; and 
 after that Mr. Hadley sang a comic song that set the 
 children screaming with delight, and pleased the old 
 folk thoroughly. In fact Deacon Popgrass could not 
 get over it for a long time, and was heard to remark 
 again and again that "master was a right jolly feller 
 when school s out, if he was ruther sober when tendin 
 t business." After this the old folk sat about the 
 room and the children had a game of ring-around 
 played to music on the pianoforte; and then Mrs. Call 
 and Nellie brought in refreshments, which were passed 
 with the help of some of the young women, and the en 
 tertainment closed. 
 
 On occasions of this kind it is deemed proper that the 
 departing member of the community should be sent 
 away with the prayers of the people and the blessing of 
 the church; and the time having now come for this 
 ceremony, the pastor arose and silence fell upon the 
 assembled company. 
 
 Pastor Van Home was a venerable man. His years 
 had been many among these villagers, and there was 
 not one of them whom he did not know intimately. 
 Like many of the old-time Dutch Reformed ministers, 
 he had grown with his people from early life to middle 
 age and from that point on into the days of senectitude, 
 until there could be no doubt that he would finish his 
 work in the field that had been his from the first. He 
 was revered and loved, and few were the affairs of the 
 community that did not lie close to his heart, For this
 
 24 PERDIDA. 
 
 young sister, now about to drift away into an unknown 
 world, he had the tenderest solicitude, for he loved her 
 perhaps a little better than he loved any other living 
 thing, and there was in his affection for her much of 
 that sense of fatherhood which is so strong a sentiment 
 when the aged love the young. It was not strange, 
 therefore, that, as he raised his voice in prayer, his tones 
 should be unsteady and his utterance impassioned, and 
 that there should be in his petition an intensity of feeling 
 beyond the common utterance of daily invocation. 
 
 Fervently he pleaded with the Master to watch his 
 unprotected lamb, when she should be far from friends 
 and dear ones; earnestly he prayed that no harm 
 might come upon her, and that, wherever she went, the 
 guiding hand of Christ might ever lead her on. 
 Against all perils that beset the way, the snares of the 
 tempter, the wiles of the wicked, and the deceits of the 
 crafty, he besought Almighty God to defend her, day 
 by day, that she might be safe from evil and able to 
 pursue her course through life to happiness both here 
 and hereafter. He prayed that she might be spared 
 the pains of illness in body and the anguish of mental 
 hurt; that she might dwell among true friends and 
 godly neighbors who would stand ready to help her on; 
 that her work might be ever upward leading and benefi 
 cent, and that she might become to those new peo 
 ple with whom she was to live, the shining light and 
 example that she had always been at home. He prayed 
 that as a woman she might be spared the dangers that 
 beset a woman s life, that none but upright comrades 
 should be given her, and that peace and comfort should 
 become her reward, as years passed on. And then he 
 commended her to the care of Jesus, as if she were a 
 child that he was about to part with, and humbly 
 pleaded with Him to guard her every hour.
 
 PERDIDA. 25 
 
 There were venerable heads that bowed in silent 
 assent as the pastor closed his petition, and not a few 
 were the women s faces that bore traces of tears ere 
 he was done. Even the young and less thoughtful in 
 the room felt the solemnity of the occasion, and added 
 their unspoken prayers to the words of their honored 
 leader. John Hadley felt the influence of the hour 
 deeply, and it almost seemed to him that Nellie was 
 about to depart never to return. He said to himself 
 that Mrs. Van Hogancamp was right; that now or 
 never must be win her heart; and with this feeling 
 came a realization of the loss that would be his if death 
 or total separation of any kind should come between 
 himself and the beautiful girl who had so long been 
 the goal of his desire. And yet he trembled at the 
 thought of speaking. 
 
 Nellie herself was not unmoved by the prayer. She 
 felt it keenly and took it deep into her innermost heart, 
 with a sense of gratitude to the good man who had so 
 touchingly commended her to the care of God. And 
 when he had finished, it was with a sense of consecra 
 tion that she lifted her head, and rising, crossed the room 
 to where he stood and kissed him. He took her in his 
 arms, and tenderly pressed her brow with his lips, say 
 ing: 
 
 "It is a good thing, my daughter, that we can send 
 you forth so lovingly. Always be what you are, and 
 Christ will bless you." 
 
 After this the company broke up, and departing one 
 by one left only John and Nellie and the child.
 
 26 PERDIDA. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A LOST OPPORTUNITY. 
 
 THE moon was just rising above the crest of the 
 highest of the Palisades, as John Hadley and Nellie, 
 with little Mary between them, clinging to a hand of 
 either as she walked along, set out upon the road that 
 led from the Call place to the home of the child s sister. 
 Mrs. Benson had not been able to attend the meeting 
 at th6 house of Mrs. Call, because the night air was 
 dangerous to her, so Nellie had promised to bring Mary 
 back after her guests should depart. She knew that 
 Mary could not go alone, and realizing how great 
 would be her disappointment if she could not be with 
 the other children, cheerfully undertook the escort. 
 Her invitation to John Hadley had been an after 
 thought that was born of the circumstance of his ar 
 rival while she was talking with the child, yet it was 
 nothing that she would not have asked him at any 
 time, for they were on that footing of friendship which 
 admits of such requests without hesitation. 
 
 As they walked along, the child and Nellie did most 
 of the talking. John was unusually silent, speaking 
 seldom and then only when one or the other addressed 
 him. His abstraction would have been noticeable, but 
 for the fact that Nellie herself was so full of the sense 
 of something uncommon that her own mind was not 
 alert to anything out of the ordinary in his manner.
 
 PERDIDA. . 27 
 
 Of course the talk was of the approaching leave that 
 Nellie was to take of her old associates and friends. 
 
 "Sister says," said Mary, "that the city is full of 
 awful bad places and very wicked people, and that they 
 do dreadful things there. Do you think so too?" 
 
 "I am afraid there may be some bad places and some 
 bad people there," replied Nellie, "but I don t think I 
 shall try to hunt them up." 
 
 "No, of course you wouldn t do that," said the child ; 
 "but she says that the bad people sometimes come and 
 hurt the good ones, and that little girls ain t safe to 
 be left alone in the great big city. I hope that ain t so, 
 cause then they might try to hurt big girls too, and 
 I shouldn t like to have them hurt you. You wouldn t 
 like them to hurt my big beautiful aunty, would you 
 Mr. Hadley?" 
 
 "No, no, dear, indeed I would not," said John ab 
 sent-mindedly. He was trying to think how he should 
 open the subject so near his heart, after Mary had been 
 taken home, and his answer was mechanical. 
 
 "I thought you wouldn t," continued the child. 
 "And if I was a man, I think I d punish anybody that 
 did. Wouldn t you?" 
 
 Again the answer was half-mechanic; "I certainly 
 would." 
 
 "But aunty isn t going where there are bad places 
 and bad people; so they can t hurt hr, can they, Mr. 
 Hadley?" 
 
 "What makes you think anybody would want to in 
 jure me, dear?" interrupted Nellie with a gentle 
 laugh. 
 
 "Oh, I don t know," said the child, "I think it must 
 be because you are good and so beautiful, and bad peo 
 ple likes to hurt people that s good and beautiful, so 
 sister says; and then I think it must be because I love
 
 28 PERDIDA. 
 
 you so much. You know everybody is anxious about 
 anybody that they loves." 
 
 "You dear, old fashioned little girlie," said Nellie 
 tenderly. " Why must you be so worried about me." 
 
 "Well," said the child, "I try not to be; but some 
 times I can t help it. I wish you wasn t going. 
 Don t you Mr. Hadley?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed," replied John, recovering himself by 
 an effort. "We all wish that it need not be; but you 
 see, Mary, Miss Brown has work to do, and when peo 
 ple grow up, they must go where the work is. That 
 is how I came to be here." 
 
 "Yes, that s so," said the child, "I hadn t thought 
 of that. If there wasn t any school here you wouldn t 
 have come. But this ain t a big city; it s a good 
 place." 
 
 " Indeed it is," said John, "a very good place." 
 
 "Then why can t aunty do her work here too?" said 
 Mary. 
 
 "Because her work is not here to do," replied John. 
 "She is so wise now that she can make more money in 
 the city, and that is what people go there for. I shall 
 hope to go myself, some day." 
 
 "Oh, but that will be nice," cried the child, "for 
 then you can look after my aunty, and whip the bad 
 people if they try to hurt her." 
 
 John Hadley laughed and Nellie smiled. The art 
 less serious sincerity of this child had its droll side. 
 Nellie spoke : 
 
 "Do not worry, dear, about me. Your sister has not 
 meant to have you take it so deeplj to heart. There 
 are, of course, wicked people everywhere and they do 
 wicked deeds, but I shall not run across them ; so just 
 think what fine times I shall be having and how happy 
 you will be to see me when I come home, as I shall 
 quite often."
 
 PERDIDA. 29 
 
 "Yes, I ll try to do that too," said the child, "but I 
 wish you wasn t going." 
 
 By this time they had arrived at Mary s home, and 
 found her sister awaiting them. They stopped a few 
 minutes to give Mrs. Benson opportunity to say good 
 by to Nellie, and to please the little girl, who clung 
 about her neck with loving arms to the last. Then 
 they began to retrace their steps upon the last walk 
 that they were likely to take together for many a day. 
 As they turned out into the road, a window of the 
 house was suddenly opened, and a child s shrill tones 
 rang clear upon the quiet air of the night : 
 
 "Good-by, dear aunty, good-by. I ll try not to 
 worry." 
 
 Nellie turned about toward the sound and called in 
 reply : 
 
 "Good-by, sweet. That s right. Good-by." 
 
 Then they heard the closing of the window, and 
 silence fell upon them as they moved along. 
 
 For some time neither spoke. John Hadley walked 
 slowly on the edge of the footpath, leaving the harder- 
 beaten middleway to the girl who was so dear to him ; 
 and Nellie moved beside him, almost touching his arm 
 as she walked. Neither looked at the other, and 
 neither felt a desire to converse just then. Yet hith 
 erto, when walking together, they had been constant 
 talkers, and had never wanted subjects of interest. A 
 stranger passing by might have thought them a pair 
 of happy lovers so bound up in the presence of each 
 other that speech had become unnecessary to their ex 
 istence. Yet such was not the case; for on the one 
 hand speech was absolutely necessary to John s happi 
 ness, at this moment, while Nellie, being full of the 
 change that was to begin on the morrow, felt no wish 
 to hasten conversation, and was contented with the
 
 30 PERDIDA. 
 
 silent comradeship of this man whom she counted her 
 very dear friend. 
 
 The old trouble that had so long stood between him 
 and a settlement of the great question of his life was 
 again present. He could not bring himself to face the 
 point with courage. He knew what he wanted to say, 
 but to say it seemed now no easier than before. If he 
 had been less timid before this dear maid, less fearful 
 that he should not win her, less anxious not to wound 
 himself, it might have been different. Again, if he had 
 been able to show her by actions and signs, such as 
 most lovers display, that he wished to ask her the one 
 great question, she would surely have become conscious 
 of the fact, for she was nearer loving him than she real 
 ized, and it was only the lack of lover-like attention on 
 his part that caused her to be self-deceived. She be 
 lieved him to be her dearest male friend, she knew 
 that she loved him probably more than she would love 
 a brother if she had one ; but it had never occurred to 
 her to think of looking up to him as a possible husband, 
 he seemed so high above her. One tender word from 
 his lips, one caressing touch of his hand, would have 
 opened her ready heart to a full understanding of it 
 self; but he was too reserved, too fearful of himself to 
 utter the word or tender the caress. So on they walked 
 in silence, each moment bringing its resolve that now 
 he would surely tell her his desire, the next finding 
 him shrinking timorous from the ordeal, that grew 
 harder with every shorten ing minute that brought them 
 nearer to the end of their walk. 
 
 At length she spoke, but it was to refer to the events 
 of the meeting and to express her gratitude at the 
 kindness shown her by everybody present, especially 
 himself. 
 
 "You have been very good to me, Mr. Hadley, " she
 
 PERDIDA. 31 
 
 said, "and I must not fail to thank you now before I 
 go away. I really think you have taught me more 
 than half of all I know." 
 
 Now was his time to tell her what would repay him 
 best, if she could find it in her heart to do it, but he 
 did not. He merely said : 
 
 "You must not feel that way about me, Miss Brown, 
 we have been fellow-students and workers, I should 
 say, rather than teacher and pupil. I have enjoyed 
 every moment of our friendship, and shall hope it may 
 never change." 
 
 There was a slight fervor in his tones, as he said this, 
 that she noted, and the flash of a suggestion came 
 upon her, but it was too faint to last without the help 
 of the parent flame that burned in the breast of the 
 man; and he seemed unable to take advantage of it. 
 
 "That is very kind," she said, "you are indeed my 
 very dear friend, and I shall always be yours. No 
 matter what new friends I make, I am not likely to 
 forget the companion of so many pleasant hours and 
 one of the happiest associations of my life. I shall 
 part from you with regret, be sure of that. 
 
 As she spoke she turned her azure eyes up to him, 
 as if she would read deep into his heart, and smiled a 
 quiet maidenly smile that was so winning it almost 
 brought his passion to his lips. He returned her 
 glance; and, as their eyes met, each felt how truly 
 dear the other was, and, for an instant, the startling 
 thought came upon the woman that perhaps this was 
 the beginning of a greater love. But it vanished with 
 his next remark. 
 
 "Your regret cannot be greater than mine, Miss 
 Brown. I shall lose a very pleasant comrade when 
 you go, one whose vacant place cannot be filled. But 
 we shall see you here again occasionally, I hope."
 
 32 PEEDIDA. 
 
 "To be sure you will," she said slowly, as if think 
 ing of something else. "And perhaps you will visit 
 the city before long and can call on me at my boarding 
 place. I should dearly like to have you." 
 
 He replied that he certainly would try to do so, and 
 then relapsed into silence. 
 
 "Look," said she, after a time, "see how high the 
 moon has risen since we started. How beautiful is 
 such a night as this! One could linger in it almost 
 till the dawn and not be weary. I fear that it may be 
 a long time before I shall again enjoy so fair a scene." 
 
 "Yes," said he, "it is very beautiful. Such nights 
 are meant for love and happiness, the poets say." 
 
 "And for friendships too, Mr. Hadley, "she added 
 with a smile. "Do you not think so?" 
 
 "Yes," he replied absently (he was trying with all 
 his might to force up his courage), "for friendships 
 too." 
 
 "And for everything that is good and lovable and 
 pure," said she. "It seems an auspice of happiness 
 yet to come," she continued, "that I should spend my 
 last night so charmingly." 
 
 He did not reply, and his manner impressed her 
 with a vague uneasiness that she could not understand. 
 She felt that, in parting from this friend, she was sev 
 ering a tie that was somehow stronger than others, 
 though she had not perceived it before, and that she 
 would miss John Hadley more than all the rest. It 
 was a new thought and it perplexed her. Yet she did 
 not realize. She thought that his silence might be due 
 to the spell of the night, so she did not immediate!} 7 
 spaak again. Meantime his love, that ran riot in bis 
 veins, was urging him to turn to her now and tell her 
 all, to pour out his soul in passionate words that should 
 bring her to his breast with the sweet confession that
 
 PERDIDA. 33 
 
 alone could satisfy him. He was almost at the point 
 of venturing; his diffidence, even his timidity, had 
 almost left him. He said that in a few minutes he 
 would do it, and settle the question forever. 
 
 Just then they arrived at the house, and Mrs. Call 
 advanced to meet them at the gate. The chance had 
 slipped. 
 
 He said his good-by, standing in the pathway, took 
 the dear hand of the girl he loved in his for a farewell 
 clasp, and, with commonplace words of parting such 
 as friends exchange with every day s occurrence, left 
 her with her aunt, and walked rapidly down the road 
 to his abiding-place, pained, chargined and angry with 
 himself. 
 
 When he reached his room, he sat awhile at the 
 window, thinking it all over, and blaming, himself for 
 being a coward and a fool and a worthless fellow, who 
 had not sense and pluck enough to deserve anything 
 that he craved. He recalled the words of his landlady, 
 and realized how sensible and pertinent they were, even 
 though the manner of their utterance was blunt and 
 unpolished, and understood why it was that she had so 
 urgently pressed him to declare himself, both for his 
 own good and that of the girl she admired and loved. 
 Then he brought to mind certain little expressions that 
 he had noted on Nellie s face, while they walked along, 
 and remembered the tenderness of her tones when she 
 had spoken of the friendship that she bore him, and 
 seemed to see that she had almost invited him to tell his 
 love. He understood too that the chance, if there was 
 any, had passed ; that he had, in truth, thrown it 
 away; that he had left her to believe that she was 
 nothing to him beyond what he had said, and that an 
 other might hope with better opportunities to win her 
 if he wished. And as it all grew upon him, and he
 
 34 PERDIDA. 
 
 perceived what he had lost through his own folly, he 
 threw himself upon his bed and sobbed like a broken 
 hearted child, nor did he fall asleep until the early 
 dawn. 
 
 His slumber was light and unrestful, and he awoke in 
 time for breakfast. He did not look well, but Mrs. 
 Van Hogancamp passed no comments on his appear 
 ance, for she liked the young man and had no wish to 
 annoy him when he really suffered. She perceived at 
 once that he was unhappy, and, arguing from sugges 
 tion, assumed that he had taken her advice and been 
 rejected, and it troubled her, for she had hoped that 
 Nellie would favor him. Her good sense told her that 
 he would confide in her, by and by, so she let him 
 alone and decided to await developments. 
 
 "It ll all come out right yit perhaps," she said to 
 herself. "Girls don allus mean no fer good when 
 they seys it, an Nellie s an honest girl, an wouldn t 
 play with a man s heart. I b lieve she ll come round 
 unless," she added slowly, "unless some city feller 
 gits her head rilled with nonsense. But I jest won t 
 think of thet. " 
 
 At breakfast it was John who first spoke. 
 
 "I suppose Miss Brown has gone by this time," he 
 said. "She was to leave on the eight-thirty train from 
 Hillsdale, and must have started early to drive over 
 there." 
 
 "Yes," she said, "I seen her goin down th road in 
 Deacon Popgrass wagon, bout n hour ago. The 
 deacon hain t back yit, but of course he got her started 
 all right, fer he s allus prompt. She looked right well 
 in thet new gown her aunt made fer her. an everybody 
 thet they passed gave em a hearty good-by. Yon 
 onghter o seed th deacon. He was got up fine, and 
 looked as if he was goin to th races, an felt as gay s
 
 PERDIDA. 35 
 
 if he was some young feller takin his best girl t th 
 show. But he s all right. He keeps young, thet s 
 all." 
 
 "Yes," said John, "he s a fine man. I m glad he 
 took her down. He would see her off safely. I am 
 sorry that I was not up in time." 
 
 Breakfast finished, he departed for the schoolhouse 
 and to his task that had never seemed so dull as now. 
 But he was an honest and patient instructor, and none 
 of the scholars had reason to notice that the mind of 
 their teacher was not heartily in his work. It dragged, 
 however, and he was not sorry when the end came 
 and he could walk out into the woods and, alone among 
 the trees, give way to the thoughts that were upper 
 most in his mind and think. He saw that there was 
 nothing for him to do but wait, and that, if ever an 
 other chance presented itself, he must be different 
 from what he had been. 
 
 How he loved her ! He had not half realized it until 
 now that she was gone, perhaps forever. Why had 
 he not taken courage to tell her and at least try to win 
 her regard by a straightforward manly declaration? 
 He was not a coward, no man would have called him 
 that; few were braver; dangers and doubts in general 
 had no terrors for him. At school he had been the 
 pluckiest of all, at college one of the most daring and 
 fearless. Yet here he failed, when the worst could 
 have been nothing more than a kindly, affectionate re 
 jection of his suit. And again, he now understood 
 that, with open wooing, he had had a good chance of 
 success. It was clear now, when the chance had 
 passed. He resolved that he would be patient, and 
 that, if ever again the opportunity came, he would tell 
 her frankly all that he desired, and leave the rest to 
 her. It was a very good resolution for the present,
 
 36 PERDIDA. 
 
 since it was not yet a resolution in esse. The trouble 
 with John Hadley was that, while he was brave enough 
 in the presence of physical foes, he was yet a victim of 
 a kind of moral cowardice that is born of a weak con 
 science and a feeble manhood. He would not willfully 
 do a wrong, but he had not the pluck to always face 
 the right for right s sake; and, in addition to this, he 
 was afraid of wounding his own pride. The time 
 was yet to come when Nellie would discover this and 
 learn to judge him by the light of experience. Mean 
 time he did not know himself, for he had not been 
 tested.
 
 PERDIDA. 37 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM NELLIE S DIARY. 
 
 MAY 10th, 18 . It is more than a week since I 
 have had anything to write in you, you dear compan 
 ion of my lonely hours, but to-night I must take you 
 out and tell you a few things that you ought to know. 
 Some people say it is foolish to keep a diary, and I 
 agree with them when they refer to the habit that cer 
 tain folks have of writing every day, whether there is 
 anything to write or not; but I have found you a very 
 pleasant companion, since I adopted the plan of never 
 confiding in you, unless there was something that I 
 felt you ought to know. To-night I have lots to think 
 of and much to tell, so I take you out of your hiding- 
 place, that we may enjoy an hour of pleasant inter 
 course over matters that interest us both. 
 
 Well; here I am, a lone girl, in a city boarding 
 house among strangers when at home, if you can call 
 it home where everything is unlike home and nothing 
 reminds you of home life. Sue Dodge is the only per 
 son here that I know, and I do not really know her 
 very well. She has been most kind to interest herself 
 in me and to get me a situation with the firm where 
 she is working. She seems ever so much older than I, 
 and yet she is still young, but I suppose this is because 
 she has been independent so long that she has acquired 
 mature ways. She is first-assistant bookkeeper at Jad- 
 man, Stein & Co. s, and has been there five years, and
 
 38 PERDIDA. 
 
 it was due to her influence that I got my place as one of 
 the stenographers. I do not see her all day, excepting 
 at lunch, and she impresses me as having grown to be 
 very taciturn and reserved since last I saw her when 
 at home. They seem to like her, however, and I under 
 stand that she is a valuable worker. She used to be so 
 light-hearted that the change in her affects me 
 strangely. But she is very kind to me, and has taken 
 pains to make me feel at home both here and at the 
 store. Her room is below mine on the second floor. 
 She secured mine for me before I arrived and got it 
 cheap, owing to her influence wi+h Mrs. Ferguson, so 
 all I have to pay is five dollars a week. This does not 
 leave me much out of my eight dollars, but I think I 
 can manage to get along, with the help of the money I 
 have saved, until the firm raises my wages, which they 
 promise to do as soon as I am worth it. I shall try to 
 deserve the favor. 
 
 Strange as boarding-house life seems to me, 1 do not 
 yet find it tedious. Of course it isn t like home, but 
 then, you know, I never had a really real home with 
 a loving mother to caress me and a father to lean upon. 
 Aunt Sarah has been good to me, but she has never 
 appeared to actually want me with her, so I suppose 
 this new way of living does not affect me as it would 
 a girl who had left a lot of weeping sisters and a 
 mother and father behind. I miss Aunt Sarah in a 
 way, but not as I should like to, not perhaps as I 
 ought to, and I miss the people of the village, espe 
 cially Pastor Van Home and little Mary, whom I 
 dearly love, and my best friend Mr. Hadley. 
 
 Do you know, my closest companion, I have thought, 
 since leaving home, that possibly Mr. Hadley might 
 have learned to like me very much if I had 7iot gone 
 away. There was something iu his manner the last
 
 PERDIDA. 39 
 
 night I was with him, which has left an impression in 
 my mind that was never there before. I have not been 
 so self -conceited as to assume that he loves me yet, but 
 (and I tell it to you as to my other self) I feel it would 
 take very little to win my heart to him. I have 
 thought this over seriously of late, and, somehow, I 
 seem to warm toward him with a tenderness that 
 I know is not mere friendship. I feel that, if God 
 should ever draw him to me, I would surely learn to 
 love him very dearly, he is so good and kind and gen 
 tle and grave and so true to his ideals of life. This is 
 a secret, little diary, that none must know. I am not 
 positively certain of myself just now, but I think I am 
 right when I say that, of all the men I know, John 
 Hadley is the one I could love most. But what right 
 has a business girl to be thinking of such things? 
 
 There are some very pleasant people at this house. 
 Sue Dodge, in spite of her reserve, is a good table com 
 panion and is easily the leading spirit of the dinner 
 hour. There is also another girl who works at our 
 place, a Miss Cora Wasson, who comes from some 
 where up New York State, and is very agreeable. She 
 is prettj and has the loveliest brown eyes. Her work is 
 in the lace department, and they say she is a good clerk. 
 I like her already, and she has promised to visit at 
 Spring Valley with me some day, when we can get 
 our vacations. Miss Odombosky, a dark, severe old 
 maid, who sits opposite me, interests me. She says 
 she is of foreign birth (her name certainly is) and gives 
 private lessons in languages. She does not talk much, 
 but appears to be intelligent and well-bred. She sings 
 well and plays the piano. Everybody seems to like her, 
 in spite of her strange ways, and Mr. Sappleigh, who 
 sits next to me, is fond of drawing her into conver 
 sation and treats her with marked respect.
 
 40 PERDIDA. 
 
 Mr. Sappleigh is our most popular boarder. He is 
 very good-looking and has nice manners, just a bit 
 foppish, I should say, but still not silly. He told me 
 "in confidence," before all the others, which struck me 
 as comical, that his father is a very rich man who has 
 a bank or something of the kind downtown, and said 
 that the reason he is boarding with us, instead of at 
 home, is because he and his stepmother cannot get 
 along, and his presence in the family makes things un 
 pleasant for "the pater," as he calls his father. He 
 invited Miss Wasson and m3 T self to go to the theater 
 with him Saturday. I asked Sue Dodge if it was 
 proper, and she smiled and replied that she saw no 
 danger in our going with Mr. Sappleigh, since she 
 considered him harmless and a decent kind of a fellow, 
 even if he was slightly inclined to be a swell and did 
 not amount to much. "Of course," she said, "he is 
 not quite the man that a woman would care to marry. 
 He s too soft at the top; but I think he is one whom 
 a girl can trust to treat her with propriety. So go 
 along with Cora and enjoy yourselves. You needn t 
 spare Mr. Sappleigh any expense; he has money to 
 burn and likes to burn it. He ll treat you nicely and 
 give you a good time." So we are going. Never hav 
 ing been to a theater in my life, I look forward to this 
 outing with eagerness. 
 
 May 14th. I must tell you, dear companion, how 
 much I like my place and my work. They are very 
 kind to me and treat me with considerateness. Of 
 course they expect the work to be well done, and that 
 is only right. But they are not cross, and if a girl 
 gets her tasks out of the way on time nothing is said. 
 Mr. Jadman is a very busy man, and is in and out a 
 good deal, and Mr. Stein is away more than half the
 
 PERDIDA. 41 
 
 time. It was at first difficult for me to understand Mr. 
 Jadman s dictation, he is so peculiar, and seems to 
 think one can know what he wants to say before he 
 says it; but in about two days I found that all I need 
 do was just follow his words as he said them and 
 then write my letters as they should be written, taking 
 pains to omit no point of business importance. He 
 has a poor idea of literarj r composition, and it would 
 be a pity to send his letters out as he would write them, 
 so I make them read as they should, and then he looks 
 them over, and says, "Yes, yes; very good indeed; 
 that s just what I said," and signs them. The first 
 day in the office I was timid before him, and he noticed 
 it; so he made my work easy. He spoke kindly and 
 told me not be in haste, but to take a little time until I 
 should be accustomed to the place. He is a fine- look 
 ing man, about forty I should say, with strong features 
 and good figure and alert, black eyes that can be very 
 piercing when he is angry. Cora Wasson says all the 
 men in the store hate him and that he sometimes treats 
 them like dogs, but I can hardly believe it true. Sue 
 Dodge says he seems to her about like all the business 
 men, a little better than some, perhaps, no worse than 
 others, but she says nothing against his character. I 
 shall try to like him and to please him., until I know 
 the truth. Possibly there may be cause for censure on 
 the other side. 
 
 Mr. Stein, I must confess, I do not like, but I have 
 not seen enough of him to justly judge him. It is not 
 that he is cross or severe, but somehow he seems to be 
 a man with a bad heart. There is something oily and 
 cunning about his speech that affects me strangely, and 
 he has a way of looking at one that gives me the creeps. 
 Yet some of the men seem to like him better than Mr. 
 Jadman, and the girls never speak unkindly of him.
 
 42 PEEDIDA. 
 
 They say he is rather fond of the ladies, and Cora 
 Wasson says he is real nice to talk with. He has a 
 good deal to do with the lace department, and she 
 meets him frequently and knows him pretty well. But 
 I do not like him, though I cannot say why. 
 
 I went to church with Sue Dodge, Sunday, and 
 heard a very good sermon by the Rev. Frank Tat- 
 terton. They say he is one of the rising men of the 
 city pulpit, and that he draws large congregations to 
 hear him preach. But somehow his sermon, although 
 good and eloquently delivered, did not impress me 
 with that sense of comfort and peace that I wished for. 
 It seemed more like a one-sided debate in which he 
 was trying to display his oratory to the audience. I 
 did not like it. Possibly my old-fashioned country 
 training and my affection for Dr. Van Home may have 
 unfitted me for an appreciation of such sermons. 
 Mr. Tatterton seems to be very popular, and many 
 people crowded about him after the service. Sue 
 Dodge says he is unmarried, and that he believes in 
 the celibacy of the clergy. That is a doctrine I never 
 studied ; but I cannot see why a good man should not 
 have a good wife and be happy with her, just because 
 he happens to be a minister. I had thought it was only 
 the Romish priests that held such views. Evidently 
 I have much to learn. 
 
 May 17th. We had a splendid time Saturday night 
 with Mr. Sappleigh. Cora was dressed beautifully in 
 the loveliest gown I ever saw outside of a store window. 
 It was cut out at the neck and certainly did give a 
 charming effect to her appearance, for she has a nice 
 form and a clear skin, but my simple ways have made 
 me so peculiar that it made me feel uncomfortable. 
 There were other women there dressed that way, and
 
 PEED ID A. 43 
 
 some of them certainly did not look better for it, so I 
 see it is a custom of the town, and nobody thinks any 
 thing of it. Perhaps I might come to like it, some day, 
 though it does not seem now that I could be comforta 
 ble in such a dress myself. How differently different 
 people look at things. 
 
 I wore my new gray dress, and Mr. Sappleigh said 
 that I looked "too sweet for anything," "just like 
 some little Quaker lass rigged up for meeting," he 
 said. At first I thought he was displeased with me 
 because I was not attired like Cora, so I asked him 
 frankly if he was joking. He replied with such evi 
 dent sincerity that I saw I had hurt his feelings, and 
 said: 
 
 "You see, Mr. Sappleigh, I am only an ignorant 
 country girl just come to the city, and have no elegant 
 costumes. 
 
 "My dear Miss Brown," said he, "when I said, just 
 now, that your dress pleased me greatly, I really 
 meant it every word. No lady can look nicer than you 
 do in that perfect-fitting gown and dainty hat. You 
 will pardon me, if I presume so far as to again say that 
 you are just too sweet for anything to-night. I am 
 honored by your company." 
 
 He meant it too, I could see that plainly; yet my 
 attire was certainly very cheap and plain. But it did 
 fit nicely. He was right about that. Little he knew 
 of the pains aunty and I took to make that dress a 
 success. 
 
 When I looked over the audience in the theater I did 
 not feel out of place after all, for there were many 
 ladies there gowned as plainly as I. Evidently all 
 people do not dress alike in New York. 
 
 The play was lovely. I have always felt a deep in 
 terest in the woes and follies of "Romeo and Juliet,"
 
 44 PERDIDA. 
 
 and now that I saw the drama that Mr. Hadley and I 
 have studied so often presented on the stage it gave ine 
 a new delight. During the intervals between the acts 
 Mr. Sappleigh left us. Cora said, with a laugh, that 
 he had "gone out to see a man," which was, I suppose, 
 all right, but I missed his conversation, for Cora only 
 talked about the dresses of the different women in the 
 audience and did not appear to care for the play at all. 
 She is a pleasant girl, but has not my ways of think 
 ing. 
 
 After the play Mr. Sappleigh took us to a beautiful 
 hotel where he ordered a fine supper. I never ate such 
 delicious things in my life. Every appointment of the 
 table was lovely, and I could not help thinking that, 
 after all, money does procure much that poverty can 
 not have. 
 
 Of course, it makes no real difference, if one is sen 
 sible and upright, and such things are but temporary ; 
 still they are nice to have, especially if one has dainty 
 tastes, and I am afraid that is one of my weaknesses. 
 There were wines with the supper, and I did not know 
 just what I ought to do. I have no prejudices against 
 a proper use of such things, but we have never touched 
 them at home and Aunt Sarah always forbade anybody 
 to bring them into the house. But I was Mr. Sap- 
 pleigh s guest and felt he might think me Puritanic 
 and ungracious if I refused, so I accepted a glass, 
 frankly telling him it was my first. 
 
 "Now, my dear Miss Brown," said he, "please do 
 not feel that you must take anything, just because I 
 offer it. Nobody would wish to press upon another 
 what was not wanted, unless he were a cad. Proba 
 bly a little wine will not hurt you any more than it 
 will me. I assure you I was never how-come-you-so 
 but once in my life, and never intend to be again. It s
 
 PERDIDA. 45 
 
 the improper use of liquor that does the harm. Don t 
 you think so, Miss Wasson?" 
 
 Cora laughed and said that was so. She drank the 
 wine with relish. I took a taste of mine, and found it 
 good ; but I took but little, fearing consequences. Mr. 
 Sappleigh smiled pleasantly, and seemed pleased at my 
 regard for him. We had a delightful time. I shall 
 always like Mr. Sappleigh, I think. As Sue Dodge 
 says, he is not the man a girl would care to marry. 
 He does not appear to be made for a husband, but he 
 certainly is very kind and civil and considerate. Cora 
 says he is too soft for her, but I cannot quite agree with 
 her as to the softness. He rather seems a person of 
 gentle ways and inclined to take the easiest road 
 through life. There surely is no harm in him. 
 
 I shall write to Mary to-morrow. Dear little thing, 
 she misses me, I believe, more than all the rest, unless 
 perhaps it is Mr. Hadley.
 
 4:6 PERDIDA. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 NEW ASSOCIATIONS. 
 
 THINGS moved with system at the store of Jadman, 
 Stein & Co., and it was not long before Nellie Brown 
 learned to do her work with skill and speed. It was 
 tiresome at times, and often her hack would ache after 
 a long day s sitting at the machine, but she was a 
 strong and healthy girl, and had youth and good tem 
 per to help her on, so she generally found that her 
 weariness was but temporary and managed to enjoy 
 her leisure hours. 
 
 She discovered many things before she had been at 
 work a full month, and some of them were not precisely 
 pleasant. Of her own position she had no complaint 
 to make. Mr. Jadman did not overburden her and was 
 never unkind in his treatment. In truth, although she 
 did not realize it, he inclined to favor this demure 
 and intelligent lass whose fidelity was so patent and 
 whose beauty did not fail to attract him. She was 
 plainly a favorite. Some of the other employees noted 
 the fact, but it caused them no pangs of jealousy, for 
 they were used to such things, and again, they were not 
 themselves injured by the situation. 
 
 There was a story vaguely told among the girls in 
 the correspondence department of a young stenographer 
 who had been discharged not long before Nellie s ar 
 rival without apparent cause, for she certainly was a 
 competent worker, a story that by implication at least
 
 PERDIDA. 47 
 
 coupled her name with that of Mr. Jadman, but no 
 body knew anything definite about the matter, so it 
 dropped out of mind, as such stories generally do when 
 nothing keeps them afloat. But Nellie had not heard 
 it, and if she had she would never have been coaxed to 
 believe it true. Sue Dodge, who was supposed to know 
 more about it than anybody else, had said nothing, 
 but that was her way, for she always kept her mouth 
 shut and told no tales out of business; but it was 
 hinted that if she chose to tell what she witnessed late 
 one day when she was balancing up some books alone 
 in her corner, and happened to overhear voices in Mr. 
 Jadman s private office, the telling would undoubtedly 
 cost her her situation. But Sue told nothing. 
 
 Nellie did, however learn something of the gossip of 
 the place, when, at lunch-time, she went with others to 
 take the midday meal. She learned that, even among 
 working girls, there are many jealousies and many ill- 
 feelings, and that class distinction, which one might 
 suppose would vanish before the necessities of plain 
 business, prevailed here as elsewhere. It was with 
 some astonishment that she learned from a young 
 woman who worked in the next room to that which she 
 occupied that stenographers ought always to wear 
 their gloves when going to work, because, if they did 
 not, they would be mistaken for mill-hands or low- 
 grade shopgirls. She also noted, when in a leisure 
 moment she would stroll out into the store, that the 
 women floor-walkers and chief clerks often treated the 
 girls behind the counter as if they were inferior beings 
 upon whom it was very proper to inflict small mean 
 nesses, that the men floor walkers in particular were 
 persons to be dreaded as a schoolboy dreads a harsh 
 teacher, and that these men seemed to have favorites 
 among the girls, especially the pretty ones. Being a
 
 48 PERDIDA. 
 
 keen-sighted young person herself she could not help 
 perceiving these things, and they pained her. 
 
 One day there was trouble in the bric-a-brac depart 
 ment. Mr. Stein had ordered that all the damaged 
 goods should be put at one counter, with the tags read 
 ing 
 
 "DAMAGED MARKED DOWN," 
 
 attached. At the same time he instructed the young 
 woman in charge to mark the goods with the same 
 prices that appeared on those which were not damaged 
 and which were to be kept at the other end of the room. 
 
 "But, Mr. Stein," said the clerk, "some of the cus 
 tomers may compare the prices and then what shall I 
 tell them?" 
 
 "Oh," said he, "tell them it s all a mistake. They 
 won t be able to detect more than one piece out of a 
 hundred." 
 
 "I am afraid I shall not be able to do it," replied 
 the clerk, who was new and had not yet learned the 
 ways of "business." "I know I shall show in my face 
 that I am not telling the truth." 
 
 Mr. Stein looked at her a minute (she was a very 
 plain and unattractive girl), paused, and then said : 
 
 "I don t think you ll do for us, Miss Zeliff. Just 
 go to the desk and get your money. I ll tell the cash 
 ier as I go by." 
 
 Then he turned about and called another clerk to 
 whom he gave instructions for the arrangement of the 
 goods. 
 
 "See here, Mr. Stein," said the discharged girl, fol 
 lowing him up "do you mean to send me away 
 without a word of recommendation, because I am too 
 honest to lie for you?" 
 
 The man reddened and walked on. But she spoke
 
 PERDIDA. 49 
 
 again. By this time several people had noticed that 
 something was up. 
 
 "I think it s just scandalous," whispered a pretty 
 lass to the one next her. "Mary Zeliff s as good a 
 saleswoman as there is in the store." 
 
 "Hush," replied the other, "or you may get it in 
 the neck yourself." 
 
 "Well, I d almost like to, I m so mad," said the 
 first. 
 
 By this time Mr. Stein had reached the desk and 
 called the cashier. 
 
 "Miss Zeliff leaves us to-day," he said. "Pay her 
 off." 
 
 And then he moved on. 
 
 "I ll not take it," cried the discharged clerk, "until 
 you give me a recommendation. You said you would 
 when I came here." 
 
 Mr. Stein had turned back. He foresaw a row in 
 the store, and that would never do. He was very 
 angry and his eyes glowed with wrath and fear. 
 
 "Call Stivers," he said. 
 
 "Oh no, not that!" cried the girl. "Please don t! 
 I ll go at once," she added, as the cashier touched the 
 bell for the porter, whose side-line was the ejection of 
 disorderly people. "I ll go now. God pity me!" 
 
 She immediately left. 
 
 Nellie had witnessed the whole episode. Her face 
 was hot with indignation and she felt a sense of intense 
 horror at the brutality of the man and the dishonesty 
 of the proposition that had been made to the clerk. It 
 was her first lesson in the tricks of trade, and it fell 
 upon her like a blow. She hastened on to her place, 
 and back to her work, but it dragged heavily all the 
 rest of the day. 
 
 She walked home with Sue, that night, and told her,
 
 50 PERDIDA. 
 
 saying that she felt she ought to speak to Mr. Jadman 
 about it and ask him to send the discharged girl a rec 
 ommendation so she could get another place. 
 
 "Don t do it, my dear little goody-good," replied the 
 older woman. "You are not supposed to know any 
 thing about it. It is not your business." 
 
 "I know that," said Nellie, "but Mr. Stein was 
 angry, and perhaps Mr. Jadman would view the matter 
 differently." 
 
 "For Heaven s sake, girl," said Sue. "Do you sup 
 pose that in the matter of a discharged clerk he would 
 cross his partner, or permit him to cross him? Take 
 my advice. Let the subject alone. It s only what they 
 call an incident in business life. Perhaps we can help 
 Mary some other way. Every man in business does 
 not believe all that Stein would tell him." 
 
 "Mr. Jadman," said Nellie, next morning to her 
 employer, "may I speak to you about a private mat 
 ter?" 
 
 "Certainly, Miss Brown, indeed, of course," replied 
 Jadman, noting at the instant the exceeding prettiness 
 of the girl, as she stood beside his big desk and ad 
 dressed him with real interest in her winsome face. 
 She certainly, he said to himself, was the handsomest 
 woman in the store, and with a practiced eye he noted 
 every lineament of her charming countenance and the 
 voluptuous symmetry of her figure. "Certainly, what 
 is it?" 
 
 "Well, "-said Nellie. "It s about Mary Zeliff who 
 was sent away yesterday by Mr. Stein. I thought per 
 haps he was angry then, and refused her a recommen 
 dation hastily. She is poor and has to support her 
 mother and may find it difficult to get work. Do you 
 think Mr. Stein would reconsider his decision, if you 
 asked him?"
 
 PERDIDA. 51 
 
 "What s it all about?" said Jadman. "I haven t 
 heard of it. 
 
 Nellie told him briefly, making it as smooth as pos 
 sible. Jadman thought a moment, while he contin 
 ued to admire the girl who stood before him, and then 
 said: 
 
 "I ll tell you what I ll do, Miss Brown. Stein 
 would never consent to my interference in his affairs, 
 nor I to his in mine. We must, you understand, re 
 spect each other in matters of this kind. But since you 
 have been so brave as to come to me, and since Stein 
 certainly did not need to send her off that way though 
 he did right to discharge her, for we can t have insub 
 ordination here I ll write her a recommendation my 
 self, just as if I had never heard of her discharge, but 
 thought she had left of her own accord : that is to say, 
 if you keep it to yourself. I ll do it for you, Miss Nel 
 lie Brown, because of your pluck." 
 
 She thanked him for his kindness, and went back to 
 her work, with a sense of having actually done some 
 thing good. She was happy all day. She wanted to 
 tell Sue, but, fearing it would be a breach of confidence, 
 was compelled to omit that pleasure. 
 
 Next day Mr. Jadman smiled upon her encourag 
 ingly as he passed into the room ; and later, while he 
 was dictating his letters, he seemed to draw closer than 
 usual to her chair. He was, in truth, admiring her 
 with a new sense of pleasure. 
 
 Mr. Jadman was a widower, and possibly may 
 have been the better judge of a woman s good looks and 
 quality because of past experiences. He was reputed 
 to be something of a ladies man, but people who moved 
 in his set never charged him with having selected a 
 possible second Mrs. Jadman, although there were 
 mammas, having eligible daughters of suitable age, who
 
 52 PERDIDA. 
 
 would gladly welcome him to membership in their 
 families. He attended strictly to business during the 
 day and spent much of his spare time at his club. His 
 dwelling, since the death of the late Mrs. Jadman, had 
 been one of the uptown hotels. He was a sociable per 
 son, was fond of good dinners and knew how to give 
 them, and it was said among men in his line that he 
 could catch a customer at table when others would 
 have the expense for nothing. In fine, Mr. Jadman 
 was a good business man, with a society side to him 
 that did not interfere with trade but tended to help it. 
 
 Nellie s life at the boarding-house continued as it 
 began, pleasantly. She soon became popular with the 
 guests and even the servants found her worthy of notice. 
 It took her several days to get used to being waited on 
 by domestic "help," for nothing of that kind was 
 known at home, and it was not without a sense of em 
 barrassment that she received the first attentions. But 
 her natural sweetness of temper, and her kindly consid- 
 erateness for the feelings of others, soon made her not 
 only the best served but the best liked of all. There 
 was not a maid in the house who would not have gone 
 out of the way to do her a favor for it is true, despite 
 the influences of modern customs, that there are yet 
 among us servants who are capable of appreciating 
 cordiality and do not measure people wholly by their 
 tips. 
 
 Mr. Sappleigh continued his attentions to Nellie, but 
 he did not commit the indiscretion of singling her out 
 from the other women conspicuously. Lispenard Sap 
 pleigh was, in truth, just what Nellie had instinctively 
 discerned him to be, a gentle-hearted, easy-going fel 
 low, who looked upon life as a thing not to be taken too 
 seriously by a man who had plenty of money and no 
 desire either to become very good or very bad. He en-
 
 PERDIDA. 53 
 
 joyed society and liked good living, but there was noth 
 ing excessive in his tastes. Naturally, therefore, he 
 kept clear of mischief, got on. well with other people 
 and lived a peaceable existence, excepting with his 
 father s wife, who hated the sight of him because be 
 reminded her of the first Mrs. Sappleigh. With his 
 father he was on the best of terms, and often the two 
 would meet and dine and have an evening- together. 
 
 "There is one thing that I wish you would do, my 
 boy," said the old man, one day when they were thus 
 "taking a night off without the dragon," as young 
 Sappleigh styled these little excursions. " I wish you 
 would find some really lovely girl and settle down. If 
 you will do this, I ll make over your share of the es 
 tate at once. Lispenard," he continued, "I want you 
 to give me a daughter. It would be pleasant, in my 
 old age, to feel that I might go to your house and spend 
 some of my time with my children." 
 
 "Well, Pater," replied the young man. "the fact is 
 I ve never yet seen the girl that seemed to fill the bill. 
 That is to say, not until lately. But I sometimes 
 think that one I know now may be the right party. 
 She s poor though, poor as the devil. What would 
 the Mater say to that?" 
 
 "She d say it was a fool match," replied the old 
 man, "but I would not say so. If the girl is what she 
 should be, you know nothing could please me more. 
 You really ought to settle down." 
 
 "I ll think it over, Pop," replied young Sappleigh. 
 "The suggestion may not be bad. To tell the truth, 
 I m already badly gone. Such eyes; such hair; such 
 a shape; and such a sweet character. Say, Pop, she s 
 an angel!" 
 
 "Oh, to be sure," said the old man, "that s what 
 they all are at first. But I don t ask you marry an
 
 54 PERDIDA. 
 
 angel. That s too high for me. Just bring me a pure, 
 loving tender-hearted good girl, and she shall have the 
 blessings of the Pater, any time." 
 
 Lispenard Sappleigh had, in fact, been thinking of 
 this matter ever since the night of the play ; but the 
 idea of becoming a married man seemed so strange to 
 him that it had not fully developed beyond the stage 
 of amazement that came upon him at the suggestion of 
 such a thing. He liked the girls immensely, believed 
 that life without them would indeed be "one long 
 demmed bore," and had the highest respect for virtue 
 and all kindred graces as displayed in woman; but of 
 marriage he had as yet formed no conception save the 
 rather disagreeable one that had been the result of his 
 father s second venture. To find himself thinking of 
 wanting to marry was, therefore, "an astonigher." 
 He could not accustom himself to the sensation. But 
 every time he met the girl who now charmed his fancy 
 the suggestion gained strength, and he was almost 
 ready to admit that it "was not such a bad idea after 
 all." Mr. Sappleigh was, in truth, in love, in his own 
 peculiar way, and did not know it. It was with this 
 as with everything else that interested him. He did 
 not take it too seriously for his comfort. Still it was 
 something that he had never experienced before, and 
 the novelty lay upon his mind. 
 
 Nellie had many pleasant outings with Mr. Sap 
 pleigh, who was fond of escorting two ladies at a time, 
 and generally invited Cora Wasson or Sue Dodge as 
 well as Nellie. He was, in fact, shrewd in the man 
 agement of his invitations, for he would alternate his 
 partners so nicely that it would have been difficult to 
 accuse him of any preferences, and the result was that 
 none of his women friends had cause to feel slighted. 
 The scheme was good for him too, since it freed him
 
 PERDIDA. 55 
 
 from any unpleasant entanglements. He liked them 
 all, but now he began to realize that he admired Nellie 
 a little more than any one else. It was the beginning, 
 he said, but might not have any end ing after all, so why 
 worry about it? 
 
 Mr. Sappleigh was fond of driving, and kept a good 
 turnout, and it was his dearest pleasure to have one of 
 the ladies with him whenever he could. Of course, 
 during the week, his fellow- boarders could not go, but 
 on Sunday, and sometimes on Saturday afternoon dur 
 ing the summer half -holiday season, one or another of 
 these friends was certain to be asked to accompany 
 him. 
 
 "Is it proper for me to accept an invitation to drive 
 with Mr. Sappleigh?" said Nellie to Sue Dodge, the 
 first time she received word that he would be pleased 
 to have her company. 
 
 "Yes, " said Sue. "Go with him. He never pa 
 rades one woman to such an extent as to get her talked 
 about. It will please him and do you good. I m go 
 ing myself next week. I like Mr. Sappleigh. He is 
 really more of a man than he pretends to be." 
 
 So Nellie went and a delightful afternoon she had ; 
 and when Mr. Sappleigh brought her home with a 
 heightened color in her comely cheeks and a brighter 
 look in her charming eyes, it was with a sense that he 
 certainly had found her "the finest bit of femininity, 
 by Jove, that he had yet struck." 
 
 "There s one thing about her, Pop," said he to the 
 old gentleman that night, "that makes me think she s 
 the girl I d like to get, if I m to have any. She is ab 
 solutely honest. I don t believe you could make her 
 tell a lie if you were to kill her. Most of the dear girls 
 can lie a little bit, don t you know. Not that I mind 
 it generally; but a wife s different from your best girl; 
 at least I think so. Don t you?"
 
 56 PERDIDA. 
 
 "Yes," replied the old gentleman, "quite different. 
 But after all, my boj 7 , much depends on the kind of a 
 wife she is. Your mother wouldn t have told a lie to 
 save her soul. She was a good woman, Lispenard, a 
 very good woman. I want you to find one just as 
 good. If the girl you tell me about is only half as 
 good, she ll do, however." 
 
 "Well,. Pater," said the son, "I ll think it over. 
 There isn t a bit of hurry." 
 
 "No; no hurry," echoed the old man absent-mind 
 edly. He had awakened memories. "No hurry. Be 
 sure you are right, then go in like a man to win." 
 
 There was one discovery that puzzled Nellie. Cora 
 Wasson, whose room was next to hers, seemed to spend 
 about half of her nights away from the boarding-house. 
 Sometimes, too, she would be gone from Saturday night 
 until Monday. One day Nellie chanced to meet her 
 passing out just as she herself was entering the house. 
 She naturally asked her if she would be in soon. 
 
 "No;" said Cora, "I shall not return until to-mor 
 row. I m going to spend the night with my cousin in 
 Brooklyn. I of ten visit there. " 
 
 "That must be very pleasant," said Nellie. 
 
 "Yes," replied her friend, "It is. It gives me a 
 chance to enjoy change, and I never did like monot 
 ony. I detest anything prosy." 
 
 She looked at Nellie confusedly, as though there was 
 something on her mind that she would not care to have 
 known, and hurriedly passed out. Something in the man 
 ner of the girl perplexed Nellie, it seemed so utterly 
 uncalled for. She mentioned it to Sue that evening, 
 but she replied that she supposed it was nothing but 
 whims. Cora had been going to Brooklyn, she said, 
 for nearly a year. Possibly there might be a handsome 
 man in the case, but if there was, he certainly had 
 never called at the boarding house.
 
 PEED ID A. 57 
 
 Another thing about Cora that caused Nellie to 
 sometimes wonder was her dress. Cora was getting 
 nine dollars a week, and paid five for her board, yet she 
 managed in some way that was wholly mysterious to 
 Nellie, to wear gowns that certainly cost a good deal. 
 Her hats, too, and gloves and other appurtenances of 
 attire were of fine quality and high price, anybody 
 could see that. Of course she did not wear these expen 
 sive things when at work, but dressed with the simple 
 neatness of a well-clothed saleswoman ; but when she 
 drove with Mr. Sappleigh or went to the theater or 
 visited her Brooklyn cousin, she always appeared in 
 such garments as could not be procured save with 
 ample means. Nellie was too sensitive and honorable 
 to put any questionable construction upon these 
 things, and sometimes assumed that perhaps Cora s 
 Brooklyn relatives gave her the money with which to 
 buy them; but being a woman, with a woman s natural 
 curiosity, it was not strange that she should wonder at 
 the ability of this girl, whose only apparent income was 
 just nine dollars a week, to wear dresses that must cost 
 many times the total of a gear s income. Her final 
 opinion concerning the mystery was that Cora must have 
 money of her own that she did not care to talk about ; 
 in fact Cora herself hinted that she had some in the 
 savings bank. Nellie thought it unwise that a poor 
 girl should spend so much on her attire, and several 
 times she was on the point of advising her friend 
 against extravagance. But it seemed impertinent to 
 do this, so she never gave way to the inclination. 
 
 Again, Cora was so light-hearted, so merry, and so 
 much a creature of pleasure, that it did not seem likely 
 that she would be the kind to take advice of this sort. 
 
 Nellie did, in truth, spend something more than she 
 intended on her own attire; for she soon discovered
 
 58 PERDIDA. 
 
 that, if she would appear frequently at such places as 
 Mr. Sappleigh and her fellow-boarders went to, it was 
 proper that she should have at least a reasonable 
 change of garments. So she purchased a suitable 
 evening dress and hat and several of the dainties that 
 help to make a lady s toilet complete, and felt that she 
 had done no wrong in thus equipping herself for her 
 outings. Summer having come, she also added to her 
 wardrobe a neat black skirt, four shirt waists and a 
 straw hat. Her prettiness was intensified by these ad 
 ditions to her list of garments, and Mr. Sappleigh, the 
 first time she appeared in warm weather dress remarked, 
 that he had never seen her looking so charming; which 
 made Nellie blush, and caused Sue Dodge to laugh 
 good-humored ly. 
 
 "By Jove, ladies!" said Sappleigh, "She s posi 
 tively stunning, ain t she? Now don t be afraid to let 
 us admire you, Miss Brown. We are all friends here, 
 you know, and proud of one another; and since you are 
 the newcomer, you must permit the old residents to 
 pass criticism on your get-up." 
 
 "Thanks," said Nellie, "you are all very kind, and 
 I am glad you approve. I think the costume is neat 
 and pretty. Don t you, Cora?" 
 
 "Yes," said Cora, "it s lovely. I thought mine was 
 very good, but I like yours better. 
 
 "Oh, no," replied Nellie. "This is not half so nice 
 as that you have." 
 
 "Well," said Mr. Sappleigh, "what s the odds 
 which of them is best. You ladies all look charming 
 to-night; and this moves me to say that, being princi 
 pally an idle fellow myself (it s my fate you know), I 
 want you all to take a day off to morrow and go with 
 me to the Island. We can take the 2 :30 boat, get in a 
 glorious sail, have a good dinner, hear the band and re 
 turn in time for bed."
 
 PERDIDA. 59 
 
 "What!" said Sue Dodge, "All of us?" 
 
 "Yes," said Sappleigh, "every blooming one of you, 
 including Mrs. Ferguson, if she will consent to let the 
 servants run the place for half a day. I think it will 
 be awfully jolly." 
 
 They all liked this kindly fellow, who had nothing 
 to do with his money but to spend it in making other 
 people happy. They knew that he meant just what he 
 said ; so Mr. Sappleigh was overwhelmed with thanks 
 and the engagement stood. 
 
 Nellie Brown had never seen the sea ; she had never 
 journeyed by water farther than to cross the Hudson 
 once on a ferryboat; so the trip to Coney Island was 
 for her a voyage of discover} 7 and a season of wonders. 
 The other members of the party enjoyed her company 
 exceedingly, since it is always pleasant to initiate a 
 pleasant comrade into pleasant things, and spared no 
 pains to make the day a day of happiness for her. Old 
 Mrs. Ferguson relaxed from her regulation boarding- 
 house stiffness, Miss Odombosky mellowed and became 
 charming and chatty, while as for Sue Dodge and Cora 
 and Sappleigh, well if there was anj T thing that they 
 did not suggest it was because there was a limit even 
 to their powers of spontaneous thought. 
 
 Of course they all heard the band play, and of course 
 they enjoyed it. Nellie, whose musical taste was of 
 the finest, found it a revelation and could scarcely take 
 her attention from the musicians even to answer a 
 question. Sappleigh, who was a music lover himself, 
 noticed this, and it pleased him greatly. 
 
 "By everything that s good! he said to himself, 
 "if Pop is really right, and she s the one, she shan t 
 lack musical education if she wants it, when she s 
 mine. She s awfully handsome when she looks like 
 that; but she seems almost too good for a fellow like
 
 60 PERDIDA. 
 
 me I hadn t thought of that before. Suppose there s 
 another man I m going, sure!" 
 
 After the concert was over they rambled about the 
 Island and visited "all the places that s fit to visit," as 
 their entertainer put it, and made merry wherever they 
 went. It was good sport to see Mrs. Ferguson and 
 Miss Odombosky riding sedately upon the flying horses 
 to the music of the brazen instrument that made so 
 much noise that you couldn t hear them when they 
 screamed with timidity ; the turn in the big wheel that 
 took them high into the air was very exhilarating and 
 novel to Nellie, whose merry laugh rang out with delight, 
 like the laugh of a child as she found herself so far 
 above the world; the dash down the "chutes" that you 
 "shoot" furnished a startling sensation to those who had 
 not tried it before ; and the drive around the resort in a 
 wagon hired by Mr. Sappleigh, who rode with the 
 driver and did the honors of host and general informa 
 tion man, was delightfully entertaining. Then came 
 the dinner ordered after Mr. Sappleigh s own special 
 instructions and a tussle of words with a slow-spoken 
 German waiter who got a dollar for "seeing that 
 things went right" a unique dinner with all sorts of 
 sea foods and potato- salad and ice creams and black 
 coffee and small glasses of beer," just to give the right 
 tone to the show," as Mr. Sappleigh said. Nellie did 
 not like the beer but she drank a little to please her 
 kind friends, and then made a wry face, which amused 
 Mr. Sappleigh greatly, but Cora and Miss Odombosky 
 swallowed it with relish, so he ordered more. Miss 
 Odombosky took a second glass, gracefully thanking 
 the giver, and Cora kept her company. Nellie noticed 
 that Cora seemed to take to alcoholic drinks as natur 
 ally as if she had always had them, and it puzzled her 
 to understand it, it seemed so unlike a girl to care for 
 wines and beers and such things.
 
 PERDIDA. 61 
 
 As the day waxed small they set forth for home, 
 happy and full of good dinner and good recollections. 
 The return sail on ihe steamboat was delightful. Mr. 
 Sappleigh was attentive to all throughout; and when 
 he finally brought them to the house, it was with a 
 sense of having had an "awfully jolly time," that he 
 left them and went out to see his father. 
 
 The ladies voted him the finest gentleman they had 
 ever known, and meant it too. 
 
 "It s not many young men that will spend their time 
 and money just to make hard-working women happy," 
 said Mrs. Ferguson, as she sat for a few minutes in the 
 parlor to gather her wits preparatory to an attack on 
 the kitchen. 
 
 "That is very true, "replied Miss Odombosky, "most 
 of the young men of this age care more for their per 
 sonal pleasures than for the pleasures of poor women." 
 
 "You are right there," said Sue Dodge, "there is not 
 one man in ten thousand who would go an inch out of 
 his way to make any woman happy, unless he thought 
 it would give him the biggest end of the happiness to 
 do it." 
 
 "Oh, I wouldn t say that," said Nellie, "there must 
 be other generous men besides Mr. Sappleigh." 
 
 "Perhaps there are," replied Sue, "but if there are 
 I d like to meet them." 
 
 "So would I," said Cora. "They don t seem to 
 come my way." 
 
 "Well," said Nellie, "perhaps they will some day." 
 
 "Never!" said Cora, with a tone in her voice that 
 sounded like a sob. "Why, I m getting positively 
 hysterical, " she quickly added. "Too much fun, I 
 guess." She went to the piano and sat down and be 
 gan to rattle off a lively jig. Nellie followed her, and 
 putting her arms about her neck, bent over her and
 
 62 PERDIDA. 
 
 kissed her on the cheek. The girl stopped playing. 
 Miss Odom bosky and the landlady had left, as soon as 
 she began to play, and the two young women were 
 alone. 
 
 "What s the matter, Cora?" said Nellie. "Have I 
 said anything to wound you?" 
 
 "You!" replied Cora. "Good gracious, no! I 
 suppose I am just a bit nervous. I often get that way 
 after a day of excitement. I ll be all right in the 
 morning." 
 
 "I am glad of that," said Nellie, "for I should not 
 like to hurt anybody s feelings by thoughtless remarks. 
 Let s go to bed. 
 
 "Pater," said Mr. Sappleigh, as he sat with his 
 father in a corner of their club that night, "it s no use 
 holding out. I m caught; clean gone; captured. 
 She s the one. I never had anything so bad in my 
 life. Why, Pop, I ve got it so hard that I believe I d 
 kill any man who harmed a hair of her dear golden 
 head. I m going in to win." 
 
 "Very well, my boy," replied the old man, his affec 
 tion glowing in his face as he spoke. "Be sure you re 
 right; and, as you value her happiness and your own, 
 be honest with her to the finest point of honor. And 
 may God bless you in your suit."
 
 PERDIDA. 63 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A FRIEND MR. SAPPLEIGH S MISTAKE. 
 
 "None but cowards lie." 
 
 DURING the weeks that had passed since the home- 
 leaving, Nellie heard but little from her old neighbors. 
 She wrote to her aunt soon after arriving in the city 
 and received a few words in reply, a terse matter-of- 
 fact letter that told her to be a good girl and attend to 
 business diligently, and assured her that the folks at 
 home would be glad to see her when her vacation 
 time should come; but the letter contained nothing 
 that warmed her heart, and left her with a feeling that 
 Aunt Sarah was not anxious to have her live with her 
 again. It pained her to think this was so, but noth 
 ing could be done about it, so she resolved to bear it 
 bravely and make the best of life as she found it. She 
 answered the letter lovingly, but it was at least a 
 month before the aunt "found time" to acknowledge it, 
 and when she did, her reply was plainly a perfunctory 
 one; so Nellie resolved that she would write home only 
 once a month. 
 
 Little Mary Neal sent frequent, queer child-like epis 
 tles, that pleased the receiver, for they always con 
 tained words of loving remembrance. To these Nel 
 lie replied at once, sometimes using her writing-ma 
 chine which interested the little girl and gave her a 
 yet greater opinion of the wonderful abilities of her 
 "dear big beautiful aunty" than she had held before. 
 But Mary was the only steady correspondent Nellie
 
 64 PERDIDA. 
 
 had, for her aunt s messages were of no value and 
 other people seldom wrote her. John Had ley sent a 
 very nice letter, to which she replied with enjoyment, 
 but there was nothing in his communication that hore 
 upon the suggestions of that last night, so she had no 
 reason for assuming she was anything more to him than 
 before. Yet she felt it would take but little to make 
 her love this man. 
 
 After a time John wrote again, a fine, manly mes 
 sage that contained much that was good to read, and 
 said he would hope to call upon her by and by, as he 
 was coming to the city. She received this informa 
 tion with joy, for the friendship that existed between 
 herself and John was strong, and his letters proved 
 that he held her among his dearest attachments. 
 Sometimes she would find herself wondering if her 
 thought of a possible love for Hadley was foolish, but 
 a careful examination of her heart told her it was not. 
 She was growing to feel that, if the time should ever 
 come when be would ask her to marry him, she could 
 surely do it gladly. The budding love that she bore 
 this man was not the hot, impetuous passion that car 
 ries everything before it, but a tender regard that had 
 its foundation in deep respect and fondness, the love 
 that is often misplaced and that a woman sometimes 
 carries with her to the grave and never tells. There 
 was one passage in his letter that inclined her to be 
 lieve that possibly he had learned to think of her as 
 something dearer than a friend. It was this: "And 
 when I come to see you, I shall have much to tell you 
 that I have not been able to mention in my letters; 
 nothing to worry about, but still something very im 
 portant that concerns myself." 
 
 She wondered what it could be, but her good sense 
 and modesty showed her that to inquire in advance of
 
 PERDIDA. 65 
 
 bis coming would not be right. So sbe contented her- 
 self witb waiting, hoping that perhaps her guess might 
 be correct; for the more she pondered, the more she re 
 alized her own state of mind. 
 
 Now that the midsummer was come and work in 
 the store was slack, except on certain days, she bad op 
 portunity for many pleasures. She and Cora often 
 took the Saturday half-holiday together and spent it 
 in excursions to various places, and occasionally Sue 
 went with them. They took several trips to the Isl 
 and and enjoyed themselves as people do at the seaside, 
 idling up and down the beaches and watching tbe 
 water and listening to the music, and once Mr. Sap- 
 pleigb and a young friend of his went witb them, and 
 they had a fine day. 
 
 But often Nellie found herself thrown upon her own 
 resources, for Cora s absences in Brooklyn were fre 
 quent, and, on such occasions she would go to Central 
 Park and stroll about and enjoy the place. Sbe read a 
 good deal too, and spent many a restful hour in her 
 room, where she could sit half-dressed, for the weather 
 was warm, and while away the time with her favorite 
 authors. And sometimes Sue would come and join her 
 and they would bave a real good talk. 
 
 Sue attended the church of the Rev. Frank Tat- 
 terton, and Nellie went there with her on Sunday. 
 The Rev. Frank was an attentive pastor who be 
 lieved in knowing bis people, and made no distinctions 
 between rich and poor, which they said was one of bis 
 eccentricities; so it was not strange that he soon called 
 upon Sue at the boarding house and there met Nellie. 
 She liked him better out of the pulpit than in it, for he 
 proved himself a bright and interesting person and one 
 with whom it was a pleasure to converse. He sang 
 too, and before leaving gave them a song which was
 
 66 PERDIDA. 
 
 well rendered. He certainly was a sociable man and 
 one whom it was pleasing to know; nor did he seem a 
 bit " priestly, " as Nellie expressed it, in spite of his 
 views. Nellie sang very well herself and the boarders 
 knew it, so Sue asked her to sing for Mr. Tatterton 
 which interested him ; and after that they sang a duet. 
 It was a very agreeable meeting, and Nellie could not 
 help thinking that it was possible, after all, for a man 
 who held queer ideas of celibacy and other churchly 
 things to be very nice. 
 
 "But, Sue," she said, "I cannot see why, because he 
 happens to be a minister, he should believe that he 
 ought never to marry. It seems to me that if any man 
 needs a good wife and the help she can give him it 
 ought to be a minister." 
 
 "I think so myself," replied her friend, "but of course 
 it is a matter of individual conscience. You cannot 
 make me believe one thing, however. A man s a man 
 even if he is a preacher, and if he s a man he can fall 
 in love. I have sometimes wondered how Mr. Tatter- 
 ton would take it if he were to fall in love. He 
 doesn t seem the kind of person to be cold toward the 
 fair sex." 
 
 "Well," said Nellie; "I cannot answer that. I m 
 too ignorant and inexperienced to do it. But suppose 
 some woman were to fall in love with him. Don t 
 you think it would be hard for her?" 
 
 "Indeed it would," replied Sue. "Especially if she 
 loved deeply." 
 
 "Well then," said Nellie, "if such a situation as that 
 should occur, of course they could only bear it and live 
 it down. It seems to me that God never ordered any 
 such cruelty as that. " 
 
 4< Of course he didn t," said Sue. " It s only a piece 
 of ecclesiastical nonsense. But we can t stop it, dear.
 
 PERDIDA. 67 
 
 So don t fall in love with the Rev. Frank. And please 
 don t make him fall in love with you. I have no wish 
 to see either of you made miserable." 
 
 Nellie replied that there was no danger, as she 
 smiled at this remark and thought of John Hadley. 
 
 The work at Jadman, Stein & Cos , kept Nellie busy 
 a large portion of the time, even during the slack 
 period, for there was correspondence to do though busi 
 ness was dull, so her daily habits were not those of the 
 idle. Sometimes also on Monday it was necessary to 
 stay after hours. This she did willingly, for when she 
 was not busy Mr. Jadman always let her go early, and 
 she felt it was only a fair exchange of kindness. Her 
 wages had been advanced as promised and she had 
 nothing of which a working-girl need complain. On 
 these late Mondays, as she called them, Mr. Jadman 
 would come in about five o clock with a lot of letters to 
 dictate, and together they would get them off, some 
 times remaining until it was well past six. On the 
 third occasion the work was very heavy, and it was 
 not until seven o clock that it was finished. 
 
 "You are tired, Miss Brown," said he, as he arose 
 from his chair, "and you certainly have lost your din 
 ner, as I have mine. Let me take you out when I go 
 and we will ha\ 7 e something together. It s only right." 
 
 She hesitated a moment before replying. It seemed 
 somehow not quite the thing to do. Yet he was her 
 employer, he was old enough to be her father, and he 
 had always been kindly in his treatment of her. She 
 did not like to hurt his feelings, yet she felt timid 
 about going. He perceived her hesitation and spoke 
 encouragingly as he continued : 
 
 "Please do not feel any sense of impropriety about 
 it. It is not uncommon, .1 believe, for a gentleman to 
 invite a lady to dine with him in public. Our relations
 
 68 PERDIDA. 
 
 are not those of master and slave, and I should hope 
 they are friendly." 
 
 "You certainly have been very kind and just in deal 
 ing with me," she said looking him frankly in the eyes. 
 "It was not that. I was merely in doubt." 
 
 "Well, let the doubts go then," said he, "and substi 
 tute a good dinner. You surely deserve it in return for 
 that which you have sacrificed in my interests. Permit 
 me to prove to you that Samuel Jadman out of the 
 store is not such a bad fellow as some would have you 
 think." 
 
 "I never thought you were a bad fellow, in or out, 
 Mr. Jadman," replied Nellie with a smile of amuse 
 ment. 
 
 "Then let s put work aside," said he, "and eat. 
 There are times when eating is enjoyable, and one of 
 them is now. Get your hat and come along. You 
 look all right without any fixing up." 
 
 They departed by his private office door and he ten 
 dered her his arm as courteously as if she had been the 
 daughter of a prince, and they walked up the street to 
 one of the cafes, where, having made her comfortable, he 
 ordered an excellent dinner. 
 
 Out of business Mr. Jadman was cordiality and 
 good-fellowship personified. He knew all the roads 
 that lead to agreeable intercourse with people of all 
 ages and kinds, and it was not difficult for him to soon 
 interest this bright and beautiful girl in himself. He 
 talked well, quickly accommodated himself to her hu 
 mors, and adroitly drew out the native wit and wisdom 
 that were in her, until, before she knew it herself, she 
 was enjoying his society very much. The shop van 
 ished into that unseen recess that lies somewhere behind 
 present consciousness as a convenience to be used on 
 special occasions, and she realized that she was spend-
 
 PERDIDA. 69 
 
 ing a pleasant evening with a very interesting compan 
 ion, and that a good dinner at a first-class restaurant 
 certainly has its charm for those who have finished a 
 hard day s work. 
 
 He ordered the wines with care, selecting only those 
 that would best please a dainty woman, and gave them 
 to her sparingly, with a good-humored caution against 
 taking too much, which made her feel that he really 
 had her interest in mind, and caused her to be grateful 
 to him for his considerateness. They made merry for 
 an hour over the dinner; and when it was finished he 
 escorted her to her car and put her aboard with as 
 much tenderness as he would have shown a mother or 
 daughter, and raised his hat respectfully as he bade her 
 good-night and saw her pass out of sight among the 
 passengers. Nellie began to think that, after all, the 
 covert hints that she had heard concerning this man 
 must be the suggestions of malicious people. She felt 
 that he was better than she had supposed. He cer 
 tainly was kind at heart. 
 
 Several times during the following month late work 
 kept Mr. Jadman and Nellie at the office after the place 
 was closed, and on each occasion he took her with him 
 to dinner and sent her home afterward with a feeling 
 that had in it nothing but the most respectful regard 
 for himself; for his treatment of her was always that of 
 a considerate and thoughtful middle-aged gentleman 
 whose only motive in thus entertaining his assistant 
 was to see that she did not lose her dinner because of 
 her extra fidelity to his interests. So completely did 
 he win her good-will and confidence that she would as 
 soon have listened to aspersions against the character 
 of her old pastor as against Mr. Jadman. Mr. Jadman 
 had a certain tact that enabled him to enter readily 
 into the feelings of a young and ambitious woman, and
 
 70 PERDIDA. 
 
 to converse with her on a footing of common interest 
 that made it very pleasant to know him. He talked of 
 her hopes and plans as if they were something that 
 pleased him greatly, and gave her much sound advice 
 as to the management of her savings, and even offered 
 to invest the little that she had for her so that it should 
 become a nest egg for future profits. His whole bear 
 ing in his association with the girl was like that of a 
 benevolent man who found it an interesting thing to 
 help others poorer than himself. Nellie in time grew 
 to look upon him as a friend to be honored and loved 
 with much regard; and when she sought her bed at 
 night and prayed for those who were dear to her it was 
 often with thoughts of his kindness that she called upon 
 God to bless and prosper him and make his life a happi 
 ness to himself and others. 
 
 Had she been occupied in one of the sales depart 
 ments of the great establishment of Jadman, Stein & 
 Co., it is possible that she might have heard enough of 
 the gossip of the place to cause her to doubt the good 
 ness of the man whom she was learning to respect so 
 cordially, and it is probable, also, that she might have 
 witnessed things that would have tended to create a 
 distrust of her judgment, for Jadman was often very 
 severe and harsh with his subordinates; but her posi 
 tion as an office correspondent isolated her somewhat 
 from the mass of the employees, and she did not mingle 
 with them enough to get the spirit of the establishment 
 as many others did. Those of .her fellow- workers who 
 happened to know her liked her, and always found her 
 an agreeable companion ; but their intercourse with her 
 was not intimate enough to lead to confidences, so she 
 learned very little ahout the man excepting what she 
 discovered herself. And in his dealings with her there 
 certainly was nothing but what was just and gener-
 
 PERDIDA. 71 
 
 ous. This was become an easy thing, because Mr. Jad- 
 rnan really had nothing of which to complain himself, 
 for Nellie had mastered her business so thoroughly 
 that ifc would not have been profitable to dismiss her. 
 In fine, she was useful, and Mr. Jadman appreciated 
 good work and was aways willing to pay well for it. 
 He had raised her wages to fifteen dollars, and she now 
 felt a sense of independence that made her proud and 
 comfortable. She was getting on in the world, had 
 made agreeable acquaintances and good friends, and was 
 very happy and contented. 
 
 There were times when she thought of the old days 
 and of John Had ley, who she now believed was become 
 to her the one man that she could most dearly love 
 some time ; but it was not with any sense of restless 
 ness that she dwelt upon this matter, "for," she said to 
 herself, "God alone knows whether he will ever care for 
 me, and if he does not, I can at least try to be happy 
 with the blessings I have." And even in this thought 
 there was a touch of elation, for she somehow felt that 
 he would seek her by and by if she did but patiently 
 await his coming. Meantime her duty was to pursue 
 her present course cheerfully and happily, and to make 
 the most of her opportunities. 
 
 It was during this period that a painful thing oc 
 curred. She was sitting alone in the parlor of the 
 boarding house one evening reading. All the other 
 inmates of the place had gone out for the evening a 
 circumstance that was rare, though not noteworthy, for 
 city boarders do as they please without exciting com 
 ment concerning their absences and returns. She 
 thought that the solitude would be useful just then, for 
 she wanted to finish her book, and had therefore settled 
 down in an easy-chair near the droplight that hung 
 over a table at the rear of the room. She had been
 
 72 PERDIDA. 
 
 reading for perhaps a half-hour when she heard tie 
 front door open as some one turned the latch with his 
 night-key, and the next minute Mr. Sappleigh entered 
 the parlor. 
 
 She glanced up at him as he drew near and gave him 
 a cordial "good-evening" and a welcome smile. He 
 stood a moment in the spot where he had paused as she 
 spoke, and then she noticed that he appeared to be un 
 easy, and that he acted as if he were uncertain whether 
 he ought to seat himself and join her or leave her by 
 herself. There was also something in his expression 
 that aroused her ready sympathy and caused her to fear 
 that he might have some trouble on his mind. She 
 laid her book aside, smiled at him again, and said : 
 
 "Don t think you must leave because you find me 
 here reading. Everybody has gone out and I was 
 about to seek comradeship in this volume; but if you 
 care to stay and act as substitute for the book I shall 
 be glad to have you do so." 
 
 "Thank you very much," said Mr. Sappleigh; "if 
 you don t really mind I think I will for a little while. 
 It s beastly lonesome upstairs in my room and the 
 Pater s gone home and I can t see him to-night. You 
 are awfully kind to give up your pleasure for a fellow 
 like me." 
 
 "Now j T ou must not say that, Mr. Sappleigh, "replied 
 Nellie, "because it is not true, and you know you and I 
 have agreed never to tell lies. Do you suppose that a 
 woman who has received so many kindnesses from a 
 gentleman as I have had from you would presume to 
 view his coming as an annoyance, or prefer her book 
 to a pleasant chat with him? I m glad you have come. 
 Let s talk. I can read some other time." 
 
 "You are very kind, Miss Brown," said Sappleigh, 
 "and I can t tell you how much I appreciate it. I di4
 
 PERDIDA. 73 
 
 want to see you to-night ; I wanted to do so very much. 
 To tell the truth, one reason I came here was because I 
 knew you would be alone, and I had something to tell 
 you that wasn t for any body but yourself to hear. You 
 would never have supposed that Lispenard Sappleigh 
 had secrets, would you, Miss Brown?" 
 
 "Oh, I don t know about that," said Nellie thought- 
 fulty, as she noticed his perplexed features and won 
 dered what it might be that could lie heavily upon the 
 mind of this handsome, light-hearted, easy-going fellow, 
 whose frankness was one of his chief charms. "Every 
 body has some secrets, I suppose." 
 
 "Yes," said he, "I think that is probably so. But 
 some are easier to get rid of than others. I don t gen 
 erally find it difficult to unload my worries, especially 
 when the Pater is handy; but this one is well, to tell 
 you the truth, Miss Brown, it s a regular mountain. I 
 think it must be the biggest load a fellow ever car 
 ried." 
 
 "That sounds almost dreadful, Mr. Sappleigh," re 
 plied Nellie. "Yet I scarcely believe your secrets can 
 be so bad that they are liable to break you down. Of 
 course I don t ask you to tell me what I ought not to 
 know or to involve other people by } r our confidences; 
 but if you really have something to tell me that I ought 
 to know, or that it will do you good to tell, and I can 
 help you in any way, let me do it. I would do a good 
 deal for such a friend as you have proved yourself to 
 be." 
 
 "I know that," said he, "you would do anything 
 that wasn t wrong to help a friend. That s one reason 
 why I ve got this load. I ve carried it an awful long 
 time, ever since you came here, in fact, and it gets 
 bigger every day. There is nothing that can help me 
 out of the_trouble but telling you."
 
 74 PERDIDA. 
 
 Nellie began to feel that perhaps, after all, it might 
 be something serious that was upon the mind of her 
 fellow- boarder, so she answered him gravely, saying: 
 
 "Mr. Sappleigh, you know I would do you a favor 
 with pleasure; that anything that will help you would 
 be gladly attempted by me. Your kindness to a poor 
 and friendless girl, and your evident sincerity and 
 goodness, are sufficient to command one who has 
 learned to regard you as among her dearest acquaint 
 ances. What more can I say?" 
 
 Sappleigh sat silent in thought awhile before he 
 spoke again. He was plainly gathering himself for a 
 difficult effort. As Nellie glanced into his eyes she 
 perceived that he really was suffering from some emo 
 tion, but she did not interfere with his meditation. At 
 last he said : 
 
 "There s no other way, Miss Brown. I must tell it 
 and tell it like a man. I have confided most of it to 
 the Pater, and he says it is the only right thing to do, 
 if I would win and be happy afterward." He paused 
 again and nervously pulled at his watch-guard a min 
 ute; then he became very calm and looking her 
 squarely in the eyes, spoke quietly, but with a sup 
 pressed excitement that was painful to witness. 
 
 "Miss Brown," said he, "I love you don t turn 
 away please, not now let me say it all, or I shall 
 never get it said ; and it s got to be said. I love you 
 and want you to become my wife. I have told the 
 Pater all about it, and he approves and sends his bless 
 ing. He s an awfully good man, and I know you ll 
 love him when you get to know him. He has often 
 said that I ought to settle down, but I never could 
 think of it until I met you and since that time it has 
 grown upon me until I feel that there will never be any 
 other girl in the world that I can love and honor so
 
 \ 
 
 PERDIDA, 75 
 
 \ 
 
 much. Oh, Miss Nellie! you mustn t mind it this 
 once," he continued hurriedly "I have learned to love 
 you every day and every hour, and I can t be happy 
 without you. You are the dearest girl in the world. 
 Let me try to win you for my wife and make you 
 happy all your life. I m not a half- bad fellow, not 
 near so bad as some I know, and if you will have me, I 
 will always be the upright gentleman that I wish to 
 be. I know that if you were mine I could grow to be 
 something better than I have ever been before." 
 
 "Mr. Sappleigh," said Nellie, after a brief silence, 
 during which she sat with downcast eyes and height 
 ened color. 
 
 "No, please don t answer me yet," he interrupted. 
 "Let me say it all like a brave man. You know I 
 promised you that I would never tell an untruth, and 
 we have agreed that there shall be no lies said by 
 either of us. Just think, Nellie, how much that 
 means when a fellow loves a woman who never told a 
 lie herself, and would have her marry him with honor 
 and perfect confidence. Let me tell it all. I said I 
 was not near so bad as some that I knew, and it s true. 
 But I have not always been absolutely perfect in my 
 conduct. Yes, I know it hurts you to hear me say this, 
 but I m telling the truth like a gentleman, Nellie, 
 and you will like me better, even if you condemn me, 
 than if I asked you to marry me with a lie on my lips. 
 I hate to burden your pure soul with my confession, 
 but it s better to do that than deceive you. Pater says 
 so, and I say so too. I have been guilty, a few times 
 Nellie, of going where I am ashamed to have gone; 
 but I have kept straight ever since I met you, and mean 
 to do it always for your sake. You don t know what 
 temptations beset a young man in this big city, espe 
 cially if he happens to be wealthy and has no home and
 
 76 PERDIDA. 
 
 no mother or sister to encourage him to keep out of 
 questionable places. I have been guilty, Nellie, I tell 
 it honestly, but I have sincerely repented and want to 
 sin no more. If you will only take me, I know that 
 I can become all that I ought to be, and that I can 
 make you very happy; for I do love you with the big 
 gest kind of love a man can feel. Will you forgive 
 me, and help me to be what I want to be?" 
 
 She remained motionless throughout his speaking, 
 and had not changed the expression of her face. Once 
 she lifted her eyes to his an instant, while he was 
 making his confession, and the glance that she gave 
 him was one of profound pity and affection, not un 
 mixed with admiration; for the manliness that could 
 thus unbosom its worst self to the woman that he loved 
 made him something noble and worthy of great re 
 spect. She realized the effort that the statement must 
 have cost him, and how difficult it must have been for 
 him to thus unbare his sins to her. She understood 
 clearly that, whatever might be the failings of Mr. 
 Lispenard Sappleigh, cowardice and untruthfulness 
 were not in the list of his shortcomings; and she also 
 plainly saw that, had she loved him as he would be 
 loved, there was nothing in what he had so bravely 
 told her that would cause her to say "no" to his peti 
 tion. But she also understood that her heart did not 
 crave marriage with him ; that it was, in fact, almost 
 pledged to another. At length she addressed him, 
 turning her face directly to him and laying her hand 
 upon his, as she spoke. 
 
 "Mr. Sappleigh," she began, "what you have told 
 me shall be our secret. And do not think for a moment 
 that I do not fully understand how much the telling has 
 cost you ; and rest assured that, were it possible for me 
 to love you as a wife should love her husband, what
 
 PEEDIDA. 7? 
 
 you have so honorably confessed would never stand be 
 tween my heart and yours. If you had deceived me, 
 and I had loved you enough to marry you, and had 
 then found out what you have done, I think I would 
 have died from grief. You are right. No marriage, 
 begun with a lie, can be a happy one. I honor and 
 admire you for all you have said to me, and respect 
 you for the confidence you have shown. But, dear Mr. 
 Sappleigh, I do not find it in my heart to love you with 
 the right love, the love that I must give you if I were 
 to become your wife. Please do not think me hard or 
 unkind. I am only trying to be as honest as you have 
 been. If I could love you as you desire, I certainly 
 would do it, for what girl would not appreciate the 
 honor of being the wife of so brave and true a man. 
 It is only my heart that speaks to you, and not my in 
 clination. And my heart does not tell me to say 
 yes. I almost wish it did, for you have proved be 
 yond a doubt that marriage with you would be a life 
 of mutual confidence and affection. But, dear friend, 
 the answer that you wish for is not there." 
 
 "Then it s nouse," said Mr. Sappleigh after a pause. 
 "You don t think it would come around by and 
 by?" 
 
 "I fear not," said Nellie smiling sadly. "Some 
 thing tells me that I cannot promise to change. But, 
 unless it is too painful for you to be near the woman 
 who has refused to give you the blessing you crave, 
 simply because she cannot, I shall hope that our friend 
 ship may not be severed by this unhappy meeting." 
 
 "No indeed," replied Mr. Sappleigh. "I can, if I 
 must, dismiss the matter, as you wish, and still enjoy 
 your company. I should hope I am man enough for 
 that. I will never annoy j ou with references to this 
 hour, and will try to feel you are my very dearest
 
 78 PERDIDA. 
 
 friend, if you will permit it. I think I can live a bet 
 ter life that way than if I were never to see you 
 again." 
 
 "I am glad to hear you say so," she replied. "I 
 should dislike to lose the friendship of the bravest 
 man I have ever known." 
 
 "I thank you for that," said he. "Now perhaps I 
 had best go. I hope you will not be unhappy over this 
 mistake of mine." 
 
 "I will try not to be," she replied. "But still I fear 
 I shall always feel a sense of pain at the thought that I 
 cannot be to you what you wish me to be. It is hard 
 to be a woman and to love a man as I love you, yet 
 not be able to love him as he needs to be loved. I 
 think any honorable girl would feel as I do. Good 
 night, dear friend," she added, as she gave him her 
 hand. 
 
 He took it in his a moment, as they arose from their 
 chairs and stood face to face. Then he gently seized 
 its mate and held that too, as he gazed fondly into her 
 eyes that met his with affection and frankness and a 
 suggestion of tears that could not wholly be sup 
 pressed. A minute he held them thus, then, quietly 
 raising them to his lips, he kissed them each in turn, 
 released them and, without speaking, left the room. 
 
 She was deeply moved by the sincerity of this expres 
 sion of his affection, and it seemed to her a thing to be 
 cherished among the precious memories of her life. 
 Something in his manner, and the quiet dignity with 
 which he received back his rejected heart told her he 
 was one upon whom she could rely in time of trouble; 
 that, no matter what his future held, it was not in his 
 nature to be unkind or thoughtless in his dealings with 
 any woman, and she almost wished she could have 
 given him another answer. Plainly the undernatura
 
 PERDIDA. 79 
 
 of this genial fellow was a sturdy manhood that rested 
 secure upon the bedrock of a deep self-respect. She 
 was glad he had taken her hands as he did and had 
 held them for an instant in his own and had kissed 
 them with the kisses of a true respectful love that left 
 no touch of shame upon the memory of the hour; and 
 realized that his were brave and generous hands that 
 she could always trust. There came a day, long after, 
 when she had reason to remember this impression, and 
 understood, far better than she could now, how good a 
 thing it was to lay her hands in his and trust him with 
 out fear.
 
 80 PEEDIDA. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 MAIDEN MEDITATIONS. 
 Who shall surely read a woman s heart? 
 
 JUNE 21ST : I have so many things to think of now, 
 dear companion, that I almost seem to neglect you; and 
 yet I have not omitted to tell you all that was worth 
 telling at least once a week. To-night I am in the 
 humor for confidences and feel that it will do me good 
 to spend an hour in setting them down where only our 
 two selves can ever see them. So many strange hap 
 penings come to my notice that perplex and often 
 worry me that I sometimes wish you were a human be 
 ing who could tell me things as readily as I tell them 
 to you. But of course this is nonsense, and you are 
 only my diary after all, my other self. 
 
 Several ideas that were once unformed and vague in 
 me are now definite. Among them is the fact that I 
 know just how I feel with regard to John Hadley. My 
 unhappy experience with dear Mr. Sappleigh has 
 taught me the truth, why, I cannot say, but it now 
 seems clear to me that, if I am to marry any man that I 
 have yet known, that man should be John Hadley. 
 And yet he has never even told me that he loves me, 
 and may have no more thought of me as a wife than I 
 had of Mr. Sappleigh as a husband. I used to think, 
 before I understood my heart as well as I do now, that 
 when two people fell in love, both of them knew it, and 
 that it was not natural for one person to love to the
 
 PEUDIDA. 81 
 
 point of marriage unless the other felt that way too. 
 But I now understand that it is possible for one to sin 
 cerely desire the love of another who does not return 
 the affection, and realize that perhaps John may never 
 care for me as I could care for him. The thought is 
 not easy to bear, but there is no help for it. When 
 I think how poor Mr. Sappleigh must suffer, every time 
 he sees me and feels how dear I am to him, knowing 
 all the time that he cannot hope to win my heart, I re 
 alize that life has burdens that one must carry with for 
 titude, and it gives me strength to face my own trou 
 ble. And yet I cannot dismiss the hope that John will 
 come to me, some day, and offer me his love. He is so 
 reticent and fearful of giving offense that perhaps it is 
 only his diffidence that has kept him back so long. His 
 last letter fills me with a sense of coming happiness, 
 that was not mine until after that night with Mr. Sap 
 pleigh. Still I can only hope and wait. God bless 
 him. He may never know how much his old school 
 fellow cares for him. I wonder if he is as brave as 
 Mr. Sappleigh? But of course he is. 
 
 The things that Mr. Sappleigh told me so honestly 
 that sad night when I could not find it in my heart to 
 tell him "yes," have caused me great pain and uneasi 
 ness, and I cannot drive them from my thoughts. I 
 honor and admire him very much; he certainly is very 
 upright and courageous, and I believe he has told me 
 nothing but the truth, and that he will always keep his 
 promise. But I cannot understand how it is possible 
 that one so naturally refined and manly could fall so 
 shamelessly. Sometimes I wish he had not told me; 
 and yet if he had not, I would respect him less. He 
 seems to have risen in my estimation, in spite of his 
 dreadful sin, just because he has had the courage to tell
 
 82 PERDIDA. 
 
 wife. Did I tell him the truth also, when I said that 
 this did not stafid between us? Let me think Yes ; I 
 know I did. If I loved him enough to be his bride, that 
 other thing would riot prevent our marriage. I know 
 I have forgiven him. What strange creatures women 
 are. 
 
 Sue Dodge was here an hour this evening, and she 
 talked in a singular way that she never had before 
 when with me. We were discussing the Rev. Frank 
 Tatterton and his ideas of celibacy as the only right 
 life for a clergyman, and Suo grew positively cynical 
 on the subject and said that she took no stock in 
 the holiness of any set of men, not even the rever 
 end clergy of the church. She said if they were not 
 married they must be eitner fools or knaves, and she 
 believed that sooner or later people would find it out. 
 I told her she ought not to feel that way, just because 
 some men thought as did the Rev. Frank, but she 
 only laughed a scornful kind of laugh, and replied that 
 when I was older I d know more. I suggested, with 
 a well-assumed innocence of all knowledge, that. I 
 hoped she did not include our friend Mr. Sappleigh in 
 her list of reprobates; and she promptly replied that he 
 was one of the best fellows she had ever known, but 
 she would not bet on him either. That hurt me, and 
 I defended him. But she only laughed again. She is 
 very strange in her talk sometimes, and one might 
 almost believe she has been embittered by a past un- 
 kindness, a false lover, perhaps, or something like that, 
 she speaks so harshly. And yet she is the kindest 
 woman in the world. I have noticed another thing in 
 her that perplexes me. She seems to dislike Mr. Jad- 
 man intensely, yet she assures me her relations with him 
 have always been very cordial, and that she has noth 
 ing to complain of. She insists, however, that he is not
 
 PERDIDA. 83 
 
 a good man. Foolish Sue. If she knew how gener 
 ous and considerate he can be, she would not talk so. 
 She might better save her dislike for Mr. Stein, who 
 is often very rude to the girls who work in his depart 
 ments. 
 
 That suggests another queer thing. Cora likes Mr. 
 Stein, and always stands up for him against the others. 
 
 She says he is misunderstood and is all right when 
 you know him. Well, from her point of view, this 
 may seem so, for she happens to be first clerk in his de 
 partment and is the best worker in the line, and of 
 course he naturally has no occasion to find fault with 
 her. But he certainly is sometimes hard on the poorer 
 workers. Sue Dodge says he is "simply horrid," but 
 that, I think, is going too far. 
 
 I had a droll letter from little Mary Neal this morn 
 ing. Dear girl! she always seems to be writing to me. 
 Generally she tells me more about her love for myself 
 than about anything else; but this time she actually 
 sent me some news. She writes that her sister s hus 
 band is dead (poor man, he never did seem very strong) 
 and that it is probable they may come to the city, 
 where her sister expects to get work at her old trade of 
 dressmaking. They are poor and cannot live in Spring 
 Valley now that the man is gone. I shall write Mrs. 
 Benson to-morrow, offering to do anything I can to aid 
 her and my dear little girlie. How sad such things 
 are. 
 
 In spite of all my worries and perplexities, I seem to 
 enjoy life. Perhaps this is because I am busy and in 
 dependent and have such good friends about me. Cora 
 and I are going to run down to the Island next Satur 
 day afternoon, for a little outing of our own, and we 
 expect to have a good time. She arranged it with me 
 this morning, and Mr. Jadman told us we could leave
 
 84 PERDIDA. 
 
 half an hour earlier than usual, to get ready. It was 
 very kind. He remarked that he sometimes took a 
 trip there himself, and laughingly said he might 
 chance to see us a minute, if we happened to meet there. 
 I am looking forward to the sail with Cora. Yet, 
 even in this prospect of pleasure, I cannot help think 
 ing of poor Mr. Sappleigh, and the day he took us all 
 with him. How happy we were. Dear Mr. Sap 
 pleigh, I wish he had not found it in his heart to hap 
 pen to want me. It seems cruel that a true friendship 
 should ripen into a one-sided love affair that can only 
 make two people uncomfortable. If I could coax him 
 to fall in love with Cora, it would be doing him a good 
 turn ; but no : on second thought I see that idea was 
 ignoble. Mr. Sappleigh really loves me very deeply. 
 I have no right to play with his affections even in pri 
 vate jest. He has proved himself too brave and honor 
 able for that. May God bless him. 
 
 Dr. Van Home sent me a message this morning. 
 It did me good; dear old pastor, how often I think of 
 him. His letter was almost a prayer for my guidance 
 and protection, and seemed like a repetition of the words 
 he spoke so tenderly the night before I left my aunt s 
 home. He again commends me to the care of God, and 
 prays that no harm may ever come to me while alone 
 in the great city, which he seems to dread as a danger 
 ous place for young women and friendless girls. I must 
 answer him soon, and let him know how safe I really 
 am, and what kind and generous employers and asso 
 ciates I have found. It will ease his mind. 
 
 Good-night, little diary; I shall expect to tell you 
 pleasant things when next we meet.
 
 PERDIDA. 85 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE REAL, MR. JADMAN. 
 
 IT is held by certain moralists that the instincts of a 
 pure and upright character are sufficient to preserve its 
 possessor from the wiles of evil-minded persons. To 
 a limited extent, this is reasonably sound doctrine, for 
 there is that in the chaste and refined man or woman 
 which tends to repel the advances of people whose acts 
 and manners are gross and suggestive of wickedness. 
 But is it not also true that experience and knowledge 
 are needed to insure the innocent and pure an immu 
 nity from dangers that beset them in their intercourse 
 with their fellow-men? Instinct is at best an uncertain 
 element in any phase of life; much depends upon the en 
 vironment and training of the individual. The dumb 
 creature that has known no associations save those of 
 the stable and the pasture, surely takes a different view 
 of men and dogs from that held by his wild cousin of 
 the pampas, though his inherited instincts may be the 
 same ; and the captive canary bird that trembles at the 
 sight of the house cat has no fear of human beings, yet 
 man has proved himself a more dangerous enemy of its 
 race than the cat. 
 
 Again, innocence and purity are not in any sense an 
 education. They tell their possessor nothing of the 
 darker things that lie in the hearts of those who are 
 themselves neither innocent nor pure. Almost, in 
 sooth, do they tend rather to blind one to the dangers 
 that infest the roadwaj* of his moral life- walk and
 
 86 PERDIDA. 
 
 leave him unprepared for the attack of the highway 
 robber and the concealed assassin, as he ignorantly pur 
 sues his way. It is, I hold, therefore, ahsolutely nec 
 essary and positively wise that intelligent people who 
 have at heart the interest of their fellows, should en 
 deavor to add to the lessons in right living that they 
 give the young a clear and strong perception of the 
 characters of less noble persons, and that they should 
 teach them to cultivate the faculty of caution and urge 
 them not always to form their judgments of others by 
 appearances alone. Such lessons may be painful; they 
 may even tend in some degree to disturb the peace of 
 that perfect innocence which we so much admire, espe 
 cially in children, but they certainly come within the 
 bounds of duty, and, rightly given, cannot harm a 
 really good character. 
 
 If it be true, as some hold, that purity of mind and 
 innocence of soul are the best safeguards against the 
 machinations of villainy why, let me ask, is it the trust 
 ing, generous, guileless man that is most often swindled, 
 and not the fellow whose ways are crooked ; why is 
 it the good man and the good woman who are most fre 
 quently betrayed by others, and not those who are 
 neither good men nor good women? Why does it hap 
 pen that so many of our deceived wives and daughters 
 are themselves among the purest and the best of our 
 women, while their less lovable neighbors manage to 
 escape the sorrows that mar their happiness and often 
 wreck their lives? 
 
 In an age that permits the free and unquestioned in 
 tercourse of all classes of people and that demands the 
 entry into the labor field of almost every kind of per 
 son, the innocent and the pure at heart are compelled 
 by circumstances to mingle daily with the coarse and 
 the vile, the shrewd, the crafty and the sinful, often on
 
 PERDIDA. 87 
 
 terms of equality and frequently in positions of subor- 
 dinacy. Under such conditions, many are removed 
 from the influences of watchful parents and are thrown 
 wholly upon their own resources, to take the chances 
 with the mass and succeed as best they can, or fail if 
 they cannot succeed. In a metropolitan community 
 nobody cares what becomes of the weak, the poor, and 
 the helpless. Each individual makes his own place, or 
 fails to make it, and his personal affairs do not concern 
 the rest. The evil-minded, if intelligent and alert, often 
 have the advantage in the scramble, for they have the 
 help of knowledge, trust nobody but themselves, and 
 are not hindered by conscience in their efforts to get 
 what they want. The ill-informed and innocent are 
 therefore easy prey for the schemer and the scoundrel, 
 for they know no law but the beautiful injunction: 
 
 "All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, 
 do ye even so to them ;" 
 
 and do not know that many with whom they deal look 
 upon this command as something bordering on the 
 confines of stupidity, if not actually the utterance of 
 insanity itself. 
 
 Youth is trusting; its judgments are based upon ap 
 pearances as reflected in the mirror of its own impres 
 sions. It is seldom given to suspicion and generally 
 takes a thing for what it seems to be. This is the be 
 ginning of natural education, and for primitive man it 
 was probably all the schooling that was needed. But 
 in an age that is at least fifty per cent, artificial, and 
 that has so distorted every natural relation of man s life 
 that it has need of codes and laws and constitutions and 
 social restrictions of a thousand kinds, there certainly 
 is occasion for a different training from that which a 
 purely empirical system provides. It is absolutely nee-
 
 88 PERDIDA. 
 
 essary, in fact, that the growing boy or girl shall have 
 the benefit of all the knowledge that older and wiser 
 people can impart; and that, with regard to the charac 
 ters of strangers especially, a clear conception of what 
 is safe and what is dangerous should be made an im 
 portant part of the training. To turn an ignorant and 
 pure-minded child into a community of mixed people is 
 about as kind as it would be to free a minnow, that 
 has never known any home but the aquarium, by cast 
 ing it into the sea. The minnow might have instincts 
 that urge it to avoid the bass, but it is possible it might 
 not view the beautiful starfish with fear and might 
 even look upon it as a charming acquaintance to culti 
 vate. 
 
 If you would protect the pure and innocent, Fathers 
 and Mothers and Friends of America s later generation, 
 see to it that you cast them not into the sea, unprepared 
 to protect themselves. 
 
 It was a perfect summer afternoon that came with 
 the close of the week and found Nellie and Cora stroll 
 ing about in the crowds that were come to Coney Is 
 land to recreate, after a six days spell of heat in the city. 
 There is probably no resort within easy distance of 
 New York that changes its population so continuously 
 and has so many different kinds of visitors as this 
 place. Rich and poor alike are fond of running down 
 to the Island, old and young there find pleasant hours 
 awaiting them, and there is always something to inter 
 est each person, no matter what his taste may be. For 
 such as are fond of nonsense and hilarity there are 
 numerous kick-shows and fakirs and all manner of pos 
 sibilities to be tested for a nickel a test to the limit of 
 the desire for cheap amusement; for people of more 
 dainty tastes there are the large hotels and the fine
 
 PERDIDA. 89 
 
 bands that furnish music that is always of the best; for 
 the lazy and tho indolent there are the shady pavilions 
 that front upon the water and the carriages ready to 
 take you riding up and down the beaches, and the cool 
 breezes that blow continually and cause you to forget 
 how hot you were an hour ago before you left the town; 
 and for one who has the temperament of the poet and 
 loves at times to dwell apart with Nature and her 
 works, there is the distant solitude of the far-stretched 
 sands and the rhythmic murmuring of the soothing 
 summer sea. 
 
 Mingled with the masses that drift about where the 
 people are densest, your ears are filled with a con 
 sciousness of many sounds; and there is a something 
 in the discordant blended blaring of the side-show 
 bands and the yelling of the steam organs at the merry- 
 go-rounds, that causes you to smile, it is so droll to note 
 the efforts of each particular hawker to present his 
 wares of fun and frolic in most attractive style ; again, 
 if you chance to stroll far out along the beach, until 
 you are well away from the crush and free from per 
 sonal contact with it, you will note the subdued babel 
 that now comes floating down the wind and is no longer 
 disagreeable to the sense, and marvel how such dread 
 ful noises can harmonize so pleasingly with the voices 
 of the waves. It is a good place to visit occasionally, 
 if one goes thither prepared to take a kindly view of 
 life, and it certainly has become one of the blessings of 
 the working-classes, which they appreciate with each ad 
 vancing year that brings the summer-time anew with 
 all its cheer and charm. 
 
 That there are evils there, too, I admit; but where 
 do evils not exist? Sin and folly will find their way 
 wherever human nature is ; but there is no excuse for 
 anybody who gets into mischief at the Island, since its
 
 90 PERDIDA. 
 
 temptations, once pointed out, need seduce no sensible 
 person, and in general the place is well policed. Life 
 and property are, in truth, safer there than in the town 
 itself. It is only those who seek to do wrong who ven 
 ture there with harm ; unless perchance a bad associa 
 tion should lead some ignorant person astray, and then 
 the fault is not in the place but in the association. 
 
 The two girls had a delightful sail from the city, and 
 Nellie in particular, who was learning to dearly love 
 the water, enjoyed every moment of the trip. It was 
 toward the mid-afternoon hour when they arrived at 
 the Iron Pier and began their ramblings over the sands 
 and among the various resorts. Each had a sunshade 
 that kept the glare of the sky from her; and when, after 
 a time, they grew tired and walked down by the sea to 
 watch the bathers, and sat upon the sands with these 
 sunshades nicely adjusted to the light, the restfulness 
 of the scene and the healthful odor of the breeze seemed 
 too good to be abandoned with haste, so they stayed. 
 
 "How lovely it is to just sit here, like two children, 
 and watch the water and feel the air," said Nellie; 
 "it makes me wish that we could live by the sea and 
 have it always near." 
 
 "Yes," replied her chum, "I like it; it s cool and 
 comfortable and your clothes don t stick to you as they 
 do at home." 
 
 Nellie smiled. 
 
 "That is a very practical way to look at it," she 
 said. 
 
 "Of course it is," said Cora. "And it is a sensible 
 one too. Honest ; if my clothes stuck to me here as 
 they do sometimes when it s hot in town, I wouldn t 
 stay. The sea and the water and all that are very 
 nice, but they would not be so charming if one wasn t 
 comfortable too."
 
 PERDIDA. 91 
 
 "Perhaps not," replied Nellie, "and yet I am not 
 certain. There is a something about the ocean and its 
 rolling billows and all that it suggests that fills me 
 with strange sensations." 
 
 "Is that so?" said her companion. "It never 
 strikes me that way. I just like it, that s all. And 
 I like everything that s pleasant and gay. Why just 
 think, Nell," she added, "what a barren, desolate place 
 this would be if there was nothing here but the sand 
 and water." 
 
 "It would be different, I suppose," said Nellie, "but 
 I do not believe it would be less impressive, at least 
 not for me. Of course I like the hotels and the shows 
 and the fun and the people; but, after all, it is the sea 
 that I love when I come here." 
 
 "You are positively poetic, Nell," replied Cora. 
 "Why don t you write a book?" 
 
 Nellie laughed and colored a little as she answered : 
 "I fear that writing a book would be too great a task 
 for me, Cora. If I manage to write Mr. Jadrnan s let 
 ters correctly, I find I am doing very well; but I ll 
 confess that I have once and awhile tried to write a 
 poem." 
 
 "Is that so?" said Cora, looking up at her. She had 
 now abandoned her sitting posture and lay flat upon the 
 sands, and as she gazed at her friend, with the tint of 
 the sunshade falling upon her bright face, Nellie noted 
 that she was a very pretty girl to look at. "How 
 could you ever be guilty of such a thing. You must 
 have been in love. 
 
 "No; I don t think it was that," replied Nellie. 
 "It was only friendship that inspired my attempt at 
 poetry; and," she continued, "the poetry was pretty 
 poor stuff. I saw that afterward, when I compared it 
 with my favorites."
 
 92 PERDIDA. 
 
 "Well," said Cora, "I suppose one might 
 poetry about friendship, but I always had an idea that 
 you had to get half-crazy with love for some one before 
 the poetry would come. Most of the poems that I have 
 tried to read looked like the scribblings of people who 
 were slightly off." 
 
 "Perhaps you did not try to understand them," said 
 Nellie. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I did. That s where I struck the trouble. 
 If I tried to make plain sense out of them, I couldn t, 
 and if I abandoned that idea, they read like crazy talk. 
 Most of them were written by some man who had a 
 very bad attack of loving, that much was plain, and 
 whose girl seemed to have gone back on him. If he d 
 had sense he d have got another. They re thick enough, 
 the dear knows." 
 
 "You are positively awful," laughed Nellie. 
 
 "Am I?" said Cora. "I can t help it if I am. 
 Poetry isn t in my line. I can sell laces, though, 
 with the best of them, and I can enjoy the little fun 
 that I get without fretting about consequences, and 
 that s good philosophy. Do you suppose Mr. Jadman 
 will happen to pass this way, as he hinted he might?" 
 she added suddenly. 
 
 "I couldn t say," replied Nellie. "He only said that 
 he might chance to see us." 
 
 "Well, it makes no difference," said Cora. "We can 
 get along without him. Still you never know what 
 person is liable to turn up here. I always come ex 
 pecting to meet a friend." 
 
 As darkness began to fall upon the distant sealine, 
 that faint suggestion of coming night which often pre 
 cedes the real nightfall by an hour or two, the first tint 
 of what would soon become a glorious sunset, touched 
 the west. The girls left their resting-spot upon the
 
 PERDIDA. 93 
 
 sand, folded their sunshades and walked slowly down 
 the beach. It was the finest hour in the day that was 
 now about to close, and its influence was so sense- 
 compelling that even Cora, who was not much affected 
 by nature, felt it. 
 
 "Is not this indeed a perfect evening?" said Nellie, 
 as they walked along. 
 
 "Yes," replied Cora, "it is lovely." Sheseemed pre 
 occupied with other thoughts, however, and occasion 
 ally would turn her head landward as if looking for 
 some one, but she said nothing to indicate that she ex 
 pected anything; so Nellie, although she noticed her 
 actions, thought nothing of them. In fact she found 
 herself turning and looking whenever Cora did why 
 she did not know, but it was probably the natural 
 movement that one person makes when with another 
 who changes the direction of his glances. 
 
 "Why, there s Mr. Stein," said Cora suddenly. 
 "Yes; and Mr. Jadman with him. They have seen 
 us, and are coming this way." 
 
 Nellie did not know at the moment whether she was 
 pleased or not. She felt at the instant that she would 
 as soon they had not been seen by the two gentlemen. 
 Still, she had no desire to avoid them, and as they drew 
 near, she met them with a cordial respect that was as 
 natural to her as her goodness of heart. The gentle 
 men raised their hats as courteously as they would to 
 any ladies they might happen to know, and stopped, ex 
 changing greetings. Mr. Jadman was especially 
 polite and dignified, as he inquired how they had 
 passed the time and asked them if they had yet had 
 their dinner. 
 
 "It is really very pleasant when one can get rid of 
 the shop," he said, "to meet people whom one likes, in 
 this unexpected way. Stein and I thought we would
 
 94 PERDIDA. 
 
 take an evening out, it is so seldom we go together, 
 and enjoy ourselves for an hour or two; and we were 
 just remarking that it seemed unsociable to go off this 
 way without asking anj T ladies to share the pleasure, 
 when here we suddenly come upon you. May we have 
 the favor of your company with us while we dine, for 
 we are hungry, and so are you. You know, Miss Brown, 
 good dinners are among my weaknesses. Stein says 
 I eat too much, but he isn t slow at it himself." 
 
 Mr. Stein smiled, showing strong white teeth as he 
 replied, with gracious civility, that he hoped the opin 
 ion of his friend would not be taken without charity. 
 He offered his arm to Cora, who took it at once and 
 walked off with him toward the large hotel that stood 
 not far back of their meeting-place, and Mr. Jadman 
 tendered the like courtesy to Nellie. She accepted his 
 escort, thanking him for his invitation and adding: 
 
 "You must not think that I always expect you to 
 provide my dinner, Mr. Jadman, because I happen to 
 be a favorite of yours." 
 
 "Indeed no," said he with a hearty laugh. "In 
 truth I generally find you rather too willing to decline 
 my invitations. I have known many young ladies, 
 Miss Brown, who were not near so well-bred and consid 
 erate in accepting courtesies. To be perfectly frank with 
 you, let me say that I really am interested in you, very 
 much as I imagine your father would be were he liv 
 ing, and wish to see you rise in life and some day take 
 your rightful place among the honored women of the 
 community. I have even thought it might become my 
 duty to hunt up a good husband for you, to whom I 
 could give you with my blessing in true patriarchal 
 style." 
 
 Nellie could not help laughing at this, as she replied 
 that he might find it difficult to please her, and said :
 
 PERDIDA. 95 
 
 "You see I am very particular, Mr. Jadman, and 
 have ideals and lots of other girlish nonsense to out 
 grow. " 
 
 "Well," he replied, "it is not a matter that I shall 
 worry over now. This is too fine a night for fretting, 
 and you know my weakness is upon me. I must eat. 
 It really is fortunate that Stein and I happened to stroll 
 this way when we did. A few minutes more or less, or 
 a different direction taken by either of the parties, 
 would have rendered this pleasure impossible. I am 
 partial to chance meetings with good friends. You 
 generally find them at their best." 
 
 "Or at their worst," said Nellie. 
 
 "Yes, that is so too," said Mr. Jadman. "But 
 when it happens that way, it gives you good opportu 
 nity to avoid them next time. You can never learn so 
 much about a man as when you run across him unex 
 pectedly. Is uot that a charming sun-cloud?" he sud 
 denly added as he wheeled with her toward the east and 
 pointed with his disengaged hand. 
 
 It was indeed beautiful. The westering sun had 
 thrown its rays full upon a cloud that hung above the 
 water in isolation from the masses that lay farther out 
 to sea, and made it a thing of glory as it slowly floated 
 landward like a mass of golden vapor. The appeal to 
 Nellie s artistic and poetic temperament was strong, 
 and as she and her employer watched the cloud, a 
 silence fell upon them, so that neither of them spoke 
 for several minutes. The girl stood gazing at the 
 heavens with upturned face that had in it the purity 
 and innocence of a saintly picture, wholly unconscious 
 of the looks of admiration that her presence inspired in 
 her companion, while the man well, he was sensible 
 of the beauty of the cloud as well as she, but his 
 thoughts were not of the cloud. After a time, she 
 spoke :
 
 96 PERDIDA. 
 
 "How beautful!" she said softly, still gazing at the 
 mass of drifting gold that hung above them as it 
 moved upon the gentle air that slowly swept it on. 
 "Do you know, Mr. Jadman, when I feel the influence 
 of such things as that, I sometimes wonder how there 
 can be anything in the world that is not pure and holy, 
 how anybody can fail to realize the presence of God 
 and his kindness, his works are all so marvelous and 
 good." 
 
 Jadman answered her quietly, saying: 
 
 "Yes, indeed, my young friend, the influences of the 
 beautiful in Nature are truly a tendency toward good 
 ness., if people could only learn to feel them as you do ; 
 but we are not all of us capable of such things. Now 
 there is Mr. Stein; you d never convince him that a 
 golden cloud is as interesting as a gold-certificate or a 
 gold-bond ; he is not made with the right twist in him. 
 You needn t laugh ; and don t assume that I have any 
 wish to be hard on Stein, for he is really a very good 
 fellow when you get to know him. I merely mention 
 the matter as an offset to your charming remark, with 
 which I heartily agree." 
 
 He looked at her admiringly as he spoke, and, de 
 spite the seeming levity of his remarks, appeared to ap^ 
 preciate what had pleased her so greatly in the sunset. 
 
 "You are probably right, Mr. Jadman," she said. 
 "People are not all alike. Still I love to think that all 
 can be influenced to goodness. Do you not agree with 
 me in this also?" 
 
 "I suppose I do, Miss Brown," he replied. "You 
 certainly have a way of putting it that renders it attrac 
 tive, which is not always the case when goodness is 
 served up to us by our betters. But we are forgetting 
 our dinner," he continued, "and of course we want 
 that as well as other good things."
 
 PEED ID A. 97 
 
 They entered the hotel, and were soon seated at a 
 private table in one of the small rooms. Mr. Jadman, 
 being admittedly the expert at dining, played the host, 
 and the result was as good a dinner as money can buy. 
 Mr. Stein, despite the bad impression he had made on 
 Nellie, seemed so much a gentleman and so debonair 
 in manner and pleasantly modest in deportment that 
 Nellie almost forgot him as she had seen him in the 
 store, and tried to like him. She could not, however, 
 wholly bring herself to find him agreeable, nor could 
 she feel that he was the true gentleman that his part 
 ner was, and she wondered how Cora could respect him 
 30 much as she did. There was a suggestion of insin 
 cerity about him that she could not dismiss from her 
 mind, try as she would. But in the charitableness of 
 her heart she made excuses for him, and thought that 
 possiblj" he might not have had the best of influences 
 when young. 
 
 As the hours passed on and each course of the dinner 
 was served, the party became very merry, for Mr. 
 Jadman was full of jokes and his partner was not de 
 void of humor on occasions of this character. They all 
 drank wines, Cora and Mr. Stein taking more than the 
 others, and it seemed to Nellie, after a time, that the 
 wines appeared to be stronger than those of which she 
 had tasted at other places. Without realizing it, she 
 had, in truth, become affected by the drink, and the 
 result was that the wit and humor, at all times natural 
 to her happy disposition, were set loose to a greater de 
 gree than she would have permitted had she been in 
 full control of herself. She made bright remarks, at 
 which the gentlemen laughed heartily while Cora 
 smiled encouragingly in her pride at the brilliancy of 
 her friend, and was, in fine, as light-hearted and gay 
 as the rest of them. It was very pleasant. She could
 
 98 PERDIDA. 
 
 not remember to have ever been so utterly care-free be 
 fore in all her life. 
 
 Suddenly Mr. Stein looked at his watch. 
 
 "By Jove, Jadman," said he. "Do you know what 
 time it is?" 
 
 "No," replied Mr. Jadman, "I have not thought to 
 look. The evening has passed so agreeably that I have 
 not once taken note of the hour. What time is it?" 
 
 "Eleven-thirty," said Stein, as he put his watch 
 back in its place. 
 
 "Then the last boat has gone," said Mr. Jadman, 
 "and the last train too." 
 
 Nellie felt that something dreadful had happened. 
 She sobered up somewhat and said : 
 
 "What shall we do, then, to get back? They will be 
 worried at the house. 
 
 "No; that will not trouble them," replied Cora, 
 "because I told Mrs. Ferguson that I might take you 
 with me to Brooklyn. You know you forgot to leave 
 any word yourself before you left." 
 
 "Well," said Mr. Jadman, "it s plain that we can 
 not return until morning. It is unfortunate, but I can 
 fix it so we shall not want shelter. I will engage 
 rooms for the party. It is the only thing that can be 
 done." 
 
 Mr. Stein said this would suit him as well as return 
 ing, since to-morrow was Sunday ; so Mr. Jadman and 
 he went to the office to arrange matters. Nellie felt 
 that she would give a good deal to be safe at her board 
 ing house, just then, it seemed so strange to thus re 
 main in the hotel. She understood that nothing could 
 be done, however, so made the best of it. 
 
 The gentlemen had returned by this time, and Mr. 
 Jadman asked the party to remain awhile longer, since 
 the night was fine and hours made no difference now. 
 He filled their glasses.
 
 PERDIDA. 99 
 
 "To the ladies health," said he, "and a good 
 night s rest for all." 
 
 After they had finished the wine, Mr. Stein asked 
 Cora to etep outside a minute to look at the sea by night, 
 and they left Mr. Jadman and Nellie together. 
 
 "Please do not think me foolish, Mr. Jadman," said 
 she, "because I am worried at our overstay. You 
 have been very kind to help us out of the difficulty I 
 really do not know what we should have done alone." 
 
 She spoke unsteadily and felt that she must either be 
 growing very sleepy or that the wine had gone to her 
 head. Mr. Jadman perceived it, and said : 
 
 "Don t let that worry you, Miss Brown. You have 
 no work to call you to-morrow, and will get a good 
 night s rest. In fact I see that you are tired now." 
 
 "Yes, "she replied (and it seemed to her as if she 
 were speaking in a dream). "I should like to re 
 tire." Somehow the words came very slowly. 
 "Where is- Cora?" 
 
 "She has not yet come in with Mr. Stein," said he, 
 "but you can go to your room just the same, and I 
 will tell her where you are when they return." 
 
 "Thank you," she replied. "I think I will do 
 so." 
 
 "Very well," said he, "then let me show you the 
 way." 
 
 She arose with difficulty from her seat and he assisted 
 her to her feet. She walked unsteadily and was like a 
 person confused and uncertain of location. 
 
 "Thank you Mr. Jadman," she said dazedly. "I 
 am not feeling just right. Perhaps I should not 
 have taken that last glass of wine." 
 
 There was no thickness in her utterance, only a slow 
 ness of speech as if she might perhaps have been par 
 tially narcotized, and her vision was not clear but
 
 100 PERDIDA. 
 
 hazy. She leaned upon his arm, as he escorted her 
 from the room and up the stairs, like a tired child half- 
 asleep who cares only for rest and the oblivion of its 
 coming slumbers. 
 
 "Do not worry about that," said he tenderly, as he 
 led her on. "You will be all right in the morning." 
 
 "Thank you " she said. "You are kind indeed 
 not to censure me for forgetting myself. I 
 am sorry to trouble you so much. 
 
 He led her to a large, handsomely furnished room, 
 and she released herself from his support and entered. 
 Her gait was still unsteady, but it was more certain 
 than it had been at first. She was about to seat herself 
 upon a nearby chair, when she turned and, looking 
 toward the door, perceived that it was closed and that 
 Mr. Jadman was still present. 
 
 Before she could ask him if he had anything further 
 to say, he advanced to where she was standing; and, 
 ere she could collect her scattered faculties, he had 
 taken her in his arms, carried her with him to a large 
 armchair that stood at the farther corner, and was 
 covering her face and mouth with kisses. She tried to 
 cry out, but he stopped her voice with his caresses; 
 feebly she struggled to free herself, and in weak tones 
 begged him to desist and leave her. The sense of dull 
 ness that the last glass of wine had brought upon her 
 still remained, but the suddenness of the attack and the 
 acuteness of her fright had somewhat modified its in 
 tensity. But she had little strength, even at her best, 
 compared with the man who held her so securely, and 
 her struggle was brief. It was but a few minutes ere 
 she lay in his arms, a poor panting birdling that had no 
 power to longer beat its wings against its captor and 
 no heart left from which to cry out for mercy when 
 mercy there was none.
 
 PERDIDA 101 
 
 There are tears in my eyes as I pen these lines. 
 What kindly man would not be moved to sympathy, 
 as he feels the coming of each sad word that tells of 
 wrong so cruel? Nor are my tears alone for her whose 
 life the pages of this book portray, dearly as I love her, 
 child of my fond imagining and my earnest thought. 
 For, with every burning sentence that henceforth re 
 veals the story of her life and tells what woes are hers, 
 I realize that each is but the counterpart of what many 
 another friendless girl has known, and that the essence 
 of the tale, that fancy here unfolds, wells from the 
 heart-core of a living truth.
 
 102 PERDIDA. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A BITTER AWAKENING. 
 
 "PATER," said Mr. Sappleigh, as he sat opposite his 
 father in their favorite corner of the cluhroom, Satur 
 day night, "I d like to get you to help me do a kind 
 ness." 
 
 "All right, my boy," replied the old gentleman, 
 "that goes every time. What is it that you want 
 now? Not more advice on the question of marriage, I 
 hope; the last case has made me cautious about such 
 things." 
 
 "No, Pop, it isn t that this time," said Sappleigh. 
 "But you were right there just the same. There was 
 nothing at fault with the matter except that she 
 couldn t love me enough. She s the dearest girl in the 
 world, and the most honest woman that ever lived. 1 
 was hit pretty hard when she refused me." 
 
 "I know it, Lispenard," replied his father, "and it 
 fills me with regret to think you could not win her. 
 Perhaps you may yet succeed. Time works wonders." 
 
 "I don t know," said the son. "It would be differ 
 ent if she were not so honest and true to herself ; but 
 I m afraid that such a girl does not change. Of course, 
 I will hope. I d wait all my life for her. But that s 
 not what I wanted to talk about. It s about herself, 
 not me. I want you to do her a kindness that I 
 daren t offer." 
 
 "I will if I can," said Sappleigh senior. "Tell me 
 what you want."
 
 PERDIDA. 103 
 
 "In a minute," said young Sappleigh. "First let 
 me ask you something else. Do you know Jadman, of 
 Jadman, Stein & Co.?" 
 
 "To be sure I do," replied the old gentleman. "Not 
 that we belong to the same set or are personally inti 
 mate ; but I think I know him as well as most people 
 do. What about him?" 
 
 "That s just it," said the son. "What kind of a man 
 is he?" 
 
 "Good business man," replied the old gentleman; 
 "always meets his obligations at date; never goes 
 back on his word in a trade; good fellow at a dinner 
 party; attends church every Sunday morning with his 
 sister she lives in her own house near the Park (you 
 know her, Mrs. Hiram Simmons, rather dignified 
 widow of doubtful age with a fad for reforming the 
 lowly and all that kind of thing) ; church where that 
 chap Tatterton, that the women run after so much, 
 preaches; good enough man, I presume, but he ought 
 to get married ; Jadman likes him, says he s bright 
 Jadman s all right, in a general way, but he s a 
 damned scoundrel all the same." 
 
 "Well, Pop," said Sappleigh, "you manage to say 
 a lot in a short time, when you try. And you seem to 
 have got the faculty of sizing up a man in short order 
 down fine." 
 
 "Had to do it, my boy. Learned long ago never to 
 judge a man by what he seems to be. Surface indica 
 tions don t always prove there s gold below. I learned 
 that the time I got stuck on a mine. Good lesson it 
 was too. I was young then, and needed it." 
 
 "But why do you say that Jadman is a scoundrel, 
 Pop? Isn t that putting it rather strong, after the list 
 of virtues you set to his credit?" 
 
 "I say it because it s true," replied the old gentle
 
 104 PERDIDA. 
 
 man. * 4 A man may do all that Jadman does, and still 
 be a person that no honorable man cares to run with. 
 Yon don t want him, my boy." 
 
 "No," said Sappleigh, "of course I don t. I am 
 glad you said what you did, though, because it helps 
 me get at the thing that s bothering me. Miss Brown 
 is Jadman s office correspondent, and I want to see her 
 change her place. I cannot say that I have any spe 
 cial reason for feeling that way, but I d like to see her 
 leave him. I saw him dining with her, the other 
 night, at Bromson s, and it struck me that he was not 
 quite the man to be doing that. She is so innocent and 
 honest and trusting that she would never see any impro 
 priety in it. But you know what that kind of thing 
 means." 
 
 "Of course I do," said Sappleigh senior. "When a 
 man like Jadman invites his private stenographer to 
 dine with him, he doesn t do it out of charity. I m 
 glad you mentioned the subject. That s an old dodge 
 of Jadman s. I tell you he s the worst man that ever 
 put up a front of eminent respectability to fool the 
 ignorant. Why, my boy, I could tell you things 
 about that man but what s the good? I m deucedly 
 sorry to hear that he has beguiled another girl with his 
 sham dignity and pretended benevolence. How long 
 has this thing been going on?" 
 
 "Not long," replied the son. "I am certain nothing 
 has come of it, and probably nothing will. But I 
 know enough to know that it isn t the right thing for 
 her; and, Pop, I d do anything to keep her from being 
 talked about." 
 
 "To be sure you would, and so would I," said Sap 
 pleigh senior, "but what do yon suggest? It s a deli 
 cate matter to meddle with, especially when the girl is 
 free from suspicion."
 
 PERDIDA. 105 
 
 "That s just it," said Sappleigb. "I can t do any 
 thing at all. She would think me very impertinent, 
 especially after that mistake of mine. But it occurred 
 to me that perhaps you might manage to get her a place 
 in the bank. I ll pay the bill myself, if there is no reg 
 ular way. You see, I could, with perfect propriety, go 
 to her and say you were sadly in need of some A-l as 
 sistance and would pay, say twenty or twenty-five dol 
 lars to get it. And then I d tell her what a splendid 
 opportunity there was with you, and what a fine old 
 gentleman she d have for a boss and all that ; then I d 
 manage to have you call at our place, and trust to you 
 to do the rest. I believe you could too. She is ambi 
 tious to rise, and is very sincere." 
 
 "Well," said old Mr. Sappleigh. "I ll think it 
 over. We have no vacant places at the bank, just 
 now, but I could fix that, of course. I did hope Miss 
 Brown was going to be the daughter that I was to get 
 some day; but if she won t she won t. And yet, some 
 how, my boy, I have got it in my head that, by and 
 by, the thing may come round. I believe she is all 
 you say she is, and I also believe that Jadman intends 
 her no good. Huh!" he continued, "a lot he d care to 
 entertain his stenographer for the benefit of anybody 
 but himself. The more unsophisticated and innocent 
 she is the better it would please him to win her over. 
 You can t fool me about Jadman, boy; I tell you he s 
 bad, the very worst kind there is. These fellows that 
 sing psalms on Sunday and coax ignorant girls to dine 
 with them on Monday, under pretence of doing the 
 fatherly act, are too thoroughly bad to live in a decent 
 community. I ll help her out of his clutches if I can, 
 but I must have a little time to work out a plan." 
 
 "Thank you, Pop," said Sappleigb. "I felt that 
 you would. You d do a good deal for my sake."
 
 106 PERDIDA. 
 
 "Indeed I would, Lispenard," replied the old man. 
 "But I m telling you now that I ll get that girl away 
 as much for her own sake as for yours. A young 
 woman who can behave as she behaved to you, the 
 time you tried to get her to marry you, and who can 
 resist the temptations of wealth, culture and kindness 
 and a youngster whom she likes almost well enough to 
 wed, just because she is not certain that she loves him 
 as she should, is no common maiden. You can t find 
 that kind every day in this town. I ll try my best. 
 Jadman s cunning," he continued, "and he s very 
 slick. He must not suspect us. If he should, he d 
 raise her wages now and play low in the other game. 
 The thing will have to be worked cautiously and natur 
 ally. What a scoundrel he is!" 
 
 Soon after this they parted, and the old gentleman 
 started homeward, so deep in meditation that he failed 
 to reply to the salutes of several friends whom he passed 
 on the way. His son went to his room in the boarding 
 house, and spent half the night in worrying about the 
 girl that he loved and wondering if it could ever be 
 true, as his father had said, that some day she would 
 learn to care for him enough to become his wife. He 
 felt that, were it possible, he would like to take her 
 with him far from all peril and anxiety, and that, if 
 the necessity ever came for it, it would be a happiness 
 to even die for her sake, so dearly did he love her. 
 Sappleigh was not precisely a religious fellow, his con 
 science never gave him much uneasiness, and his views 
 of sacred themes were rather indefinite; but, to-night, 
 he seemed to feel a desire that never had come upon 
 him before, a yearning for communion with that God 
 in whom he vaguely believed as the giver of all good ; 
 and, without knowing just how he happened to do it, 
 he found himself praying, in an uncertain way, for the
 
 PERDIDA. 107 
 
 protection of the girl whose image filled his heart. He 
 felt better for it, and, some time toward the dawn, 
 dropped off to sleep. 
 
 It was late Sunday morning when he awoke, nor was 
 he much inclined even then to hasten from his bed. 
 So he lay awhile to drowse and think over last night s 
 talk and to plan out a course of procedure by which 
 Nellie should be induced to abandon her place at Jad- 
 man, Stein & Co. s, for a position with his father at the 
 bank. Toward noon he got up, dressed himself, and de- 
 scended from his floor to the basement and entered the 
 dining room, just as lunch was ready. All the board 
 ers excepting Cora and Nellie were present. 
 
 He inquired after them, and Mrs. Ferguson said 
 they had not yet returned, and might be absent until 
 Monday, as they probably had gone to Brooklyn. It 
 seemed to Sappleigh that Nellie s absence made a great 
 blank in the day. 
 
 Late in the afternoon, the girls arrived. He saw 
 them from his window, and his heart beat quickly as 
 he perceived that Nellie appeared to be ill and that she 
 leaned upon the arm of her companion like a tired 
 woman. Then the girls entered the house and he heard 
 them go directly to Nellie s room. He stepped into the 
 hall and listened. Cora, at this moment, came out and 
 descended the stairs to where he stood. She too, seemed 
 not very well. 
 
 "Is anything the matter?" said Mr. Sappleigh. 
 "Pardon me for inquiring, but I noticed, as you en 
 tered the house, that Miss Brown looked ill, and you 
 don t seem to be right yourself." 
 
 "Oh, no, Mr. Sappleigh," replied she. "there is 
 nothing serious the matter. The heat has made us un 
 comfortable, that is all, at least that is all that ails me, 
 and Miss Brown has a dreadful headache and is not
 
 108 PERDIDA. 
 
 feeling very well. I think a good night s rest will 
 bring her round. She has some fever too, but nothing 
 dangerous. I shall stay with her this afternoon and 
 bathe her face and try to induce her to sleep." 
 
 "And is there anything I can do for either of you?" 
 said he. 
 
 "I think not, at least not now, Mr. Sappleigh," she 
 replied. "I will be all right as soon as I cool off; and 
 Miss Brown will recover by to-morrow, I think. 
 Thank you very much for your kindness." 
 
 Mr. Sappleigh passed down the stairs and out of the 
 house. He then took a walk through the street and 
 turned up Broadway to continue his stroll; but it was 
 not without purpose that he pursued this course. 
 
 About an hour after this, a boy called at the house 
 and left a bouquetof beautiful lilies, "for Miss Brown," 
 with Mr. Sappleigh s card and a hope "that she would 
 soon be recovered from her attack of ill-health." Cora 
 received the token from the housemaid and carried it 
 to Nellie s room. She placed the flowers near the bed 
 and gently smoothed back the golden hair from the sick 
 girl s flushed face, as she handed her the card. 
 
 Nellie read the kindly message, then laid it aside 
 and turned her eyes upon the flowers; and, as she did 
 so, and a sense of their symbolism and the thought of 
 what was in the mind of the giver flashed upon her, she 
 turned away with a weary sigh and buried her face in 
 the pillows. 
 
 When Nellie awoke from what seemed to her to have 
 been a long stupor, so blank and black did the interval 
 appear that lay between her recollection of the previous 
 night and the present, it was with the consciousness of 
 intense pain in her head and a weariness of body and 
 mind that nothing could describe. At first she only
 
 PERDIDA. 109 
 
 realized that she was awake, at last, after what must 
 have been a long heavy slumber; next she remembered 
 that she was still in the room at the hotel; then she 
 turned her glance from the wall and, looking the other 
 way, perceived that Cora sat beside her, fully dressed, 
 with an anxious expression in her face. 
 
 "Well," said Cora, as she saw that her friend had 
 awakened, after what seemed an endless sleep. "So 
 you are really alive at last. I began to think you 
 would never wake up. How tired you must have 
 been." 
 
 There was something in the remark that did not seem 
 to Nellie to fit the occasion. She did not answer it 
 directly, but only moaned. 
 
 "Good gracious, Nell!" said Cora. "You aren t 
 really sick are you? Mr. Jadman said before he left 
 with Mr. Stein, that you did not seem to be quite well, 
 and that I had best let you sleep until you were thor 
 oughly rested." 
 
 "Mr. Jadman!" said Nellie, her eyes tilled with ter 
 ror. "Is he here too?" 
 
 "No," said Cora. "He and Mr. Stein had to leave 
 long ago. But it s all right. We can stay here as 
 long as we please. There is no haste, and we can take 
 the boat up any time." 
 
 Nellie was now thoroughly awake. She turned 
 toward her companion, and looked her straight in the 
 face with an expression of fear and wonder that was 
 inexplicable to the other girl, and said : 
 
 "Tell me, Cora, where have you been all night? 
 What kept you away so long? "Oh !" she cried, "what 
 does it all mean? Let me know at once." 
 
 "Why, Nell," said Cora, "I don t understand you. 
 Nothing has happened that I know of." 
 
 "But where have you been?" said Nellie.
 
 110 PERDIDA. 
 
 "Why, where do you suppose I ve been, you silly 
 thing? What queer questions you ask. You know as 
 well as I do where I have been. That headache has 
 upset you, I fear." 
 
 "No," replied the sick girl, "it s not that. My head 
 does ache very hard, but I am not confused by it. 
 Won t you tell me where you went last night? I dread 
 to ask, yet I want to know. Did any harm come to 
 you, dear?" 
 
 She spoke tenderly and with hesitation, as if fearing 
 to touch some painful spot. 
 
 "Of ^ course not," said Cora perplexedly. "What 
 harm could come to me?" 
 
 Nellie paused awhile, looking fixedly at her friend 
 as if to read her innermost thoughts. The evident ease 
 of her companion seemed to relieve her as she spoke. 
 
 "Thank God for that, dear," she said fervently. "I 
 had a dreadful fear that it might be so O God! O 
 God!" she suddenly cried, throwing herself among the 
 pillows in an ecstasy of anguish, "what shall I do? 
 what I shall I do?" 
 
 Cora started at this outburst, and a thought that had 
 not come to her before entered her mind. Nellie con 
 tinued to moan and cry out, as she lay with face 
 averted, and, with each new gushing of the agony that 
 was upon her, the thought that was new to her com 
 rade grew, until it became a fixed reality, and pallor 
 that was deathlike fell upon her face. 
 
 "Can it be possible?" she said aloud, yet to herself. 
 "Have I made a mistake, an awful mistake? No, no; 
 I ll not think it. It is something else that ails her. 
 Nellie," she said, "tell me like a friend, and perhaps 
 I can help you. Have you been quarreling with Mr. 
 Jadman?" 
 
 "Quarreling!" cried the girl, as she quickly turned
 
 PERDIDA. HI 
 
 her face toward her questioner. "Oh, Cora, I cannot 
 tell even you. Let me die here. Go away and let me 
 die!" 
 
 It was clear to Cora now ; and as the sense of what 
 it meant came over her, she arose from her chair and 
 began walking rapidly up and down the floor, clinch 
 ing her hands fiercely as she paced the room and crying 
 out between her sobs: "Merciful God! what have I 
 done! What have I done ! What have I done!" 
 
 After a few minutes of this relief she became more 
 calm. She returned to the bedside and, gazing down 
 upon her friend with tear-filled eyes, she spoke : 
 
 "Nellie," she said, "look at me, and believe what 
 I say to you. I never meant anything like that should 
 happen. I swear it, I never thought of it. I don t ask 
 you to forgive me; I don t deserve it. But truly, 
 Nell, as I stand here before my God to be judged some 
 day, if there is any judgment for such a girl as I, I 
 really believed that you were just as intimate with Mr. 
 Jadman as I have been with Mr. Stein. I m a bad 
 girl, I know that, and I haven t cared very much, not 
 after a time; but truly, truly, Nell oh do believe it, 
 please I am not bad enough to be a party to a thing 
 like this." 
 
 During this address, Nellie stared at her with ex 
 pressions of astonishment and horror. It was some 
 time before she could reply. At length she did so, say 
 ing: 
 
 "I see bow it is, Cora, and yet I cannot understand 
 it. I can t believe that you are what you say you 
 are." 
 
 "But it s true, Nell. I don t care much about that 
 now. There are lots more of us who are no better. 
 What grieves me is the thought I have let you become 
 the victim of a bad man, when, if I had not been stupid
 
 112 PERDIDA. 
 
 and silly, I could have prevented it. I don t ask you 
 to forgive me, you couldn t; nobody could. I have 
 loved you ever since I first met you, and believe you 
 are the sweetest girl I shall ever know; and it did not 
 seem so very much out of the way if you did happen to 
 do as I had done, you were always so good and true a 
 friend. Some of us get hardened to things, you know. 
 I have. I can t plead for forgiveness, for I don t de 
 serve it. I m more than half to blame myself. I liked 
 Mr. Stein and he liked me, and I was poor, and some 
 times hungry and badly clothed, and nobody cared for 
 me up home, and he gave me a good position and 
 money and flattered my vanity, I suppose. I always 
 was light ani frivolous anyway, and he really is in 
 love with me. But that is nothing now. It is the 
 awful mistake I have made, in thinking ill of you and 
 in letting this happen, that breaks my heart. And yet, 
 Nell," she continued, "you certainly have been with 
 Mr. Jadman a good deal. Almost any one would have 
 thought what I have." 
 
 "But he was always kind and respectful and gentle 
 manly," said Nellie. "I had no reason not to trust 
 him." 
 
 "Pshaw!" said Cora. "Just as if a man of that kind 
 could have any honorable motives toward a poor work 
 ing-girl. You are too innocent, Nell, and that s why 
 I blame m3 T self. My love for you should have made 
 me see the truth. But I suppose my own folly has 
 made me blind to the goodness of others. It is dread 
 ful!" she continued. "Don t try to forgive me." 
 
 Nellie gazed at her a minute, with a sense of anguish 
 and pity in her heart, as she realized what this bright 
 kind girl had become through her weakness and her 
 poverty, and cruelly as she felt the slight that had been 
 cast upon herself, she did not find it in her nature to 
 blame her.
 
 PEED ID A. 113 
 
 "Come here, dear," she said, raising her arms and 
 clasping her friend to her breast as the tears flowed 
 down her face. "Come here. I understand, and I 
 forgive you. God pity us both!" 
 
 It was a long time before either of them was suffi 
 ciently calm to talk ; but at last their tears were shed 
 and they could resume their conversation. 
 
 "One thing is plain," said Cora, as she helped Nellie 
 to dress, tenderly brushing her hair and bathing her 
 face with a handkerchief dipped in ice- water. "Noth 
 ing can ever undo the work of a villain like Mr. Jad- 
 man. I always said he was worse than his partner, 
 and I know Mr. Stein is not bad enough to do such a 
 deed as he has done. Somehow, Nell, you will have 
 to learn to live it down. You will have to go back to 
 your place, just the same or there ll be talk, and that 
 won t do. He will be as kind as ever, you will find, 
 and awfully anxious to keep on the right side of you." 
 
 "I can never do that," said Nellie. 
 
 "Oh, yes, you can," replied the practical girl. "You 
 must. And then you can look for a new position. 
 Every employer is not a scoundrel, and you are now 
 too wise to be fooled again." 
 
 "Yes," said Nellie, "God knows I am wiser, but at 
 what a price!" 
 
 She began to weep again, and Cora held her to her 
 heart as if she were a child and let her cry. The emo 
 tion soon passed off in fact such suffering as this gen 
 erally wears one out beyond the limit of tears and, 
 having finished their toilets, the two young women left 
 the hotel and started homeward. 
 
 "There is one thing about this, Nellie," said Cora, 
 as they sat together in a corner near the paddle-wheel 
 of the steamer, "nobody need ever know it but just us 
 four. You can trust me to keep my mouth shut, Mr.
 
 114 PERDIDA. 
 
 Stein never tells anything of this kind about any girl no 
 matter what he thinks, and of course that scoundrel 
 Jadman will be quiet. It is better .so." 
 
 "Yes, I know," replied Nellie, sadly gazing out 
 upon the blue water that seemed to speak of rest and 
 peace. "It is better so." 
 
 She spoke very softly, like one whose measure of de 
 spair is so full that nothing can be added and who has 
 no dread of anything beyond and nothing left to grieve 
 about ; and, as Cora noted the tones of her voice and 
 the look of resignation in her face, a sadness came upon 
 her and an understanding of things that had never been 
 clear before. Plainly this was not the girl who should 
 be looked upon as she looked upon many of her asso 
 ciates. There was something here too pure and holy to 
 find happiness in sin. 
 
 And, as she perceived the truth, a sense of womanli 
 ness, that was new in her, overcame her natural friv 
 olity and light-heartedness, and she felt that, were it 
 in her power to do it, she would like to carry her friend 
 away to some quiet place where she could protect her 
 always and atone to her with a life of devotion for the 
 wrong that she had unwittingly done. 
 
 "That s a very pretty girl you had with you last 
 night," said Mr. Stein, as the two gentleman sat smok 
 ing their cigars with their feet upon the guardrail of 
 the boat that bore them toward the city, Sunday morn 
 ing. "She seems to be an excellent companion too, and 
 a young person of good education and interesting 
 ideas." 
 
 "Yes," replied Mr. Jadman. "She is a very supe 
 rior girl. One of the kind that you don t see every day. 
 She is excellent in every way, a fine worker, a good 
 companion and a handsome partner. I think a great 
 deal of her."
 
 PERDIDA. 115 
 
 "She hasn t been with us very long either," said Mr. 
 Stein. "If she is as useful as she is beautiful I sup 
 pose you will keep her in the office indefinitely." 
 
 "Certainly," replied Mr. Jadman. "Just as long 
 as she wants to stay. We could not do better." 
 
 "I take it you have had many a pleasant outing be 
 fore," said Mr. Stein. 
 
 "Well, to tell the truth, no," replied Mr. Jadman. 
 "Aside from a few dinners, this is the first time I have 
 had the honor of her company." 
 
 "Is that so?" said Mr. Stein. "Rather sudden, 
 wasn t it?" 
 
 "Yes, rather sudden, I should say," replied his part 
 ner. "In fact it was wholly unexpected on her part." 
 
 "You don t mean to tell me, Jadman " began Mr. 
 Stein, looking at him with astonishment. 
 
 "Quite so," replied the other. "You see, I knew I 
 could never win her any other way." 
 
 "Jadman," said Mr. Stein, "I don t approve of that 
 sort of thing. Not that I claim to be a saint or any 
 thing in that line, you know; but, really, you must 
 permit me to state that I think such methods are not 
 only dangerous but unworthy a gentleman." 
 
 Mr. Jadman flushed, and a touch of anger showed in 
 his glance as he replied : 
 
 "Now see here, Stein; have I ever interfered with 
 you in anything that you did?" 
 
 "No," said Mr. Stein, "I can t say that you have; 
 but, then, you see, I never did anything like that. I 
 tell you it s dangerous and, what s worse, it s unkind. 
 I am not counted the angel of all kindness myself, and 
 some people say I m often rather hard on the help 
 and all that ; but honestly, as a friend, I do protest 
 against any form of cruelty against a woman. God 
 knows, the poor creatures suffer enough in this world to
 
 116 PERDIDA. 
 
 deserve all the heaven there is in the next, and they 
 surely are entitled to select their associates and friends 
 without being forced to it. I think, if I was that girl, 
 I d hate you with the most malignant hatred that one 
 can feel." 
 
 "Perhaps she will," said Mr. Jadman calmly, but 
 I am not much afraid of it. She is more liable to 
 learn to love me." 
 
 "Some might," replied Stein. "But she does not 
 appear to be one of those that are likely to forget a 
 wrong. I wouldn t be in your place for a dozen pretty 
 women. I d feel ashamed of myself to think how 
 brutal I had been. Why, Jadman, do you know, in 
 some communities you d swing for that." 
 
 "Yes, that s so," said Mr. Jadman, as he flicked the 
 ash from his cigar. "But this isn t some commu 
 nities. It s no use, Stoin, you can t convert me. 
 You re too far from true goodness yourself." 
 
 "Well," replied Mr. Stein, "of course you will con 
 tinue to think as you please; but it does lower my es 
 timate of you, somehow, to think that you can be cruel 
 to a lovely girl that trusts you. One does not need, in 
 this age, to imitate the brigands, just because he hap 
 pens to be far from caring to become a monk. As I said 
 before, I wouldn t like to be in your place, for I still 
 have some conscience left, and I couldn t be brutal 
 with a woman as a woman. I may be harsh in busi 
 ness, where sex doesn t count, but outside of business, 
 I prefer to be looked upon as a gentleman; and truly, 
 Jadman, gentlemen, whether perfect or not, never 
 abuse women." 
 
 "See here, Stein," said Mr. Jadman. "I don t wish 
 to quarrel with you, and I don t care to be preached at. 
 You might as well drop the subject."
 
 PERDIDA. 117 
 
 "Very well," replied Mr. Stein, "all I have to say in 
 conclusion is that I hope, the next time you take an 
 outing, you will leave me out of the company. No 
 offense intended," he added. "It is merely an expres 
 sion of a preference outside of business."
 
 118 PEHDIDA. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 FROM THE DEPTHS OF THE HEART. 
 
 "We mortals, men and women, devour many disappointments 
 between breakfast and dinner-t:me ; keep back the tears and 
 look pale about the lips, and, in answer to inquiries, say : Oh, 
 nothing! Pride helps us; and pride is not a bad thing, when it 
 only urges us to hide our hurts not to hurt others. George 
 Eliot. 
 
 JULY 25TH: How long it seems since I wrote in 
 you, dear little diary, the happy thoughts that were in 
 my heart but one short month ago. Only a month, 
 one small month, has passed, and yet to-night I feel 
 as if they were years, not days, that have gone by, in 
 that brief period of time. If anyone had told me it was 
 possible for a human heart to grow so fast and learn so 
 much and suffer so terribly in one month, I would not 
 have believed him. Truly, time is not measured 
 wholly by the minutes and hours and days that make 
 its sum of units, and much more depends upon the 
 things one learns than upon the time it takes to learn 
 them. It really seems as if I had lived many years 
 since last I took you out and talked with you of all 
 that was nearest to my heart. 
 
 Now, indeed, if never before, are you the only one to 
 whom I may freely tell my thoughts ; for who is there 
 of all the world that I dare go to openly with the cares 
 and sorrows that lie so heavily upon me. God is still 
 my refuge, and He knows how earnestly I am trying 
 to live out the miserable existence that remains tor me,
 
 PEED ID A. 119 
 
 bow diligent I am in my endeavors to make the best even 
 of the worst misfortune that can fall upon a girl who 
 has never in her life deserved so harsh a fate. I do 
 not question His goodness and mercy, but I do feel at 
 times that it is hard that He could not have told me, 
 in some mysterious way, of the perils that lay about 
 me, that He did not think it right that some friend 
 should be inspired to warn me of my danger before it 
 was too late. But I may not doubt His wisdom, and 
 to inquire into His purposes is far beyond my right. I 
 can only trust, and hope that, perhaps, some day, I 
 shall be able to see why all this should be, and find 
 what part He intends me to take in His plans. Possi 
 bly He decrees that I shall yet be the instrument of 
 salvation for the wicked man who has so cruelly 
 wronged me, for that he is wicked I cannot doubt. 
 And yet there are good things in his character too. 
 This I am forced to see, much as I condemn him. 
 
 The days are weary days now. I try to go about as be 
 fore and no one, excepting poor Cora who loves me with 
 a deep regretful affection that makes it impossible for 
 me to blame her, knows. But I know, and the bitter 
 ness of my knowledge fills me with a great pain that 
 nothing can relieve. Cora was right, after all. It was 
 best that I see him and let him know I was not afraid 
 to face him. Hard as it was to do this, I realize now 
 that she was wiser than I. But I shall never forget 
 how I trembled, as I entered his room at the store, that 
 day, when he said he would be willing to see me pri 
 vately, nor how hot the blood was that rushed to my 
 face when I first met his glances. 
 
 He spoke before I could think of anything to say. 
 His manner was agitated and he did not appear to have 
 that perfect control over himself that I once admired 
 and that always seemed to me to indicate the strength
 
 120 PEBDIDA. 
 
 and goodness of his character. He did not turn his 
 eyes away from me, but looked me fairly in the face, and 
 the expression of his countenance was, I thought, sor 
 rowful. 
 
 "I know what you would say to me," he began, "so 
 let me spare you the pain of saying it, for I have no 
 wish to humiliate you or cause you to suffer. I am 
 bad, I admit it. I have proved myself the worst 
 friend that you could have had. Call me a villain, if 
 you wish to, and I ll agree with you at once. Noth 
 ing that you can say will be too harsh to apply to me. 
 And yet," he continued, "I have my excuse." 
 
 "Mr. Jadman," said I, and I felt a great indigna 
 tion rise in me, as I spoke, that somehow made me 
 calm, "it is impossible that you can have any excuse for 
 the crime that you have done and the trust you have 
 betrayed. Oh!" I cried, as I felt the tears coming to 
 my eyes, "think how innocently I trusted you! How 
 I believed you to be the truest gentleman and friend 
 that a poor girl could have!" 
 
 "Yes," he said, "I know, and I cannot censure my 
 self sufficiently. But still I have my excuse. I loved 
 you from the first day that I saw you." 
 
 "Loved me! Mr. Jadman," said I, "that is contemp 
 tible. It is the meanest thing that you can say. Do 
 those who love wish to destroy the objects of their 
 affection? Is that your idea of the love a good man 
 feels for a pure and upright woman? It s a blasphemy 
 to talk like that." 
 
 Somehow I was not a bit afraid of him now. He 
 seemed to have sunk below me so far that I looked 
 upon him only with contempt. 
 
 "Quite right," said he. "What you say is true. 
 And yet it is also true that I have loved you with a 
 passion that can never die : that I want you as a man
 
 PERDIDA. 121 
 
 seldom wants any woman ; and that I still hold you 
 the dearest of all my possessions." 
 
 "Mr. Jadman," said I, "please forbear from speak 
 ing ot me as your personal property. Remember that 
 I have done you no wrong, that I am no party to your 
 sin, and that, after this meeting, you are not to speak 
 to me again or ever seek to eee me. * 
 
 "No," said ho. "I will not. You do not know me 
 yet, my dear girl. I am a resolute man. What I 
 crave I try to get. If I cannot secure it in one way, I 
 endeavor to do so by other means. I am telling you 
 the truth when I say that I love you very fondly, and 
 that you must become my wife, some day, and learn to 
 reciprocate my affection. Why, Nellie," he added, 
 looking r up at me with a softened expression, "I am not 
 so bad as I may seem to you now. You cannot know 
 how such a love as mine will drive a man to desperate 
 deeds. I simply must have you. You will not go 
 away. You will yet marry me and become the honored 
 wife of one who will devote his life to you with a fer 
 vent affection that is impossible in men of less bold and 
 vigorous mold." 
 
 I was so astounded at this that I could not find words 
 with which to reply. My brain seemed all in a whirl. 
 It was the last thing I had expected. I detested him, 
 loathed him, would sooner have touched a toad than 
 take his hand; yet he seemed sincere. He certainly 
 was very earnest. He perceived my condition, and 
 rising from his chair, came close to me and tried to 
 take me in his arms. I started back and would have 
 shrieked if he had not paused. 
 
 "Don t do that," he said. "It will only attract at 
 tention, and would compromise you. Try to be calm 
 and to understand me. I am terribly in earnest. I 
 want you to learn to like me well enough to marry
 
 122 PEEDIDA. 
 
 me; until you do, the marriage must be postponed. 
 But I give you my word of honor, Nellie, that if you 
 will only try to grow fond of me, the day will yet come 
 when you will forget my unkindness and learn to for 
 give it because of the strength of the affection that has 
 led me to do wrong." 
 
 "Mr. Jadman," said I, "what does all this mean? 
 Are you again trying to deceive me?" 
 
 "God knows I speak the truth," he replied. 
 
 I thought a long time before I could speak again and 
 he stood with bowed head. Something in his propo 
 sition seemed to bring a ray of hope into my wounded 
 heart. I realized that, cruel as he had been, it yet was 
 an atonement that he offered. And I also perceived, as 
 what woman would not, that marriage would at least 
 consecrate his error and give me justice. I did not 
 want him, but still he was the only man that I ever 
 could marry now. If he really was sincere, and he 
 certainly seemed to be, I might in time learn to feel 
 kindly toward him, and something told me that, what 
 ever he might be, he was a man who would not fail to 
 treat his wife with respect. I was in his power; he 
 could abandon me or redeem me. God knows I did 
 not love him, but what was I to do? 
 
 "Mr. Jadman," I said, "What you tell me does 
 not please me, but I must admit it is with a sense of 
 gratitude that I hear it. You owe me the greatest 
 atonement that a man can make to the woman he has 
 deceived. I will trj T to think of this matter from your 
 point of view. But you must not expect me to love you 
 in a minute as a wife should love her husband." 
 
 "Thank you," said he. "You take a great load 
 from my mind. Time will work out the rest. Only 
 let me prove to you how truly I regret my folly and 
 how tenderly I will care for you, and we can yet know
 
 PERDIDA. 123 
 
 great happiness. Oh, Nellie!" he added, "think what 
 it must be to live through forty years of life without 
 the one love that alone can make life perfect. I will be 
 patient and kind always, dear. Only learn to love me, 
 and you will never regret it. Now," he continued, "it 
 is a better that we should resume our old relations, just 
 as if nothing bad occurred. Try to think of me as the 
 one person who has your best interests at heart. It 
 will all come out right. And God bless you, dear, as 
 the sweetest and best woman that ever found it in her 
 heart to forgive a sinful man." 
 
 I went back to my desk with feelings that I cannot 
 describe. His proposition was so unexpected and so 
 strange that it hardly seemed real ; yet it was very real 
 indeed to me, for, bitterly as I felt toward him, I still 
 understood that he was offering me the best thing that 
 could be given, and that he was not doing it wholly 
 because he sought to right a wrong. I believe that he 
 really does want me with all the impetuous vigor of his 
 strong, overbearing nature, and .that he would go to the 
 utmost extremes to win my regard. Why cannot such 
 a man be honorable? A man of such a temperament 
 as his would become a power for good in any commu 
 nity, if he could learn to live as God would have him 
 live. 
 
 So it has come to pass that I am to become the wife 
 of a man whom I do not love. I have always held 
 this to be almost a crime, and now that I perceive it 
 must be so, my heart rebels, oh bitterly. He will be 
 kind to me; I do not doubt that, for, aside from this 
 one wrong, I have always found him kind. But I do 
 not love him, though I am learning to like him better 
 and do not now detest him as I did. In some way that 
 I cannot explain, he seems to have obtained an ascend 
 ency over me, and when I am with him I find myself
 
 124 PERDIDA. 
 
 leaning upon him as I used to when he was only my 
 friend, and that he has the power to draw me out and 
 make me forget myself. It is not that he fascinates 
 me, but rather a certain appropriating way he has that 
 wins me to his moods and enfolds my identity in his 
 own. His is certainly a very strong character. I wish 
 it were as good as it is strong. Perhaps it is God s 
 plan that I shall sacrifice my own desires that I may 
 yet lead him to Christ. But it is hard, oh very hard ! 
 
 When I am with him, I become what he wishes me 
 to be ; but when I am alone, the old feeling returns 
 and I realize how poor a thing I have become and often 
 loathe myself. And yet I do not feel that I am one 
 who should be blamed. How can a poor and friendless 
 girl do otherwise than as I have done. If time and 
 God s help can bring me a final rest, after I have done 
 the best that I could, I shall hope to be contented with 
 my lot, and try to see it as He would have me. 
 
 Mr. Jadman says that, after a reasonable time has 
 elasped he will announce \>ur engagement, doing it in 
 a natural way that will excite no comment, and that 
 later we can be married. He looks forward to our 
 union with delight, and I try to feel as he does. He 
 is always considerate and gentle, and I cannot com 
 plain of his treatment. There is nothing to do but 
 obey him and hope for happiness some day, when I 
 shall be his honored wife and possibly the mother of 
 his children. That will perhaps help me to win him to 
 a godly life; and then I will resolutely strive to put 
 aside all thoughts of my present heartaches. Mean 
 time I am to tell nobody of our arrangements, not even 
 Cora. 
 
 Whenever I happen to meet Mr. Stein there is some 
 thing in his manner of address that impresses me as 
 strange. He looks at me with a sad, kindly expression
 
 PERDIDA. 125 
 
 that ban no explanation in anything I can perceive, and 
 speaks the few words that he has to say as though he 
 felt for me a sense of compassion. Yet he is the last 
 person from whom I should expect that, for he knows 
 nothing good of me. Still his manner pleases me and 
 I am learning to regard him less severely than I did. 
 Cora may be right, after all, when she says he is better 
 than he seems. She insists that he has never told her 
 a lie in his life. She admits that he is not above cer 
 tain peccadillos in the marking of bargain goods and 
 such things, but insists upon it that he is fair-dealing 
 in really serious matters. I cannot understand their 
 relations or approve her conduct. But who am I, that 
 I should pass judgment on my frjend? How sad a 
 thing is life. 
 
 July 27th : My heart is very sad, little diary, to 
 night. I have passed through the hardest ordeal that 
 I have known since the happy days of a month ago. 
 Mr. Had ley called, as he had promised, this evening, 
 and I now know the truth. He has loved me always, 
 and would win me for his wife, and yet we must never 
 meet again. What heartaches we poor women bear. 
 He was just the same, and I felt a great joy when I 
 first saw him and once more held him by his strong 
 manly hand. He was agitated, and seemed more ner 
 vous than I have ever known him to be, but he looked 
 me square!} 7 " in the eyes, when he told me of his love 
 and explained how long his diffidence and his fear of 
 wounding me had kept him silent. They were not 
 many words that he said but they were brave and hon 
 est and had the true ring in them, and f my heart beat 
 wildly as he spoke. But what could I say in reply? 
 I could not tell him I did not care for him. If I had 
 tried to do that, I should surely have broken down and 
 said what must never be toid. I could not tell him
 
 126 PERDIDA. 
 
 that I was pledged to another, for I have given my 
 word of honor not to mention [that until released. I 
 could not lie to him, even had I wished to; that was 
 simply impossible, for I could not look him in the face 
 and conceal the fact that I was telling an untruth. 
 What did I do? I hardly know. All I remember is 
 that I told him how much I appreciated the honor he 
 tendered me, that I held him very dear as my best and 
 oldest friend and should always do so, but that I had 
 not yet thought of marrying and could not do so at pres 
 ent. I believe I also uttered some foolish nonsense 
 about never intending to marry. I know I made a 
 poor showing, and that he left me with a feeling that 
 was not satisfying. He was very kind and gentle, 
 but I saw he was hurt by my manner, and felt that I 
 had not been as frank with him as he had been with 
 me; that even my friendly manners were not warm 
 and cordial as they used to be. And yet, I would 
 have been willing to die, if I could have thrown my 
 self into his arms and told him all, and then passed 
 away with a sense of his pitying love as my last re 
 membrance of this world. How hard it is to live! 
 
 July 30th : There seems to be nothing but sadness 
 now; everybody appears to have trouble. And yet 
 most people little know how others suffer. Even Cora, 
 who knows me best, does not understand how much I 
 bear. She cannot, for it is not in her nature to com- 
 prehand a girl like me. She is good and generous and 
 lovable, but she is light-hearted naturally and seems to 
 find it easily possible to make the best of anything. 
 Perhaps such people are the happiest. Who would 
 have thought Sue Dodge had a sorrow. She is always 
 grave and sometimes brusque and quick-spoken, but 
 she never seemed to me to have any cares or griefs; yet 
 she is the most miserable of women, for her faith in
 
 PERDIDA. 127 
 
 humanity has utterly left her, and she broods over her 
 sufferings half the time. She is a very proud woman, 
 and that makes it harder for her than it would be for a 
 woman like Cora. 
 
 I have felt for her the deepest regard, since I saw 
 her last night. What she tried to do for me must have 
 cost her the greatest effort of her life. God bless her ! 
 How brave she must be. She came into my room, and 
 seating herself beside me on my little sofa, laid her 
 hand upon mine, like a mother caressing a child, and 
 said: 
 
 "Nellie; may I speak to you frankly about a matter 
 that has been on my mind for a long time? I mean it for 
 your good, or I would not ask permission to speak." 
 
 "Of course you may," said I. "Nobody would re 
 fuse a request like that." 
 
 " Well, then," she said, in her matter-of-fact way, yet 
 with a touch of tender considerateness in her voice. "I 
 wish to ask you if you do not think it would be better 
 if you did not dine with Mr. Jadman so often. Please 
 do not take offence," she continued, "for I intend 
 none. You are younger than I, Nellie, and have not 
 had much experience in the business world, and there 
 fore cannot understand, as I do, what the attentions of 
 a gentleman, under such conditions, mean." 
 
 "Why, Sue!" said I, for I felt that I must say 
 something. "What makes you think I ought not to go 
 with him occasionally when I have to remain late? He 
 is always well-behaved and polite." 
 
 "Of course," said she. "They all are. But, Nellie 
 dear, it is not good to do it. Even if no harm were to 
 come of it, it might injure you in the opinion of others." 
 
 I felt a guilty flush suffuse my cheeks, but she mis 
 understood it for the blush of offended modesty, and 
 said:
 
 128 PERDIDA. 
 
 "Do not feel hurt, dear. I know you are not inten 
 tionally careless about this matter; but I tell you 
 frankly, I do not think you ought to trust Mr. Jadman 
 as you do. It is not right. " 
 
 "But what harm can come of it?" said I, feeling 
 that I must maintain my position of pretended igno 
 rance, for my word of honor was pledged to Mr. Jad 
 man. 
 
 She burst into tears and threw her arms about me, 
 sobbing bitterly as she continued to speak : 
 
 "Oh, Nellie, Nellie!" she cried. "Do let me reason 
 with you. Don t let me go away feeling that I have 
 done you no good. I must get you to promise that 
 you will do as I wish, or I shall be untrue to myself 
 and my fellow-women. Listen, Nellie, and promise 
 never to tell what I say to you. It is something that 
 no one before you has ever heard, and that I would not 
 confide to you, were it not that I feel that possibly my 
 words would be wasted without this confession. You 
 are in danger, dear; I know it. Haven t I watched 
 you fora long time; yes, and him too; and do I not 
 know the signals of the on-coming peril that you, in 
 your innocence, are too blind to see. My experiences 
 have been severe, but they have taught me much. Let 
 me help you out of the fullness of my own knowledge 
 and feel that I have, at least, been the means of saving 
 one pure girl from ruin." 
 
 And then she took me by the hand and told me her 
 story, simply and without elaboration of any kind that 
 would gloss it over; and, as she told it, I could not but 
 love and respect her more than ever for the courage 
 with which she had broken off from every temptation 
 that beset her since, and had chosen to pursue her lonely 
 way without complaint and with no sympathy from 
 any one to help her on. But that story is not for you,
 
 PERDIDA. 129 
 
 little diary; even you have no right to a confidence so 
 sacred as this; it shall lie in my heart, locked forever 
 from the knowledge of any one but God, who knoweth 
 all our woes and pitieth them that mourn. 
 
 Noble Sue! Would that you had come to me long 
 ago, as you came last night. God pity me that you 
 did not. 
 
 August 4th : How strange it is that when a thing 
 happens that would, at one time, have changed my life 
 from misery to happiness, it always seems to happen 
 too late to do any good. I am sad and depressed to 
 night. Mr. Jadman has not yet fixed the day for the 
 announcement of our engagement and marriage, and 
 the delay compels me to continually seem what I am 
 not, a free woman. He grows fonder of me, I think, 
 every day, but that does not make it easier to keep up 
 appearances. I wish he would make the matter pub 
 lic, it would be so much better for me, I do so dislike 
 secrets and false positions. But I must be patient. 
 
 I was saying that everything seems to happen too 
 late. If John Hadley had been braver, we might be 
 engaged now, and I know that, with that obligation 
 upon me, I would not have felt at li berty to go with other 
 gentlemen; then, when I think of dear Mr. Sappleigh s 
 proposal, I sometimes wish that I had never known John 
 at all ; for had I never seen him, I am positive that Mr. 
 Sappleigh could have won my heart to himself, he is 
 so kind and lovable ; and Sue too, she also came too 
 late. I am becoming critical, as my troubles increase, 
 and often I fear that a touch of that cynicism which 
 has grown so strongly into Sue s nature is become 
 characteristic of myself. One can suffer until charac 
 ter itself alters, I believe. 
 
 An opportunity has come to me, that would have
 
 130 PERDIDA. 
 
 changed the whole course of my life had it come six 
 weeks ago. Mr. Sappleigh, always a true friend, found 
 it for me, and tendered it as though it was I, and not 
 he, who was doing the favor. He said that his father 
 is anxious to secure the services of a first-class stenog 
 rapher and correspondent, and that, having heard about 
 me from his son, he would be pleased to have me take 
 the place. He offers to pay twent} T -five dollars a week, 
 and from what I can learn through the son I imagine 
 the work is not so hard as that of my present position. 
 It would be very pleasant for me to make the change, 
 but what can I do? I mentioned the matter to Mr. 
 Jadman, and he said that, under ordinary conditions, 
 he would advise me to accept, but he thought it best 
 now not to change, since my work would soon come to 
 an end anyway. 
 
 "And then," he added, "if it is merely a matter of 
 money, we can raise your wages here. I do not want 
 you to go," he said, and something in his manner 
 made me feel that I ought to remain. I find that I am 
 always doing as he wants me to now, and that his as- 
 cendencj 7 over me is increasing. Yet I would give my 
 life to forget him forever. Ah me ! 
 
 Mr. Sappleigh called at our place, with his father, 
 last night, and introduced me to him. He is a very 
 nice old gentleman, and Mr. Sappleigh was right in 
 telling me that I would like him. I can see the true 
 nature of men now, better than I used to, and old Mr. 
 Sappleigh impressed me at once by his goodness. He 
 is blunt and plain-spoken, but there is a kindliness in 
 his eyes and a sincerity in his voice that won me at 
 once. I felt that I could be a daughter to him and 
 could love him dearly were it my fortune to have been 
 able to accept his son. The two are plainly very fond 
 of each other, and it is pleasant to witness the affection
 
 PERDIDA. 131 
 
 that they show. Of course, the old gentleman knows 
 all about that unfortunate mistake that his son made, 
 so there was no mystery between us. I did not know 
 how he would look upon a woman who had refused a 
 son who is so dear to him, and felt nervous when he 
 came in; but he didn t give me a chance to feel that 
 way long, for he walked right up to me and took both 
 my hands in his as he said : 
 
 "So this is the girl who could not accept me for a 
 father-in-law, because her heart was too honest to de 
 ceive itself. Let us sit here and get acquainted." 
 
 It doesn t take long to make the acquaintance of old 
 Mr. Sappleigh. In ten minutes I felt that I had always 
 known him, and had told him much about myself and 
 my old home life and other things all but about 
 John Hadley and about that . He is keen too, and 
 drew me out easily, but he is as guileless as he is keen. 
 It will be a bright man that can get the better of old 
 Mr. Sappleigh. How good it must be to be upright 
 and at the same time full of knowledge. When he got 
 ready, he asked me if I could take the place he had to 
 offer me, and explained the work. I thanked him, 
 with more gratitude than he could understand, but re 
 plied that I did not see how I could, just then, leave 
 my present position, as they had recently raised my 
 wages. He seemed disappointed, and his eyes had in 
 them an expression that was plainly not intended for 
 me as I mentioned my obligations to Mr. Jadman and 
 told him that, much as I appreciated his kindness, I did 
 not think it right to change places hastily. Can it be 
 possible he knows Mr. Jadman, and does not like him? 
 
 We spent a pleasant eveniDg, and just before they 
 went away, the old gentleman led me apart from his 
 son, and said : 
 
 "Now remember, Miss Brown; this opportunity
 
 132 PERDIDA. 
 
 holds good for some time. I arri not in a great hurry to 
 fill that place. I might as well tell you now that I feel 
 it may be better for you to come with us, than to re 
 main long with Jadman, Stein & Co. I do not wish 
 to say anything unkind of other business men, but I 
 think you will find more congenial associations in the 
 place that is open for you with us than at the other. 
 I am also partial to you myself, my girl, because I see 
 my son has told me the truth about you, and I feel that 
 I owe you something for the generous way you have 
 treated him. I only wish you had found it in your 
 heart to make him happy. He s very dear to me, and 
 anything that will add to his happiness makes me 
 happy too. But I must not annoy you with this. 
 Just remember that the door is open for you when you 
 see your way clear to come to us. I am verj T glad I 
 have met you. Good-night and God bless you 
 always." 
 
 He departed with his son, and I watched them from 
 the window as they walked [up the street arm in arm. 
 Something in the sight made me very unhappy, and it 
 seemed the two best friends that I have ever had were 
 passing from me as I saw them go. I felt that, with 
 two such men as they to love and guard me always, life 
 would become very bright and peaceful; and then the 
 sense of my misfortune and my misery overcame me, 
 and I fled to my room where I cried myself to sleep. 
 
 Mr. Jadman must hasten the announcement of our 
 engagement. He must also arrange for our marriage 
 soon. I must urge him to do so without delay. How 
 miserable I am.
 
 PERDIDA. 133 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A SPELL OF EESTING-TIME. 
 
 NELLIE continued her work at the office, as before, 
 and found that, after all, it was better to do so. It 
 was worth something to be busy and the duties of her 
 position helped to pass away hours that would have 
 become unbearable, had she nothing to do but think of 
 her misfortunes. Mr. Jadman continued his habits of 
 kindness and was always very gentle and considerate 
 with her. He urged her to be pationt and assured her 
 that, ere long, all would be made right and he would 
 claim her openly before the world. She had taught 
 herself to like him better than before, and to hope for 
 the best, ai d, although she could not wholly forgive 
 him for having coerced her into marriage, she yet felt 
 it was possible to lead a life of peace with him, for he 
 was a proud man and one who would hold his wife in 
 high esteem. Not even Cora knew what had transpired. 
 She, of course, saw that Nellie continued her work and 
 that matters appeared to have, been adjusted in some 
 way, and, being little given to suspicions or imperti 
 nences, concluded that probably Mr. Jadman had man 
 aged, in some manner, to get at least a partial forgive 
 ness from her friend. It was best, she said to herself, 
 that nothing that would excite comment should be 
 done, so she did not concern herself with Nellie s pri 
 vate affairs. Again, her regret at what had happened, 
 partly through her own thoughtlessness, tended to cause
 
 134 PERDIDA. 
 
 her to be especially tender and considerate toward the 
 girl she loved. 
 
 But she could not fail to perceive that Nellie was 
 often despondent and sad, and it grieved her. Cora 
 never referred to any painful subject, but she would 
 sometimes put her arm about her friend and kiss her 
 on the cheek in a way that said more plainly than 
 words how sorry she was. Nellie understood this, and 
 her affection for the weak and frivolous comrade of her 
 daily labors became very strong. 
 
 Mr. Sappleigh, seeing with the keenness of a lover s 
 eyes, that "the dearest girl in the world," as he always 
 called her when speaking to himself, was not as bright 
 and care-free as formerly, worried about it and won 
 dered what trouble it might be that preyed upon her. 
 But he could not intrude upon her privacy. Once or 
 twice, when sitting in the parlor of the boarding house, 
 he ventured to ask her if she was ill, but she smilingly 
 replied that there was nothing the matter with her be 
 yond a slight weariness due to the weather and hard 
 work, and the answer made him feel that it was a 
 shame so sweet and fair a maid should be confined all 
 day in an office, breaking down her health ; but there 
 was nothing he could do. He did once venture to sug 
 gest that perhaps she would find it easier at his father s 
 bank, and to express a hope that she might yet recon 
 sider her decision and take the place. 
 
 "I know the Pater would be pleased," he said. "He 
 was awfully anxious to get your services. And honest, 
 Miss Brown, the work is a snap. The people are ever 
 so much nicer than those at your store." 
 
 "I have no doubt of that, Mr. Sappleigh," she re 
 plied. "But you see, I cannot fairly leave Mr. Jad- 
 man when he has given me no cause to complain." 
 
 "Yes," said Sappleigh, "I suppose that is so. Still
 
 PERDIDA. 135 
 
 I wish you could make the change. You work too 
 hard where you are. 
 
 "Perhaps I do," she replied. "But work doesn t 
 kill, Mr. Sappleigh. And then, you see, I m to take 
 my vacation soon, and will get a good rest." 
 
 We shall miss you dreadfully, Miss Brown," he 
 said. "Things will be awfully dull here. I think I ll 
 have to take Miss Odombosky somewhere, every day, 
 to use up the time/ 
 
 Nellie laughed softly, but said nothing. She was 
 thinking how much she would like to be in Miss Odom 
 bosky s place; how pleasant it would be to enjoy the 
 courtesies of this genial, honest fellow if her heart was 
 only as light and free from care as it once had 
 been. At this moment the other boarders entered the 
 room and the conversation became general. 
 
 There was one person among her friends to whom 
 Nellie s heart yearned with intensity. It was Sue 
 Dodge. She could tell her nothing of her own affairs, 
 and realized how sensitive Sue must be in her presence. 
 Sue and she oftom sat in her room and talked as for 
 merly, and no reference was ever made bj T either of 
 them to their conference ; but both felt the presence of 
 a secret that lay upon them and their intercourse was 
 therefore not just the same as before. There was a 
 sense of restraint that was at times painful, and Nellie 
 could see how Sue s proud spirit rebelled at its humili 
 ation, even in the presence of the girl who was plainly 
 her deepest sympathizer and strongest friend. It was 
 hard, and Nellie knew it, for her to think even one per 
 son should know the truth. But nothing occurred to 
 mar the tenderness of the new affection that had grown 
 between them ; and Nellie would often try to show, by 
 her looks and actions, how grateful she was to Sue for 
 what she tried to do by the sacrifice she had made to
 
 ]3.6 PERDIDA. 
 
 her sense of duty. "If she really knew; if she really 
 knew," Nellie would say to herself, "how it would 
 grieve her. But she must not know. Only God and 
 myself must ever know. Noble Sue." 
 
 The girls were given their vacations at the same 
 time They were to have two weeks absence from 
 business with continued wages, and were to spend the 
 days of their release from work with Nellie s aunt in 
 Spring Valley. Cora looked forward to this outing 
 with delight, and even to Nellie it seemed it would 
 be restful once more to get back among the quiet hills 
 and simple people of her childhood s home. She un 
 derstood that her aunt did not care much for her and 
 would prefer to have her live elsewhere; but, at the 
 same time, she felt that, temporarily at least, her pres 
 ence in the family would be welcome, and she knew 
 Aunt Sarah was proud of her because of the credit she 
 reflected on the family. So she anticipated a season of 
 release from toil with a sense of pleasure that was not 
 unnatural. Concerning other matters, there was 
 nothing to do but wait and be patient. Perhaps it 
 might end happily after all. 
 
 They were not all unhappy days that passed during 
 the visit in the country. Aunt Sarah was cordial and 
 welcomed the girls with what was for her an excess of 
 heartiness, and did everything to make them feel at 
 home. They had Nellie s room, now used for a guest 
 chamber, and were at liberty to drive the old family 
 horse and spend their time as they chose. Nellie, of 
 course, had to entertain many callers who came to see 
 her and talk of the days that were gone. Neighbors of 
 Mrs. Call dropped in frequently to hear about the won 
 ders of the town and see the girl who had gone from 
 them to make her way in the world ; Pastor Van Home
 
 PERDIDA. 137 
 
 called and it was good to he with him again and feel 
 his fatherly interest and talk of the chiirch and its 
 work and of many other things in which he and she 
 had taken interest; and the children came too, for they 
 loved the young woman who had won them to her 
 when she was their teacher, and some of them brought 
 flowers and fruits and other gifts. One small boy who 
 had always been a favorite of Nellie s even made the 
 sacrifice of bringing her his collection of snakes and 
 toads, and another brought a string of fish to show his 
 appreciation of her friendship. She thauked them all, 
 and, after paying due respect to the collection of snakes 
 and toads, gave them back to the boy, with an expression 
 of her appreciation of his kindness and an explanation 
 of her inability to manage them that left him without 
 any sense of hurt. 
 
 Mary Neal was there too, and clung about her neck 
 with tenderness. She had grown plumper, even in 
 these few weeks, and seemed a bit stronger than before. 
 The child was nervous, as usual, and still odd and 
 strange in her ways; but Nellie loved her and under 
 stood her, so this did not mar the pleasure of their 
 meeting. Her widowed sister was with her, and Nel 
 lie noticed that she seemed careworn and sad. She 
 had a talk with her, afterward, and promised to try to 
 get her work in the city, whither Mrs. Benson said she 
 must go as soon as she could sell their house and clear 
 up the affairs of the old life. 
 
 John Hadley called and was introduced to Cora. He 
 did not remain long, and Nellie felt it was best so. 
 
 The two girls spent much of their time driving about 
 the country, and in taking long walks in the woods, and 
 they thoroughly enjoyed the restfulness of the hours 
 and the sense of comfort that came with each day s ad 
 vent. People who toil daily for their bread, even under
 
 138 PERDIDA. 
 
 pleasant conditions, unless they happen to be of the 
 classes so long accustomed to excitements that peace 
 has become irritating to them, generally find the best 
 vacations in the solitudes of nature and among the 
 quiet places of the country. The bright spirits of Cora 
 quickly responded to the sunshine and the exhilaration 
 of the air, and it was with the delight of a child that 
 she often threw herself upon the grass as she drank in 
 the happiness of her release from duty and labor. 
 
 "Oh, Nell," she said one day, "howl wish this could 
 last. Say what you please, it s better than all the 
 Coney Islands and shows in the world. I believe I 
 could be good, if I might stay here all the time. Isn t 
 it pleasant?" 
 
 "Indeed it is," replied Nellie. "One can almost be 
 lieve there are no such things as work and sin in the 
 world, when he sits in a place like this and feels the in 
 fluence of Nature all about him." 
 
 "Yes," said Cora, "it s all right here for sure. 
 Nothing to bother about and nothing to think of and 
 nothing to do. Don t you almost wish you had stayed 
 here and kept on teaching school?" 
 
 An expression of intense pain flitted over the face 
 of the girl, as Cora spoke, and she saw it. Instantly 
 her kindly heart perceived that she had said a wrong 
 thing. 
 
 "Oh, forgive me, dear," she said. "I didn t think 
 how it must sound to you. 
 
 "There is nothing to forgive, " replied Nellie. "The 
 remark was natural." 
 
 "Yes, I know that, said Cora. "But I forgot that 
 it might hurt you. T) 
 
 "That is true," replied Nellie, but it is not your 
 fault. I have often wished I had remained as I was." 
 
 "Yes," said Cora with tears in her eyes, " I know,
 
 PERDIDA. 139 
 
 dear. I will not be unkind again. Let s talk of the 
 people. They interest me, especially old Deacon Pop- 
 grass and that handsome young school-teacher One is 
 too funny for anything and the other too solemn for 
 anything. Aren t they a great contrast?" 
 
 "They certainly are," replied Nellie, smiling at the 
 picture. "But both are good men." 
 
 "I have no doubt of that," said Cora. "But I d 
 rather bet on the deacon than on the other, if I needed 
 a friend. He maj* be queer, but I ll wager he s quick 
 to act when needed and as brave as a lion when roused. 
 I think I d like to have him for a grandfather, if I 
 could. The way he walked into the house and just 
 picked us both up and kissed us, smack and fair, made 
 me like him immensely." 
 
 "Yes, Nellie replied, "he is a good man and a kind 
 one. Everybody here likes him, and Pastor Van Home 
 says he is one of the soundest men in the village " 
 
 But I am not so well pleased with the teacher," said 
 Cora. "He s good enough, I suppose, but he seems to 
 me like a man who would be afraid to move when 
 wanted. I do not like men who are not certain of 
 what they can do and who are afraid to speak up. I ll 
 bet you, Nell, when he falls in love, some other fellow 
 will get his girl away from him, just because he is too 
 timid to ask her quick. 
 
 Nellie could not but marvel at the acumen of her 
 light-hearted and seemingly not intuitive friend, arid 
 she began to think that, after all, Cora might be more 
 shrewd than she appeared. She certainly had drawn 
 John Hadley s picture true to life, and had pointed out 
 his one weakness clearly 
 
 "I say, Nell, continued Cora, do you know, I 
 believe he is in love with you. There was something 
 about his manner that made me think so at once. But
 
 140 PEED ID A. 
 
 you know best about that. Why, Nellie!" she added. 
 "You are actually blushing, and a girl of your stamp 
 doesn t do that without cause. You needn t tell me. 
 I m not curious. But I m going to think it s true, just 
 for the fun of it. Of course you do not care. Why, 
 what is the matter? Have I done it again? Oh, dear, 
 how unkind I am!" 
 
 Nellie had turned her face away and was weeping. 
 The poor overstrained will could not control the heart, 
 and it had to come. Cora quickly gathered her to her 
 breast and began to cry too, begging her to forgive, 
 and tenderly stroking the massy hair that hid the face 
 she loved from her sight as it slipped from its bonds 
 and fell about it. 
 
 "Please forgive me, Nell," she said. "How could I 
 know I had opened an old wound." 
 
 "You could not, dear," said Nellie through her 
 tears. "But it is true, though you must never tell it. 
 John Hadley does love me, and and he asked me to 
 be his wife, only a few days ago and you under 
 stand, dear I had to tell him it could never be." 
 
 "Poor darling girl!" said Cora, as she kissed her 
 gently. "That is hard. And yet I have thought all 
 the time that it was Mr. Sappleigh who wanted you. 
 How stupid I am. But, Nellie," she continued, "if he 
 loves you as he ought to and you love him best of all, 
 why not marry him?" 
 
 Nellie started like one struck. Her tears disap 
 peared at once and she spoke with intense emphasis. 
 
 "Never! No, never! Why, Cora, it would be a 
 crime!" 
 
 "I understand, dear," replied Cora; "but perhaps 
 what I say may be sensible. I would not advise you 
 to lie about what has happened. That is a bad begin 
 ning. But you aren t to blame, Nell; and if he s the
 
 PERDIDA. 141 
 
 right kind of a man it ought to make him love you 
 more. Are we women always to be kept from being 
 good, just because somebody else has wronged us? 
 We are better than the men are anyhow ; I guess I 
 know; and the man that wouldn t marry you because 
 of that well, you don t want him. That s all I have 
 to say." 
 
 "It could never be, dear," said Nellie sadly. "It 
 would be impossible now." 
 
 "Well, you will think as you do, of course," replied 
 Cora. " It s different with me, to be sure, for I m to 
 blame. But if I was a man I know I d take you quick 
 if I could get you. You re better than most of us, and 
 you re just cut out to become the wife of some splendid 
 fellow who can appreciate you. I believe Mr Sap- 
 pleigh would give all he has to win you. He s in love 
 with you, Nell, and I know it. You can t fool me 
 there, anyway." 
 
 "Dear Mr. Sappleigh," said Nellie quietly, "how 
 kind he is." 
 
 She spoke more to herself than to her comrade, and 
 there was something in her tone that touched the per 
 ception of the other girl like a second revelation. 
 
 "That s true as death, Nell," she said. "I some 
 times think he is the best man in New York City. I 
 tell you he s white all through, even if he is easy-going 
 and carelesss about some things and not eminently in 
 tellectual and all that. He loves you desperately and 
 I believe he has tried to tell you so. To be honest about 
 it, Nell, I d rather have him than the other. He d 
 never store it up against you because you had been un 
 fortunate through no fault of your own. I love you 
 dearty, Nell," she continued. "You are ever so much 
 better than I, and I d give a good deal to see you 
 happy. You deserve it, and I d help you, if I could.
 
 142 PERDIDA. 
 
 Honest, now, don t you agree with me that Mr. Sap- 
 pleigh s the better man?" 
 
 "How can I answer that?" said Nellie, almost smil 
 ing at the earnestness of her friend. "All I could say 
 is that I agree with you in your estimate of Mr. Sap- 
 pleigh. It can t do any good," she added, "to con 
 tinue this." 
 
 "Very well," replied Cora. "I wish it could. I 
 like Mr. Sappleigh and I love you and I d like to have 
 you marry him. You are too good to live on all your 
 life pounding away at that old machine. Let s go 
 home," she said. "I m hungry and I want some of 
 those biscuits that your aunt makes. Kiss me, dear, 
 and forgive me if I have hurt you." 
 
 They arose from the grass and, with arms clasped 
 about each other s waists like schoolgirls happy in a 
 mutual affection, walked to the house. 
 
 If any one had asked Nellie Brown to explain her 
 affection and regard for Cora Wasson she would have 
 been unable to do so clearly. Had any one suggested 
 that it could be possible for her to be on intimate terms 
 with a woman whose life was certainly far from what 
 it should be, and whose relations with her employer 
 were beyond those of mere friendship, she would have 
 said that such a thing was utterly out of the question, 
 and her feeling toward the woman would have been an 
 earnest desire to avoid her, unlesss she might be the 
 means of leading her back to paths of rectitude. It is 
 possible, also, that she would have been unable to un 
 derstand enough of the situation to believe Cora could 
 be anything but the very worst of creatures, and that 
 she would have shunned her with intense aversion. 
 Yet she had learned to admire and to love this foolish 
 girl with much fondness, and to discern in her a good 
 ness of heart that appealed, by its sincerity, to her
 
 PEEDIDA. 143 
 
 sense of appreciation. She did not, however, approve 
 of the life that Cora was leading, and often wished she 
 might induce her to look upon her intimacy with Mr. 
 Stein as she ought. Something in Nellie s womanly 
 nature rebelled against the thought that her friend 
 could view so lightly the course she was pursuing 
 without much care for herself, and she often wept tears 
 of sadness to think the girl seemed to have no realiza 
 tion of its sinfulness that was sufficient to cause her to 
 stop. She had tried, on several occasions, with the 
 utmost delicacy and at no small pain to herself, to urge 
 Cora to give it up, and had told her she ought either to 
 marry her lover or abandon him. But Cora could not 
 seem to see the case from her point of view. 
 
 "What is the good, Nell?" she would say. "I am 
 bad, I know it, and I m half to blame for it. I d 
 give anything in the world if I had never gone this 
 way. But I can t stop now, because I am really fond 
 of him and he does love me. We might get married, 
 some day, perhaps, though I much doubt it, and cer 
 tainly shall not ask it; but I can t stop, because I ve 
 nowhere else to go and nobody else I like so well ex 
 cept you, dear, and that s different. Every one is not 
 so good as you are; few poor girls are half so brave and 
 noble. But one is not always altogether wicked, Nel 
 lie, even when she s as bad as I am. I d leave him if 
 1 could, but I just can t." 
 
 Nellie wished she could never have known anything 
 about the subject. Somehow, since her own misfor 
 tune, Cora seemed to have grown close to her and to 
 have made a place for herself in her heart. She felt 
 that she could not discard her, much as she condemned 
 her, for she was kind and true and very sincere in her 
 affections. So she prayed for her and wept over herein 
 secret and hoped she would soon change her ways.
 
 144 PERDIDA. 
 
 "And what am I," she would say to herself, "that I 
 should condemn her or cast her out of my heart. Of 
 course, it s different somewhat, that is to say the be 
 ginning was, but she is good and true, foolish and sin 
 ful though she is, and I may not think of her save with 
 kindness. How strange it all is, and how terribly 
 sad." 
 
 She did not often refer to the subject, however, for it 
 brought her own trouble too keenly before her. She 
 never ceased to hope and to pray for her friend, and 
 manj T were the petitions that she sent to Heaven for 
 this dear comrade of her pastimes and her sorrows, 
 when she sought her bed at night. 
 
 It was the Sunday before their return to the city, and 
 the girls were in the sitting room of the old farmhouse 
 with Mrs. Call and Deacon Popgrass and several others 
 who were come to say good-by to them before they 
 should depart on the following morning. The deacon 
 was to drive them over the hills to the railroad, but 
 he said he guessed they could stand two good-bys 
 from him without breaking down, and had brought Mrs. 
 Popgrass, a bright little old woman whose smile was 
 like a benison and whose chat was as lively as a mag 
 pie s, with him, to see the last of "his girl and her 
 friend, " as he called Nellie and Cora. Dr. Van Home 
 was also present, for there was no evening service at 
 the church. It was a pleasant gathering of neigh 
 bors, and an hour worth remembering. It brought 
 back memories of another farewell gathering that fell 
 upon Nellie s heart like the echoes of a bygone happi 
 ness that could never return, but the others knew noth 
 ing of this. John Hadley came in early, but he did 
 not remain long, and left, after making some excuse 
 about not feeling very well. It was a relief to Nellie
 
 PERDIDA. 145 
 
 when he went away, he seemed so preoccupied and dis 
 tant in his bearing. She wanted to take his hand in 
 the old way, just once, and think he was still her 
 friend, but something in his manner made her feel that 
 he looked upon her with a sense of having been ill-used 
 and that there was a touch of resentment in his voice 
 when he spoke. It hurt her, and she could not avoid 
 drawing a comparison between him and Mr. Sappleigh, 
 who certainly had just as good cause to feel injured as 
 he. The comparison was painful, but it was positive 
 and would not be put down. She could not evade the 
 thought that Mr. Sappleigh seemed the nobler man of 
 the two, and with it came a recollection of what her 
 friend had said, and she found herself wondering if it 
 were possible that he could be generous enough to for 
 give a woman her misfortune, as Cora said she believed 
 he would. 
 
 The evening passed sociably, and she managed, in 
 spite of all that was in her mind, to help make it 
 enjoyable for her aunt s guest. By and by, some one 
 suggested that it would be pleasant to sing a hymn, 
 and asked Nellie to lead them. She had done this often 
 in the old days, and could not well refuse a favor so 
 simple. She seated herself at the melodeon and they 
 gathered around her. 
 
 Have you ever chanced to pass along a country road 
 on Sunday night, when some family was beguiling the 
 hours of the Sabbath evening with homely song? If 
 you have ever done so, and have cared to pause awhile 
 and listen to the music, you have noticed something 
 about it that is very different from the singing in a 
 city church, and that somehow seems to suggest affec 
 tion and contentment, and a sense of peace and happi 
 ness that do not come to you with the strains of the 
 grand organ and the singing of the skilled choir. It
 
 146 PERDIDA. 
 
 requires but little effort of the fancy to look within, 
 and see the daughter of the family, sitting at the small 
 instrument that is her only musical treasure, and the 
 sister and the brothers with their friends standing 
 about her, and possibly the honest lad who hopes some 
 day to join them by a closer tie, all singing together, 
 as best they can, the simple music that makes their 
 meager repertory of sacred song. Possibly, too, you 
 will perceive the mother, sitting apart in her favorite 
 corner, resting after the duties of the day have closed, 
 for the mother has work to do even on the Sabbath, and 
 not far off the father, with quiet aspect glancing at the 
 group of youngsters, and thinking, as he listens to the 
 dear old hymns, how good a thing it is to have one s 
 children near, while it is very likely that the aged 
 mother of the sire himself may also be there, with 
 peacefully folded hands upon her lap, a gracious pres 
 ence that beams upon them all and sanctifies the scene. 
 
 They gathered about their young friend and entered 
 into the spirit of the occasion happily. Nellie led them 
 with her clear and fresh young voice, as often she had 
 done before, and all sang, even Deacon Popgrass, 
 whose notes were sometimes faulty, it is true, but 
 never out of time. It was very enjoyable. After 
 awhile they sang again, and the room resounded to the 
 strains of "Antioch," and "Shining Shore" and "Jeru 
 salem the Golden" and immortal "Rock of Ages," un 
 til Nellie began to feel a sense of inspiration and sang 
 with an intensity of feeling that made her almost forget 
 there were others near until, in fact, she wholly for 
 got her heartaches in the music and lost the burden of 
 her sorrows in her song. 
 
 Then some one opened the book at a new place and 
 asked her to sing for him the music that he best loved 
 to hear. It was Dr. Van Home. He placed the open
 
 PERDIDA. 147 
 
 page before her and took his seat among the people, and 
 she began 
 
 " Just as I am, without one plea, 
 But that Thy blood was shed for me, 
 And that Thou bid st me come to Thee, 
 O Lamb of God, I come. 
 
 " Just as I am, and waiting not, 
 To rid my soul of one dark blot, 
 To Thee, whose blood can cleanse each spot, 
 O Lamb of God, I come. 
 
 " Just as I am, though tossed about 
 With many a conflict, many a doubt, 
 By fears within and foes without, 
 O Lamb of God, I come." 
 
 She sang the first lines bravely and without diffi 
 culty, but it was not long before she realized that to fin 
 ish the hymn would be impossible. Through the sec 
 ond stanza she sang with passionate voice and forced 
 effort, and, without pause, passed into the third. She 
 sang uncertainly now, and her emotions were fast 
 overcoming her, yet she struggled on to the end then, 
 suddenly rising from the organ stool, she hurried 
 quickly from the room and fled to her bedchamber, 
 where she threw herself upon the floor and gave way 
 to the anguish that would not be suppressed, while 
 Cora, who had quickly followed, knelt above her, 
 and, in silence, clasped her arms about her to show that 
 she was near, and let her grief have way. 
 
 "It is nothing," she said, when, after a time, she re 
 turned with her friend. "You must not mind it. That 
 hymn always affects me deeply." 
 
 "Of course. We understand," said Dr. Van Home, 
 as he took her hand in his and stroked it lovingly. 
 "Your conduct was very natural, and shows a true ap-
 
 148 PERDIDA. 
 
 preciation of the beautiful sentiment of the hymn. God 
 will surely approve the feeling that prompts one of his 
 children to give way to an emotion so sympathetic. 
 We can all understand just how it affected you." 
 
 The company left soon after, and Nellie and her 
 friend sought their room. 
 
 Mrs. Call stayed up some time after the girls had 
 gone to bed, to chat with Mrs. Van Hogancamp, who 
 had lingered to the last. 
 
 "It beats me," she said, "th way Nellie acted to 
 night bout thet singin . I ve heard her sing lots o 
 times, an heard her sing thet piece too, but she haint 
 never done anything like thet before. An she aint 
 sick neither." 
 
 "Yes," replied her neighbor, "I noticed th music 
 kinder seemed to break her down, just s if her heart was 
 so full o sorrer thet she couldn t hold in a minnit longer. 
 It s queer, but I low it s only nervous turns, an she ll 
 be all right come mornin ." 
 
 "Let s hope so," said Mrs. Call. "But it s awful 
 strange. Taint a bit like her, an I think loughter 
 know, ef any one does." 
 
 Yet nobody knew but Nellie herself, and Cora and 
 God. Judging by appearances is at the best but feeble 
 superficial work.
 
 PERDIDA. 149 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE END OF YOUTH AND HOPE. 
 
 NOT long after her return to the city, Nellie was in 
 vited by Mr. Sappleigh to attend an entertainment. He 
 had not sought her company out for a long time, and 
 felt perhaps she might not wish to go with him; 
 but he perceived that the other women at the house 
 seemed to notice his unusual lapse of attention to her, 
 and concluded it would be wise at least to ask her 
 to go. 
 
 "Of course, Miss Brown," he said, "I want you to 
 do just as you please about this. It is only that it has 
 seemed to me to be nicer if we could be friends just as 
 before, and stand upon the old footing. I will be very 
 much pleased to have you with me. And, then, I 
 think it will look better too. Don t you? That is, of 
 course, if you don t mind going." 
 
 Nellie did not know just what to reply. She felt like 
 going, but her engagement with Mr. Jadman seemed 
 to stand in the way. After a moment s thought, she 
 said : 
 
 "If you can let me have until to-morrow night to 
 give you my answer, I will do so. And let me thank 
 you now." 
 
 Mr. Sappleigh replied that she might take as much 
 time as she wanted. "And try to say yes, " he added. 
 "I believe it will do you good." 
 
 She broached the subject to her employer that day,
 
 150 PERDIDA. 
 
 telling him a young gentleman of excellent character 
 had invited her out for an evening and asking him 
 what he thought of it. 
 
 "Go, by all means," he said. "And go just as 
 often as you wish. What harm can that do? In fact, 
 I shall be pleasd to have you accept the invitation." 
 
 She thanked him for setting her mind at rest, and 
 turned back to her work, as he left her and went into 
 his private office. There was a look upon his face, 
 as he passed in, that would have caused her perplexity 
 and suffering could she have seen it. But she was not 
 looking at him then. 
 
 "Most fortunate circumstance that could occur," he 
 said to himself. "I have been hoping something like 
 that would turn up. It will greatly simplify matters 
 when the time comes. " 
 
 So Nellie went to the entertainment with Mr. Sap- 
 pleigh and to many others after that, frequently with 
 Cora or Sue or Miss Odombosky in the party, and often 
 with Mr. Sappleigh alone, who also took the other 
 ladies at times as single guests. The old associations 
 of the house were resumed, and, sad as she often was, 
 they helped to make Nellie s life less burdensome than 
 it had been. She told Mr. Jadman of these outings, 
 and he always approved with a kindly smile. 
 
 She began to think it strange that he did not yet 
 think it advisable to announce their engagement, and 
 sometimes she would timidly ask him if he could not 
 do it soon. But he was ready with an apparently good 
 reason every time, and toM her not to worry, as it 
 would all come out right by and by. But she did 
 worry now, and was greatly troubled. 
 
 A month went by and still he was not ready. The 
 delay and anxiety made her so unhappy that it was 
 with difficulty she could keep at her work and maintain
 
 PERDIDA. 151 
 
 her cheerfulness at home, and often she would seek her 
 room and weep and pray and give way to spells of in 
 tense heartache. It was during one of these hours of 
 suffering that Sue Dodge happened to seek her, and 
 found her sitting by the window in the darkened room, 
 sobbing so bitterly that the sound cut deep into her 
 soul and she hastened to her with alarm. 
 
 "Why, Nellie, dear!" she cried. "What has hap 
 pened? Have you bad news from the people at home? 
 Tell me, dear, and let me share the trouble." 
 
 She stood beside her with an arm about her neck, and 
 gently caressed her with the hand that was free, as she 
 spoke. 
 
 "I would not intrude upon you for anything, " she 
 continued, "but you know how fond I am of you, how 
 dearly I love you, and it is therefore only natural that 
 I should wish to help you if I can." 
 
 Nellie seized the hand that lay upon her head, drew 
 it to her face and kissed it passionately. 
 
 "Dear, noble Sue," she said, "I know all that. 
 You would do anything for me. But there is nothing 
 you can do. I am having an hour of unhappiness, that 
 is all. No; there is nothing the matter at home that I 
 know of. It s only myself. I was feeling sad and 
 could not help breaking down, just then." 
 
 There was a despair in her voice that went to the heart 
 of her companion, and caused her to feel that some 
 thing beyond the emotions of a girl s hysteria or a fit of 
 the blues lay behind the paroxysm of weeping she had 
 noticed as she entered. But it is a delicate thing to 
 probe another s private affairs, and she hesitated to go 
 on. Nellie ceased to cry and her passionate outbursts 
 were now reduced to frequent sobs. 
 
 "Oh!" she said as if to herself. "I cannot seem to 
 drive it away. It is with me all the time ! I try
 
 152 PERDIDA. 
 
 hard to think it isn t so but something tells me 
 it is!" 
 
 "Nellie," said Sue very tenderly, "let me help you. 
 I know you are suffering. Trust me, dear, and let me 
 share your trouble." 
 
 "I would if I could!" cried the girl, suddenly rising 
 and beginning to pace the floor. "But, Sue, I can t, 
 I can t. I don t know whether it s so or not. Perhaps 
 it is not. Yet I fear it is." 
 
 Sue was perplexed and alarmed. She knew this girl 
 too well to suspect her of silliness and she had never 
 considered her a person who could be given to the weak 
 nesses that are common in many young women. 
 Plainly Nellie s grief was not a fancied one or the re 
 sult of nervous disorder. 
 
 "It isn t possible " she began, speaking to herself; 
 "but no, that is too absurd and too unkind. Mr. Sap- 
 leigh is the last man in the world I would accuse of 
 trifling with a woman s heart. It is not that." 
 
 Nellie, at this instant, grew calm. With an effort 
 she choked back her sobs, and quickly drawing a stool 
 across the room, placed it beside the chair and sat upon 
 it, as she said : 
 
 "Sit here, Sue, and let me tell you as much as I dare 
 to tell. It will do me good. Let me sit here, at your 
 feet, like a child, and put my arms about you and lay 
 my head upon your bosom and say it just as I would to 
 my sister if I had one." 
 
 Sue did as suggested; and, for a few minutes, the 
 two were silent. The younger woman ceased her cry 
 ing and the sobs, that would still come occasionally, 
 like the after-swell of a dying tempest, became infre 
 quent, as she sat with her friend in the darkness and 
 felt how comfortirg it was to feel the touch of sym 
 pathy. Sue had the good sense not to speak and under-
 
 PERDIDA. 153 
 
 stood that, if she were to be of any use to the girl, the 
 way would become clear by and by, .if she did not at 
 tempt to force her confidence. She let her speak when 
 she chose and made no attempt to influence her, simply 
 letting her do as she pleased. Somehow it seemed to 
 Sue just then as though she had grown to be a very 
 old woman and this might be her daughter that sat at 
 her feet with hands clasped about her waist ; and she 
 thought how grand a thing it must be to be a mother 
 of loving children, and watch and tenderly guard 
 them, as they grow up, and share their trials with 
 them, when they are unhappy; and once she sighed 
 a weary sigh to think this could never be, that the best 
 instincts of her nature must remain forever undevel 
 oped. 
 
 Nellie spoke at last. 
 
 "Sue," she said, "there is a trouble on my heart, but 
 it is not mine alone to keep. I have a secret that is 
 also the secret of another, and that is why I cannot tell 
 it to you, as I would if it were nobody s but my own. 
 You will understand, because you are so good yourself 
 and so true to your sense of honor that you would not 
 have me betray a confidence, where my word was 
 pledged. It is hard, dear, because it would make me 
 happier if I thought you knew it and might, perhaps, 
 advise me what to do, for it is a secret, dear, that brings 
 me many doubts and fears, and I need the advice I 
 may not seek. Please believe me, when I tell you that 
 my burden is really very heavy and that sometimes I 
 fail to find [relief even in prayer. God does not seem 
 to hear me always, and often He seems far off. And 
 yet, dear Sue and I want you to believe this with all 
 the strength of the faith that you have in me I am 
 not doing any wrong. I want you always to believe 
 this of me, because it is true. And I want you to
 
 154 PERDIDA. 
 
 promise, no matter what may happen in the future, no 
 matter what you -may hear from others, no matter 
 what you may learn yourself, that you will always 
 believe I have tried my best to be honest and that I 
 have clone no wrong to anybody. I shall be happier if 
 you will think this way of me, because it s true. Even 
 if I should some day have to go away where you 
 could never see me, and where you could not come to 
 ask me for explanations that might seem necessary, I 
 still want you to think of me in this way; for, as God 
 is my witness, Sue, I am telling you only what is so." 
 
 She clung to her friend passionately, as she spoke, 
 and seemed loth to let her go. Sue was deeply 
 affected by her conduct, and could not but secretly 
 marvel at her words, they appeared so uncalled-for and 
 so mysterious, and grave fears came upon her honor 
 able heart, as she felt that possibly some terrible peril 
 might threaten the girl. But she had no excuse for 
 inquiries and could only tender a blind sympathy that 
 did not really seem to be of any practical value. 
 
 "There is nothing I can say to you, Nellie," she said, 
 "excepting to assure you that I will do as you wish. 
 Perhaps the time will soon come when the burden may 
 be lifted, dear, and when you will be able to resume 
 your old-time cheerfulness. I shall remember your 
 words and pray for you, and will do as you ask me to. 
 No matter what happens, I will always believe you 
 guiltless of wrong-doing and thick of you as I know 
 you at your best. Now," she continued, as she kissed 
 her, "don t you think you ought to go to bed? You 
 are so worn out by your grieving. Would you like to 
 have me sleep with you to-night, for company, as I 
 sometimes do, or would you prefer to be alone?" 
 
 "Thank you, Sue," replied Nellie. "You are very
 
 PERDIDA. 155 
 
 kind. But I think I would rather be alone. Do not 
 feel hurt, dear." 
 
 "No, indeed," said Sue. "Why should I? I will 
 just see you tucked up safely and then let you have a 
 needed rest. That will be better." 
 
 Sue sat up late, after she had retired to her own 
 apartment, and pondered intently over what she had 
 witnessed and heard. Something in Nellie s manner 
 and the evident intensity of her suffering made her feel 
 that some evil nad befallen her or was about to. She 
 thought of everything that could be likely to cause a 
 girl of her character to be so heavily burdened with 
 grief, of possible lovers and false friends and business 
 worries and other things that might bring care and 
 heartache; but nothing that she thought of seemed to 
 fit the case. Then she recalled her interview with Nel 
 lie, at the time she had warned her about her friendly 
 intercourse with her employer, and tried to see 
 whether there had been anything since that would 
 arouse suspicion ; but she had seen so little . of Nellie 
 when in the office that there was nothing there which 
 she could bring to mind , and yet the thought would not 
 leave her, once suggested, and she began to fear that 
 possibly the girl might have received some hurt from 
 her employer that weighed upon her mind. 
 
 "I shall make it my business to watch more closely, 
 after this," she said. "Jadman is not a man to be 
 trusted, and she is innocence itself. Poor Nellie, what 
 can it be that should make her so miserable?" 
 
 The day came at last (it was certain to come) when 
 Nellie realized that she must frankly tell Mr. Jadman 
 their marriage could not be delayed. Spurred on by her 
 necessities and by the fact that he had been absent on 
 business a fortnight and had returned without seeming
 
 156 PERDIDA. 
 
 glad to see her, she sought him in his private office, 
 when no one was about, and told him why it was that she 
 felt he ought not to keep her waiting any longer. She 
 had been so long subject to the ascendancy he had ac 
 quired over her that it was with difficulty she ap- 
 poached him, yet she felt that he surely ought to see 
 the truth as she saw it and would be quick to join her 
 in an immediate marriage. He heard what she had to 
 say, and looking her in the face with an expression that 
 she had never seen upon his countenance before, replied, 
 coldly and carelessly, saying: 
 
 "So that s it is it? I m sorry to hear it; but, of 
 course, you must understand this puts a different light 
 upon the case. I couldn t think of such a thing at all. 
 It s preposterous." 
 
 She scarcely understood what he meant. It was so 
 sudden, so brutal, and so utterly unexpected, after all 
 his endearments and promises. 
 
 "Why," she said, "what have I done? What do 
 you mean?" 
 
 "I should think what I have said is clear enough," 
 he replied. "You surely don t think I am going to 
 many a woman in that condition?" 
 
 She grew very pale as he spoke, and a sense of terror 
 fell upon her as she answered him : 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Jadman! You don t mean what you are 
 saying. You surely are teasing me, or trying to test 
 me in some way. Think of all j-our promises." 
 
 "Oh, yes," he replied. "That s what they all say; 
 as if they didn t know that such promises are made for 
 convenience and not for permanent wear. Why, see 
 here, Nellie," he continued. "You can t possibly be 
 such a little fool as to have believed me sincere in such 
 a silly matter as that. It is preposterous, I tell you." 
 
 "Preposterous, Mr. Jadman!" she cried in fear.
 
 PERDIDA. 157 
 
 "Preposterous to wantonly take to yourself an inno 
 cent girl who did not love you, to promise her atonement 
 if she would become your wife, and then to deny her 
 the right that she has earned and repudiate her and 
 your child ! You do not know what you are saying." 
 
 "Indeed I do," he said. "lam in full possession 
 of all my faculties and much calmer than yourself if 
 you will pardon me. How do I know the child is 
 mine?" 
 
 The blow went home, straight to the soul. She 
 almost fell from a sense of horror and faintness as she 
 heard the words. She clung to the top of his desk to 
 steady herself, and a giddiness overcame her for a min 
 ute. He sat calmly looking at her, with no appear 
 ance of agitation about him, and let her come to her 
 self before he spoke again. 
 
 "Now see here," he continued, "of course I am will 
 ing to be sensible about this matter and neither of us 
 wants any fuss made. You have been agreeable to me 
 and I should hope that I have been generous and kindly 
 to you. So on that point we are quits. But if you 
 have ever had any idea that Samuel Jadman, of Jad 
 man, Stein & Co., is the man to marry any woman 
 like yourself you have been cherishing a very foolish 
 notion. I m sorry if you have made the mistake, but 
 it s not my fault. And, if you think I m going to 
 father every child that somebody thinks ought to be 
 mine, the sooner you get the thought out of your head 
 the better." 
 
 Somehow his words stung her into strength. She 
 did not fear him now, and had no sense of being under 
 his influence. She stood erect and wrathful and the 
 fire of wounded dignity and just resentment glowed in 
 her deep bine eyes. 
 
 "Samuel Jadman," she said. "You know you are
 
 158 PERDIDA. 
 
 lying. As God stands between us to judge, you know 
 that, but for your crime, I would not be as I am to 
 day. You know that you have deceived me continu 
 ally, from the day when I met you here, prepared to 
 face you for th6 last time, before going away never to 
 see you again. You know that you beguiled me to re 
 main and to become a partner in your sins, promising 
 on your honor as a gentleman and your integrity as a 
 man, that I should become your lawful wife as soon 
 as it was possible to arrange for a marriage. You 
 know how patiently I have waited for you, how gener 
 ously I have tried to school myself to love you as well 
 as I could, how l3yal I have been and always would 
 be. And you know, too, Samuel Jadman, that it is 
 your duty now to keep your promise and redeem the 
 girl you have wronged from the consequences of your 
 injustice. Do you intend to do it or not?" 
 
 "I intend not to do anything of the kind," he re 
 plied. "The best that I will promise is that any little 
 expense that may be necessary now I will cheerfully 
 assume, with the clear understanding, remember, that 
 I do not own responsibility for that other, only for your 
 self." 
 
 "You are a villain, Mr. Jadman," she said calmly, 
 "to talk to me like that. A contemptible villain and 
 a coward. And yet I thought that courage was 
 among your good qualities. I will take no money 
 from you now (would that I never had), nor will I ac 
 cept anything from you but honorable marriage and the 
 recognition of your child." 
 
 "Then we may as well part at once," said he. "I 
 see no reason for continuing this painful scene. If you 
 can t be sensible, there is nothing I can do for you." 
 
 She realized how useless it would be to plead with 
 him. Brief as had been the interview, she perceived
 
 PERDIDA. 159 
 
 at once that there was no hope, that nothing could be 
 done to help her. She turned about, without a word in 
 reply, and left the place at once, stopping for nothing, 
 not even to say good- by to Cora Wasson as she passed 
 through the main store and thence to the street. There 
 she mingled with the gayly dressed and happj 7 shoppers 
 unnoticed and as much alone as if she were wandering 
 among the solitudes of the wilderness, or adrift with 
 out companionship upon the midmost sea. 
 
 The mind, in moments of sudden calamity, after the 
 first shock has passed and the full extent of one s mis 
 fortunes is known, often acts with a directness and a 
 methodic system that are not always at command in 
 times of peace and comfort. Events that were not 
 prominent before become clear, things that have passed 
 unnoticed assume their proper proportions and their 
 right positions; problems that would have been impossi 
 ble are solved with little difficulty ; doubts that have been 
 in the way of action disappear, and obstacles once for 
 midable are surmounted without the slightest trouble. 
 One reason for this lies in the fact that, when calamity 
 comes, there is generally some one definite thing that 
 must be done, while other things that one would like to 
 do may not be even thought of. The possible and the 
 impossible alike are set aside and only that which is 
 certain is attempted. It is always so when death 
 strikes, for death is the most definite fact that man has 
 to contemplate. So, too, in other ways, the mind, 
 brought face to face with the inevitable, acts promptly 
 upon the thing that can and must be done with singu 
 lar alertness and precision. 
 
 When Nellie left the store and parted forever from 
 the firm of Jadman, Stein & Co., it was with no un 
 certain mind that she went directly to her boarding 
 place, the house that was, in truth, become to her a
 
 100 PERDIDA. 
 
 clearer home than that which she had left, a few short 
 months before, when she parted from her childhood s life 
 to enter the world of trade and make her way alone. 
 It seemed hard that she must leave it now and sever 
 every tie that bound her to those whom she had learned 
 to admire and love, but she understood it must be done. 
 Harder yet was the realization of the fact that, in thus 
 parting from home and friends, she must go with no 
 word of proper explanation and no farewell worthy of 
 the name. And harder even than this was the sense of 
 the dreadful truth that, henceforth, and perhaps for 
 ever, her life must become, in the minds of those who 
 respected and Cloved her, a thing not to be discussed 
 save in secret places and with whispered words; that 
 she must either manage to deceive them with a lie, or 
 frankty wear before them the badge of hopeless shame. 
 The one was intensely painful to her, the other seemed 
 impossible. She decided to begin with the lie, the 
 first she had ever told in all her pure young life. But 
 it had to be done. 
 
 Going to Mrs. Ferguson, whom she found busy tidy 
 ing up the parlor, she told her an imperative call made 
 Unnecessary that she leave for the country at once, and 
 that she had also resigned her position at the store, 
 owing to a disagreement with her employers. The 
 landlady, with the natural curiosity of a kind-hearted 
 and gossipy woman, of course wanted to know all about 
 it, and it was not the easiest thing in the world for 
 Nellie to tell her a story that satisfied herself; but she 
 managed, without actually adding to the dimensions 
 of her falsehood, to deceive her sufficiently to give her 
 the impression that the trouble at the store was noth 
 ing more than often occurs in such places, and that 
 probably it was sudden illness that demanded her pres 
 ence at Spring Valley.
 
 PERDIDA. 161 
 
 "I do hope, Miss Brown," said she, "you 11 find it 
 isn t anything very serious that ails your aunt or her 
 mother and, of course," she added, "you can easy get 
 another place when you come back; and, when you do, 
 don t forget we ve always got a room for you here, if you 
 want it. I hate awfully to see you go, we ve always 
 been such good friends." 
 
 Nellie thanked her, and there was a suggestion of 
 tears in her eyes as she did so, which affected the good 
 woman so much that she clasped the girl in her arms 
 and kissed her with a sense of motherliness, as she 
 said: 
 
 "Now don t feel too much broken up by all this, 
 dear; perhaps it will not turn out so bad as it looks. 
 These things always looks harder to them that s young 
 and haven t had much experience. Good- by, dear, 
 and let us hear from you soon." 
 
 Nellie thanked her again for her good will, and with 
 a choking sensation in her throat and a feeling that she 
 was now parting forever from all that made life worth 
 living, left her, and, going to her room, packed her 
 trunk and made preparations for her departure. 
 
 When all was ready she sat awhile beside her win 
 dow and thoughtfully went over in mind all -the 
 events leading up to the present moment, and carefully 
 considered the new plan that was to be carried out. 
 She turned it every way, in the hope of finding some 
 thing that should be better; but nothing she could think 
 of seemed so good. Hard as it was, it was the only 
 right and safe thing to do, the only plan that would 
 conform to what she deemed her duty both to herself 
 and her unborn child. She decided that she would 
 carry it out, no matter how painful it might become, 
 and abide by the consequences. Then, kneeling by the 
 bed that had been her resting-place so many days, she
 
 162 PEEDIDA. 
 
 committed her sorrows to God and bravely set out to 
 enter upon the new life, now to be the only life that she 
 could consistently lead. 
 
 She sat at the table a few moments before leaving 
 and wrote a short note to Cora, telling her briefly that 
 she was going away, and referring her to Mrs. Fer 
 guson for information, after which she added the fol 
 lowing words: 
 
 "And please, dear friend, do all you can to make 
 my departure seem as natural as possible, and try to 
 make them think that the trouble at the store is noth 
 ing out of the ordinary. I know you will do this for 
 me. And may God bless you ever and keep you free 
 from all unhappiness. " 
 
 She wrote another letter to Sue Dodge. It contained 
 similar requests, but with this difference; for she said 
 to her, when referring to the matter at the store: 
 
 "Let me thank you, dear, for the generous feelings 
 that once prompted you to warn me against a certain 
 person. You were right, and I have learned to under 
 stand how fondly J T OU must have loved me to make the 
 sacrifice you made in my behalf. You will know now 
 why it is I have left my position. I could not longer 
 stay in the same place with him. Perhaps we may 
 never meet again God alone knows about that ; but 
 if we never do, remember that I shall always think of 
 you with tenderness as the bravest and truest friend I 
 have known. 
 
 "Please do me one more kindness, in addition to the 
 many that I can never repay, Mr. Sappleigh will be 
 sure to ask for me, and will perhaps be curious to learn 
 why I have left. Do what you can to explain why I
 
 PERDIDA. 163 
 
 have gone home, and also why it is I have left my posi 
 tion, especially the latter matter, and try to make him un 
 derstand, without actually saying anything that might 
 cause him to think unkindly of that other. I think it 
 will be best. I do feel very sensitive about it, dear." 
 
 These matters attended to, she sent for the express 
 man to take her trunk away, and left the house. She 
 took a car downtown, and went to the bank that kept 
 the little money she had saved. This she secured and 
 put in her pocketbook. There was still an hour before 
 she could leave town ; so she went to a restaurant and 
 got something to eat, for she realized that hunger would 
 not make her coming trial easier, and she meant to be 
 brave and strong, no matter what lay in store for her. 
 When she had finished her lunch, it was time to go, so, 
 taking a car to the ferry, she crossed the river and was 
 soon seated in the railway coach that would bear her 
 away from the scenes of her recent misfortunes, and 
 possibly to a place of safety and comfort, if not to one 
 of rest and happiness. For she was still determined to 
 lead an upright and honorable life and to avoid all 
 wickedness. There was another feeling that became 
 strong in her, as she neared the home of her childhood 
 and approached the place that contained the only rela 
 tive she had. It was the sense of trustfulness that 
 comes upon children when their troubles are upon them, 
 and they yearn to seek their mothers ; a feeling that, 
 no matter how hard it might be, her aunt, who was 
 the only mother she had known, would pity her and 
 help her in her hour of distress. She knew Aunt Sarah 
 was a godly woman, one whose views of life were 
 based upon the teachings of the Bible and the ways of 
 Christ, and who always made it a point in her preach 
 ings to insist that "we must do to others as we d be
 
 164 PERDIDA 
 
 . 
 
 done by," which was her short manner of expressing 
 her faith in the value of the "Golden Rule," and it 
 seemed to Nellie, as she rode along, that if Aunt Sarah 
 would take her in and help her now, it would yet be 
 possible to live down the awful calamity that had be 
 fallen her. 
 
 Poor little child-woman ! She had not learned, even 
 with her bitter experiences, that between precept and 
 practice it often happens there is a gulf as wide as that 
 which is supposed to separate the special heaven of the 
 elect from the "dear old-fashioned orthodox hell of the 
 unregenerate sinner;" she still continued, despite the 
 lesson she had learned at fearful cost, to judge char 
 acters by appearances, and to believe that things are 
 really what they seem. 
 
 She arrived at Hillsdale and engaged a farmer lad to 
 drive her over to Spring Valley. Each mile of the 
 ride brought memories, and it was frequently that she 
 recalled the day old Deacon Popgrass took her to the 
 train by the same roads, on the occasion of her first 
 leave-taking, and dwelt upon the happiness and elation 
 with which she parted from him. She thought also of 
 the last journey she had made with the genial old man, 
 when Cora was her companion, and how, even then, it 
 was not without some feeling of pleasure that she had 
 gone to the city, for then she still had hope, troubled 
 though she was about many things. But now, at the 
 thought of going back to New York, she shuddered, 
 and it seemed that only in the quiet of the country 
 could she ever regain her peace of mind or learn to re 
 sume life. Almost anything, she said to herself, rather 
 than return to the city. Only let her have a chance to 
 do right, as God would have her, and she would some 
 how live it down. 
 
 "Goodness, Nellie!" cried Mrs. Call, as she saw her
 
 PERDIDA. 165 
 
 niece alight from the wagon. "What on earth hes 
 brung y home so sudden? Be y sick?" 
 
 "Yes, auntie," said Nellie, as she entered the house, 
 the lad following with her small trunk. "I have not 
 been feeling well of late, and thought I would like to 
 come home for a while. I have much to tell you when 
 we are alone. I am not in serious danger," she con 
 tinued, as she perceived her aunt s keen eyes scrutiniz 
 ing her, "but I need rest, and I have left my place, and 
 have not yet taken another. Please let me get fixed 
 up and have some supper, and then I will tell you all 
 about it." 
 
 "In course, Nellie, in course," replied Mrs. Call. 
 "But y come so sudden it made me feel fidgets. Y ll 
 be welcome. Jest go right up to your room and do as 
 y please. I ll call y when supper s ready." 
 
 This was Nellie s homecoming, after a day of an 
 guish under a strain of nervous tension that had been 
 almost unbearable. Her aunt was not less cordial than 
 usual, but it was plain she did not consider the arrival 
 cf her niece as anything over which to be unduly 
 happy. She simply took it as a matter of course and 
 had no wish either to have her go or stay. But the 
 girl wanted a warmer welcome; she would have given 
 much to have been greeted with just one kind kiss, one 
 word of cheer, one touch of sunshine anything, in 
 short, that would have made it seem her aunt was glad 
 to see her. She bore the pain of this cold welcome 
 with her as she went to her room, and it did not tend to 
 aid her in the contemplation of what she knew was yet 
 to come; but she bore it bravely, and remembered it 
 was, after all, "only Aunt Sarah s way." It did not, 
 therefore, deflect her from her purpose or hinder her 
 from believing that she would find in her aunt the 
 friend of whom she stood in direst need just now.
 
 166 PERDIDA. 
 
 The girl had learned a good deal, it is true; but she 
 still had much to discover that would be new to her, 
 for she was getting her education by experience a 
 method that is often thorough, I admit, but sometimes 
 disastrous to pupils who are compelled to study with 
 out a master.
 
 PERDIDA. 167 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 LOST. 
 
 IT was natural that the table talk, the night of 
 Nellie s sudden leave-taking, should be of her unex 
 pected departure. Every member of the family gath 
 ered about the board at Mrs. Ferguson s hospitable 
 house was interested in the young girl ; for she had be 
 come so much a part of their daily associations and 
 was so truly popular that it could not be otherwise. 
 When a number of people dwell in one place for any 
 length of time and happen to be congenial and mutually 
 regardful of one another, they are certain to feel a 
 friendly interest in the affairs of each member of the 
 family and to miss one of their number who is absent. 
 Nellie was a favorite with all, and it was therefore 
 something beyond mere curiosity that inspired them to 
 sympathize with her in what appeared to be a trouble. 
 
 "But after all," said Miss Odom bosky, after the 
 subject had been pretty well exhausted without any 
 definite results, "I don t think we need worry about 
 her much. She is not the kind to need assistance in 
 getting new work, and probably has the best of recom 
 mendations from her employers. They could not refuse 
 her. And probably it is her aunt who is sick at home. 
 She is not young, you know, and such events are 
 only natural." 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Ferguson, "she will come back 
 soon. And we ll hope her aunt may get well. Most 
 sick folks do, jyou know. Some old people always
 
 168 PERDIDA. 
 
 imagine they re going to die just the minute they get 
 sick. 
 
 After which she told them of a cousin of hers who 
 was always thinking she was about to die, and who 
 kept the family running to her bedside half the time, 
 "but never failed to get up again." 
 
 Miss Dodge remarked that it must be rather trying, 
 whereat Mrs. Ferguson and Miss Odombcsky laughed, 
 and Mrs. Ferguson replied that the "folks had got so 
 used to it they really didn t mind it much," and Mr. 
 Sappleigh suggested that it would not be a bad thing to 
 have a telephone fixed to the headboard of the lady s 
 bed for the convenience of the doctor, so he could hear 
 her cough, and thus be able to decide whether his im 
 mediate attendance was necessary, at which they 
 laughed again, and the subject of Nellie s departure 
 was dropped for a time. 
 
 But Sue Dodge noticed that Cora did not join m the 
 levity of the hour, and Cora noticed that Sue was 
 thoughtful, while Mr. Sappleigh, despite bis good 
 humor, was, both Cora and Sue perceived, much 
 troubled over the mystery. Mr. Sappleigh, too, noticed 
 that neither of these ladies entered heartily into the 
 conversation and that their talk was somewhat forced. 
 There was nothing to be done, however, so they spent 
 the evening in their accustomed ways. 
 
 Mr. Sappleigh went to the club after dinner, in the 
 hope of meeting his father. He felt he would like to 
 see him very much just then, and it was therefore with 
 delight that he found him sitting alone in his favorite 
 corner, sipping a glass of light beer and reading an 
 evening paper. 
 
 "Pater," said he without waiting to give the old 
 gentleman time to speak, "what do you think Miss 
 Brown Las left Jadman, Stein & Co. s! Aren t you 
 glad?"
 
 PERDIDA. 169 
 
 "Is that so?" replied Sappleigh senior. "Yes, I m 
 very glad. Jadman s a bad man, I tell you, and the 
 quicker a girl gets away from him the better it is. 
 Where has she gone?" 
 
 "That s the strange part of it," replied Mr. Sap 
 pleigh. "She hasn t gone anywhere to work not yet; 
 but she left suddenly to-day, telling Mrs. Ferguson 
 she had to go to her aunt s in the country. Said 
 she had received a message that necessitated her imme 
 diate presence there. Queer, isn t it?" 
 
 "Oh, I don t know," said the old man. "Circum 
 stances do sometimes come double. Do you happen to 
 know why she left Jadman s? Was it because of this 
 call to the country or something else?" 
 
 "I can t say, Pater," replied the son. "But from 
 what Miss Dodge said, I understand she had some good 
 reason for leaving that was not a part of the summons 
 to her aunt s." 
 
 "Very likely," replied the old man. "I wouldn t be 
 surprised to learn that the country message was of 
 small consequence, possibly an excuse. Don t start, 
 Lispenard; lies of that sort are not recorded. Still, 
 both stories may be true. But I m very glad she s left 
 the place. Now I suppose you want me to renew my 
 offer, eh?" 
 
 "That s it, Pater," said Mr. Sappleigh. "Getherto 
 accept it, if you can. Let me write her, tendering her 
 your regards and a hearty call to duty at the bank." 
 
 "All right, my boy," replied the old man. "Per 
 haps we can succeed this time. I was much pleased 
 with the girl. She seems the right sort. You ll re 
 member what I told you, now. Damn Jadman any 
 how ! That was a good trick of his, raising her wages 
 when he did. If she had not been so confoundedly 
 honest as to tell him, I d have got her then. I like the
 
 170 PERDIDA. 
 
 girl, Lispenard. We ll help her if we can. I believe 
 the fellow has said something to her that has driven her 
 out. Oh, I know him. He s cunning; but he might 
 make a mistake just once. Write to-morrow, my boy. * 
 
 And he did, using his father s office stationery and a 
 return envelope. In five days the letter came back, 
 stamped "Not found." 
 
 There was another who wrote. Cora Wasson, reading 
 between the lines of Nellie s message as no one else 
 could have done, sought Mr. Stein and had a talk with 
 him. He had not much to tell her, but it was enough 
 to open her eyes to the truth, and her heart was filled 
 with pity, as she realized how greatly her dear com 
 panion had been wronged, how terribly she must suffer, 
 and how cruelly she had been betrayed. This girl was 
 not bad at heart, she was simply foolish; she could not 
 feel as Nellie felt, but she was capable of understand 
 ing how another might feel : and, then, she hated Jad- 
 man for his brutality. She returned to her room and 
 wrote at once, mailing her letter to the care of Mrs. 
 Call. 
 
 "DEAR DARLING NELLIE: I have your letter, and I 
 have seen Mr. Stein, and know all. Do not mind it, 
 dear, for I love you more than ever, now that I have 
 the whole truth. Of course I don t know details, but 
 Mr. Stein tells me that Mr. Jadman has confessed to 
 him how he has led you on, and that he has had a 
 quarrel with him about it. He says he thinks he will 
 have to part company with Mr. Jadman, because he is 
 so cruel and does things even he cannot overlook. 
 Poor dear Nell, to think that I never suspected how 
 yon were being deceived. I might have told you, if I 
 had been wiser. I feel so sorry I can scarcely write to 
 night. But I want you to know that I understand and 
 am ready to help you all I can always, dear. Please 
 write to me at once. I will keep your secret close, 
 dear. Nobody will ever know. 
 
 "Lovingly, CORA."
 
 PERDIDA. 171 
 
 This letter was returned by Mrs. Call, who sent with 
 it a few words, saying: 
 
 "Miss WASSON: I return your letter to my nees. 
 She aint here no mor.e, and wont never be again. I 
 dont no where she is and dont want to no. But you 
 dont watot to no neether, so I send your letter back. 
 Shes a bad girl thats disgraced her peeple, and one 
 you dont want to no eny more. My hearts most broke 
 but I hope God will give me strenth to bare my trials. 
 Such ungratfulnes is hard to bare from them that you 
 has brung up in ways of rightousnes, but trials come 
 of God and you must not question. 
 
 "Yours, SARAH CALL." 
 
 The days passed on and no word came to the house 
 from Nellie. Mr. Sappleigh, when his rather handed 
 him the returned letter, could think of nothing to say. 
 
 "It certainly is strange," sa ; d his father. "Miss 
 Brown does not seem to me to be a young woman who 
 would disappear from her aunt s home mysteriously; 
 and, again, I cannot think she would hide herself in 
 the city, under pretense of going to the country, with 
 out good reason. It is a delicate matter to pry into 
 without the best of excuses, and we really have no good 
 excuse for interfering with her movements. Somehow, 
 Lispenard," he continued, "I fail to see my way clearly 
 here. I do in most things, but not in this. Have any 
 of your friends at the house said anything or received 
 any messages?" 
 
 "I think they have no news at all," said Mr. Sap 
 pleigh. "But Miss Wasson may know something. I 
 will ask her to-night." 
 
 "Do so, my boy," replied the elder man. "She may 
 be able to clear the mystery. You can t make me be 
 lieve that girl would do anything willfully wrong; but
 
 172 PERDIDA. 
 
 it is very possible something may have happened to 
 her." 
 
 Mr. Sappleigh made it a point to see Cora that even 
 ing. He invited her to walk to the nearest drug store 
 for a soda, and on the way back opened the subject. 
 
 "Miss Wasson," he said, "you will pardon me, I 
 know, if I presume to inquire if you have any word 
 from Miss Brown. The reason I ask is that my father 
 is anxious to offer her a position in his bank, and 
 wishes to communicate with her. And I don t deny," 
 he added, "that I d like to hear from her myself." 
 
 Cora did not know what to say to him. She had 
 often thought him in love with Nellie, and at one time 
 wished he might be successful. She feared to set him 
 thinking Nellie might have gone astray, yet perceived 
 that to explain satisfactorily was going to be difficult. 
 She, of course, knew nothing of the returned letter. 
 
 "All I can say, Mr. Sappleigh," she replied, "is 
 that Miss Brown went to the country, as you know, at 
 the call of her aunt, and that she left her position, after 
 a disagreement with Mr. Jadman." 
 
 "Did she really go to her aunt s, do you think?" said 
 he. 
 
 "Why not?" replied Cora. 
 
 "Well," he replied, "you will pardon me, I feel, 
 when you understand how interested I am in her wel 
 fare, and assure you the pater is very anxious to see her 
 and secure her services. He thinks she has received 
 some ill-treatment from Jadman, and wants to give her 
 a lift." 
 
 "Ill-treatment!" said Cora in an undertone; "if he 
 knew!" 
 
 "I beg pardon," said Sappleigh; "I did not just hear 
 what you said." 
 
 "Oh," said Cora, collecting her thoughts; "yes; I
 
 PERDIDA. 173 
 
 think there was something like that in it. Mr. Jad- 
 man is not always an agreeable man." 
 
 "You will pardon me again, Miss Wasson," said 
 Sappleigh; "I agree with you. The pater says, be 
 tween ourselves you understand, that he s a scoundrel." 
 
 Cora laughed nervously at this, and replied thet she 
 couldn t say, as she had never had much to do with 
 Mr. Jadman. 
 
 "Have you heard from Miss Brown?" he asked. 
 
 "No; not since she went away." 
 
 "And yet you must have written to her," he said. 
 "You young ladies are always writing letters, aren t 
 you?" 
 
 "Oh, yes; sometimes; not always." 
 
 "But you are so fond of Miss Brown that you must 
 have felt like writing. She might be too ill to write 
 to you, you know. You surety must have sent her at 
 least one letter. 
 
 "Yes; I have written once, but she has not yet re 
 plied." 
 
 "Is that so?" said Sappleigh. "Then I think I will 
 tell you something. I wrote, the day after she left, 
 asking her to communicate with the pater about that 
 position, you know, and the letter came back marked 
 Not found. The pater is anxious to have it ex 
 plained. You see it s different from a letter returned 
 by the receiver. Can it be Miss Brown has left her 
 aunt and gone somewhere else?" 
 
 "I really cannot say, Mr. Sappleigh; indeed I am 
 not in a position to explain it. Perhaps it s only a post 
 office error. 
 
 "Yes, that might be so," he said; but he did not be 
 lieve it true. 
 
 She was very much worried, and what Mr. Sappleigh 
 had told her increased her fear concerning the safety of
 
 174 PERDIDA. 
 
 the girl she loved with so much tenderness and regret. 
 SHe felt that, if she did not soon hear from her, she 
 would have to consult with some one. A sense of re 
 sponsibility lay upon her, for she knew that, but for 
 her lack of intuition and wisdom, nothing of the pres 
 ent trouble would have come to her friend, and per 
 ceived that if help was needed, it ought to be tendered 
 at once. For aught she knew, Nellie might, even now, 
 be wandering helpless and sick about the streets, or per 
 haps was lying in some hospital, with no friend near to 
 soothe and watch her. She despised and hated Mrs. 
 Call, when she thought of all this. And yet she did 
 not feel she had a right to tell Mr. Sappleigh what 
 she feared. She was perplexed, however, for she had 
 an idea that he might follow up the track of the re 
 turned letter and thus learn the sad truth. 
 
 She went to Sue Dodge s room, after she and Mr. 
 Sappleigh parted, and asked her if she might talk with 
 her awhile. 
 
 "Certainly," said Sue. "As long as you wish. 
 What do you want to talk about Nellie? I thought so. 
 Well? what news have you. I have heard nothing 
 from her, and am going to send this letter to-night." 
 
 Here was another trouble. Cora began to fear noth 
 ing could keep Nellie s secret from discovery. If Sue 
 sent the letter, it would surely come back, just as hers 
 had, with unkind words from Mrs. Call. She 
 thought for a moment that she would ask Sue to let her 
 mail it for her, as she was just about to go out, but on 
 second thought realized that this would do no good ; for 
 if she did not send it, Sue would send another, and 
 then matters would be no better than before. 
 
 "Is that so?" she said. "Well, I ll tell you what I 
 think. No; it s not that," she added, hestitat ng. 
 "Oh, I must do something I have no right to do, Sue,"
 
 PERDIDA. 175 
 
 she continued "I must break a promise to aid a friend. 
 Have I any right to do it?" 
 
 "That," replied Sue, "will have to depend on your 
 view of the necessity. Perhaps I can help you a little, 
 if I may, for I think I know what it is that is troubling 
 you. Cora," she said, after a pause, "tell me truly: 
 Do you know why Nellie left her place? I will not be 
 tray your confidence, no matter what you say; but I 
 must know the truth, for Nellie is dear to me, and I 
 must help her if she is in distress. Do you know any 
 thing that could have caused her to wish to go away?" 
 
 "Yes, I do," said Cora. "It was Mr. Jadman." 
 
 "I thought so," continued Sue. "In fact, las good 
 as knew it. Now tell me another thing. Would you 
 be willing to help her, if the very worst has happened? 
 Don t say yes unless you mean it from the bottom of 
 your heart." 
 
 Cora began to weep as she answered this question, 
 saying : 
 
 "I d do anything in the world for her, Sue, no mat 
 ter what has happened. I hate Mr. Jadman, and I 
 know how he has behaved to the sweetest girl in the 
 place; and I know he s a liar and a villain, and every 
 thing that s bad, and that he s deceived her with lies 
 and promises, and then cast her off. Oh, Sue, she is 
 not wicked ; I know she isn t. She s just a poor, trust 
 ing girl, that came here too innocent to understand and 
 not prepared to deal with such men as one finds in this 
 city. There! I ve told what I had no right to tell; but 
 I didn t tell Mr. Sappleigh, though he pressed me hard 
 for information." 
 
 "Mr. Sappleigh!" cried Sue. "What can he sus 
 pect?" 
 
 "I don t know," said Cora, "but I think he has a 
 fear that Mr. Jadman is at the bottom of it all. He
 
 176 PERDIDA. 
 
 has written to Nellie about the place at his father s 
 bank, and the letter has come back marked Not found ; 
 and now I fear he will follow it up, and perhaps learn 
 what he must not know. What shall we do?" 
 
 "That does complicate matters," said Sue. "Mr. 
 Sappleigh is sincerely in love with Nellie. I know it. 
 But suppose he does follow her to her aunt s." 
 
 "She isn t there, Sue," said Cora. "I don t know 
 where she is. It s dreadful." 
 
 "Not there?" Sue spoke perplexedly. "Why, where 
 can she be then? She certainly started for Spring 
 Valley." 
 
 "Yes, and went there too," said Cora; "but she has 
 left. Let me get you something." 
 
 She went to her room and at once returned with the 
 letter Mrs. Call had sent her, and gave it to Sue, who 
 read it with care, her fine, expressive countenance filled 
 with contempt and scorn as she perused each word of 
 its every bitter, hard-hearted sentence. 
 
 "There is nothing to be learned here," she said. "It 
 is clear her aunt has turned her out of doors to starve 
 or go to the bad, or anything else a friendless girl can 
 go to that s far from hope and salvation. How can a 
 woman who talks so familiarly of her God act and feel 
 like that? Tell me more, Cora," she continued; "tell 
 me everything you can. Was Nellie at all to blame? 
 I do not believe she was. But still I d like to get your 
 opinion." 
 
 "I tell you, Sue," said Cora, "she is as innocent as a 
 child. Don t ask me how I know it. Believe me 
 when I say it s so. She has done absolutely nothing 
 that is wrong. I have her confidence and know the 
 truth. Listen " 
 
 She laid her lips close to the cheek of the other and 
 whispered in her ear, and, as she dii so, a look of in-
 
 PERDIDA. 17? 
 
 tense sadness and pity came upon the face of the lis 
 tener, that was followed by an outburst of grief that 
 caused her to weep for a time before she could speak 
 again. 
 
 "I thank you, Cora," she said after awhile. "It is 
 better so. Let me be alone now, and I will try to see 
 what can be done. I think," she continued, "I will 
 see Mr. Sappleigh myself." 
 
 Sue Dodge was a resolute and clear-headed woman. 
 She perceived at once that no evasion would long keep 
 down the mystery that had for its foundation a cause 
 so positive. Mr. Sappleigh loved Nellie, she knew, and 
 she understood that he would be certain to seek her if 
 nothing happened to bring him news. Again, she be 
 lieved that, the sooner he knew the truth, the sooner 
 would he abandon his attempt to trace the lost girl. It 
 would be painful, but he might as well face it now as 
 to find out later in some unkind way. She resolved 
 that she would herself to tell him, as delicately as possi 
 ble, and trust him to be as generous as a man can be, 
 and perhaps be helpful too. She waited until the fol 
 lowing evening, then asked him to give her an hour 
 privately. 
 
 "With pleasure, Miss Dodge," he said. "Suppose we 
 take a walk. The privacy of the open street is excel 
 lent for confidences." 
 
 They started off, and as soon as they were out of the 
 crowded neighborhood Sue spoke. 
 
 "Mr. Sappleigh," she began, "I am going to tell 
 you something that will hurt you ; but I do it because I 
 believe some one should, and I think I can do it better 
 perhaps than most people. You must not interrupt 
 me, please, for I have a painful task to perform. Just 
 let me say what I have to say plainly and kindly, and 
 then think what you please. But whatever you think,
 
 ] 78 PERDIDA. 
 
 be merciful and tender in "your feelings. I have 
 brought you out to explain the mystery of the disap 
 pearance of our young friend, Nellie Brown. She is 
 very dear to me, Mr. Sappleigh, and I have long 
 thought she was also very dear to you. Am I right?" 
 
 "Yes, Miss Dodge," said he. "Since you put it 
 frankly, I will tell you that I once asked her to marry 
 me." 
 
 Sue started. "And she refused you?" 
 
 "Yes, Miss Dodge; as sweetly as an angel. She 
 said she loved me very much, but not quite as a wife 
 should, and put me away so kindly that I have never 
 ceased to feel grateful to her." 
 
 "God pity her," said Sue. "How hard a thing it is 
 to read a woman s heart. Well," she continued, "that 
 cannot be helped now. What I wish to tell you is this: 
 The dear girl whom we all love so much has been 
 made the victim of the blackest villainy let me repeat 
 it so you cannot doubt my words the blackest villainy 
 that can be perpetrated against an innocent and unsus 
 pecting woman. I learned this only yesterday, Mr. 
 Sappleigh, and I want to save her from further sorrow. 
 She has been at her aunt s and has been cast out, God 
 knows where ; and Miss Wasson and I are beside our 
 selves to find her and aid her in her trouble. Knowing 
 how much you thought of her, and understanding you 
 would certainly try to seek her, I saw that nothing but 
 the plain truth would do. If I have caused you pain, 
 I have at least spared you the annoyance of ill-minded 
 insinuations and false statements that might injure the 
 girl I love and the man I like. No matter how you 
 may now feel toward her, Mr. Sappleigh, always re 
 member that what I have told you is the truth. She is 
 just as innocent of wrongdoing as a child. It was 
 crime, Mr. Sappleigh cruel, cowardly crime followed
 
 PER DID A. 179 
 
 by promises of atonement, that drove her away. The 
 other day, she went to him and he spurned her, making 
 light of his hideous sin and casting her out as if she 
 were a dog. No ; there is nothing that can be done to 
 him. No legal evidence could be found, even if she 
 were to consent to a prosecution. It was crime and 
 lies from beginning to end; and a pure, proud girl, 
 whom it would seem no one could wish to harm, is now 
 wandering somewhere helpless, unless we can find her 
 and save her from herself. That is all I have to say." 
 
 During this address, Mr. Sappleigh remained silent, 
 but Sue noted the tense muscles of the arm to which 
 she clung while speaking, and the short, quick breath 
 that moved the chest of the man as he walked by her 
 side. For several minutes he said nothing, and once 
 or twice he gave a sigh that seemed almost a sob. He 
 was thinking with painful intensity, and she under 
 stood how much he must be suffering. At last he 
 spoke, and what he said astonished her beyond any 
 thing she had imagined possible. 
 
 "Miss Dodge," he said, "you have been very kind 
 and brave to tell me this so plainly. I almost feel that 
 you have had my interests at heart as well as the dear 
 girl s, You are right in what you say. I would like 
 to kill that man but what good would that do? It 
 might please me, and I wouldn t care for the conse 
 quences; but it would not help her. We must save her. 
 We must find her somehow, before she destroys herself. 
 I must see her, Miss Dodge, and get her to reconsider 
 her answer. Perhaps now~ she may not look upon me 
 as she once did. Help me to find her and help me 
 to coax her to come to me, and I will always be your 
 best friend. I believe every word you have told 
 me. I will take her away for a long time, until 
 recent troubles are forgotten. I will make her very
 
 180 PERDIDA. 
 
 happy. Only let me win her honorably, Miss Dodge, 
 and I shall prove myself the man I ought to be." 
 
 "Mr. Sappleigh!" said Sue, "are you in earnest? 
 Do you still wish to marry Nellie Brown?" 
 
 "Yes, Miss Dodge; just that," he replied. "I said 
 I d give my life for her, long ago; and what I say I 
 mean. Who am I that she need look up to me? She 
 is unhappy now, and perhaps I can make her happy. 
 Then she will learn to know me better and all will be 
 well. Only let me make her my dear, protected wife, 
 and time will heal the wound. God helping me, I ll 
 save her yet." 
 
 "Mr. Sappleigh," said Sue very calmly, "if ever 
 in the past I have said anything harsh of your sex, 
 kindly pardon me, and always remember there is one 
 exception. I have often felt that he who penned the 
 line, An honest man s the noblest work of God, was 
 guilty of a flight of pure poetic fancy, but now I per 
 ceive that he was writing sense; for I have seen one. 
 Let us go home." 
 
 They walked in silence to the house, and on the door 
 step, Sue turned her face to him and said : 
 
 "Lispenard Sappleigh, I wish you were my brother. 
 I d give half my life to have such a man for a 
 brother. But of course that s nonsense. Still, I d like 
 to feel that I have a sister s interest in you. Let me 
 kiss you good-night." 
 
 She placed her hands upon his broad shoulders and 
 raised her lips to his. As they entered the house and 
 parted for the night, each felt that an alliance had been 
 formed between them that would become a tie of purest 
 mutual respect and interest for life, and Mr. Sappleigh 
 realized how noble a spirit it was that dwelt within the 
 secret places of the heart of this reserved and dignified 
 woman, who was now his stead fast friend.
 
 PERDIDA. 181 
 
 "Pater," said Mr. Sappleigh, the Dext time they met, 
 "you are right. Nellie Brown has been driven from 
 work and home by that man Jadman." 
 
 "I feared as much," said the old man. "Then there 
 is nothing we can do." 
 
 "Yes, there is, " said Mr. Sappleigh. "She must be 
 found and helped." 
 
 "But how?" 
 
 "I don t know," said Mr Sappleigh, "but I m going 
 to make it my business to find her." 
 
 " Will she accept help?" 
 
 "That remains to be seen; but if she will, I ll try to 
 help her. Why, Pop," he continued, his face glowing 
 with love and resolution, "this is no ordinary case. 
 It s been crime all through." 
 
 "Is that so? Jadman s not too good for it. I ve 
 heard of other cases to his discredit. Do you know 
 what will happen, some day, my boy? I ll tell you. 
 Jadman will be found dead. It s certain to come. 
 I ve said so many times." 
 
 "He ought to be dead now, * said Mr. Sappleigh. 
 "But that doesn t help the present troubles. What I 
 wanted to say is this: if you find me absent frequently 
 from my general hanging-out places, you needn t 
 worry, for I shall be hunting for that lost girl. You 
 can trust me, Pop." 
 
 "I know it, Lispenard. You will do what is right; 
 and if, in the meantime, you can manage to get a sure 
 grip on that other, let me know. I hope you may be 
 successful in your errand of kindness. God bless you." 
 
 So it came to pass that, for many a day, Mr. Sap 
 pleigh spent most of his time in privately searching the 
 city for traces of the lost girl who was become so dear 
 to him that nothing but her rescue would satisfy him, 
 while Cora Wasson and Sue Dodge did what they
 
 182 PERDIDA. 
 
 could to aid him. But it is not easy to find a missing 
 girl in a great city, especially when there is no war 
 rant out for her arrest, and nobody cares who she is or 
 what becomes of her. Mr. Sappleigh was probably as 
 well informed as the average of our young men; he 
 had the additional benefit of ample means , but still, 
 the longer he hunted the less hopeful he became, and 
 after a time he began to fear she had destroyed herself, 
 as many another ruined girl has done, and that he 
 would never know her fate. He became moody and 
 careless of his former enjoyments and spent much of 
 his time alone. Often too he would join his father at 
 the club, and talk over the case, but nothing ever came 
 of this, for old Mr. Sappleigh believed that Nellie had 
 long since passed from her troubles, although he did 
 not have the heart to tell his thoughts. With Sue 
 Dodge, Mr. Sappleigh felt more at ease than with any 
 one else, she comforted him and cheered him so much. 
 Yet she, too, grew to view the disappearance of Nel 
 lie as final; and when at night she prayed for her, 
 it was as for one who had died that she offered her peti 
 tion. 
 
 Meantime Mr. Jadunan and his partner quarreled, 
 and Mr. Stein withdrew from, the firm, and formed a 
 new connection with a Chicago house. Cora naturally 
 preferred the junior partner, and when the now biisi- 
 ness opened, went to the West with Mr. Stem. Sue 
 still remained in her old position. It was as good as 
 any other, she said, and personally she had nothing to 
 complain of. Business was business, and beyond that 
 she cared nothing about the matter. 
 
 Several new boarders came to join the remnant of the 
 family that remained with Mrs. Ferguson, and Miss 
 Odombosky very unexpectedly married an old college 
 professor, who admired her for her sterling worth and
 
 PER DID A. 183 
 
 her knowledge of languages. Sue and Mr. Sappleigh 
 were the only ones left to mourn the disappearance of 
 the girl who once had been the favorite of the house. 
 
 In fine, life, as is ever the case, jogged on in its 
 accustomed way, and nobody cared whether or not 
 there was one more mystery among the forgotten things 
 than formerly. Barring Sue Dodge and the man who 
 loved the lost girl, there was not a soul in the metrop 
 olis who now recalled the fact that there had ever 
 been such a person as Nellie Brown, sometime stenogra 
 pher with Jadman, Stein & Co., and even Jadman 
 himself had ceased to distinctly remember which par 
 ticular girl it was that bore the name.
 
 184 PERDIDA, 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 CAST ADRIFT. 
 
 " In words, like weeds, I ll wrap me o er, 
 Like coarsest clothes against the cold ; 
 But that lai ge grief which these enfold, 
 Is given in outline and no more." 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 MAY 11, 18. 
 
 ONLY a year ago yesterday, only one short year ago. 
 Then how happy I was, as I took you out, dear diary, 
 and told you of ray new associations, and of the de 
 lightful prospects that lay before me. How brief a 
 time is a year, and yet how much one can learn and 
 suffer in the twelve little months that make its sum of 
 moontimes. I was looking at the new moon this even 
 ing, as I once loved to do, when peace and contentment 
 were my daily comrades, and I scarcely knew what it 
 was to feel the weight of care. Ah, Moon, you do not 
 know with what different feelings I watch you now. 
 Everything else is changed, excepting you, dear Moon, 
 whom I used to look upon so lovingly with my undis 
 ciplined eyes, that seldom shed a tear. But you do not 
 change, no matter what may be the changes that come 
 upon us mortals. Sometimes I think that you do not 
 care whether we love you or not; and yet, dear Moon, I 
 like to feel that you do. You seem to be always look 
 ing at us, and often it seems as though you were trying 
 to tell us something that we should know; that you 
 would win us to you, if you could, and help us to live,
 
 PERDIDA. 185 
 
 as you live, always apart from the glare of the daytime 
 and at peace with everything. But we cannot under 
 stand you, Moon, you are so far away and you show us 
 so little of the things that we ought to avoid. You 
 never seem to care to light us onward, only upward ; 
 but we poor mortals are compelled to move along upon 
 the earth, and cannot soar, as you do, far above its 
 perils and its woes. Dear Moon, you little realize how 
 I appreciate your comradeship now, when there is noth 
 ing else that I can turn to with familiarity. Every 
 thing but you is strange and terrifying. It does me 
 good to gaze at you awhile, and feel that you know me 
 and would pity me, could you understand. Yon are 
 shining in at my window as I write, and I have only 
 to turn my face a little to see you. I do not wish to 
 look out of the window, for then I see only the great 
 bare buildings and the streets, and am afraid. But I 
 do not feel afraid of you, Moon, for your presence com 
 forts me and makes me less alone. I will talk to you 
 in my diary, and my diary will seem dearer for know 
 ing you. 
 
 It is probable that these pages may be the last I shall 
 ever pen. But I am not sorry. If it will only happen 
 this way, I shall be happy and will thank God that He 
 has granted my prayers. Perhaps no one will ever see 
 what I have written so faithfully during the past year, 
 and I care very little what becomes of it after I am 
 gone; and yet I feel it would be good to think some 
 people knew the truth, and could remember me with 
 kindness. If it is possible, I should like to have these 
 pages go to Sue Dodge when I am gone; so I have 
 written her a letter that can be sent then with the book, 
 if the person who happens to find it will only take the 
 trouble to do so small a favor for a homeless girl. Sue 
 will understand better toan you can, dear Moon, for she
 
 186 PEED ID A. 
 
 has suffered, and I do not helieve yon ever have. But I 
 must finish now, for my time may be very short. How 
 anxious I am. 
 
 How strange it is to be alone in a strange city, and 
 to understand that one must seek to know nobody. It 
 is not much like traveling for pleasure. It would bo 
 hard for a strong man, I suppose, but for a weak girl 
 like me it is actually terrifying at times. When I 
 arrived I did not know where to turn, and it seemed as 
 though everybody suspected me of some crime; yet I 
 knew that was foolish. The first night I slept in a 
 hotel. The clerk eyed me suspiciously, I thought, but 
 said nothing. I told him frankly that I was traveling 
 alone, and would depart in the morning, and he replied 
 that they did not generally take unescorted women, but 
 he would make an exception in my case, since I was 
 evidently "a lady and in need of shelter." I thanked 
 him and felt grateful. Can it be possible that I make 
 a decent appearance and command respect by my man 
 ners? I never thought of this before, but now I remem 
 ber that people do make different impressions. I have 
 felt this myself when in public. It is worth something 
 to be well received. Ah! if they could know. What 
 uncertain things appearances are. 
 
 Of course, I could not afford to remain at a hotel, 
 even had I wished to do so. I spent the day in seeking 
 a place of refuge. It was the most lonesome day I 
 have ever known. I knew I must do it, and that it 
 must be done at once, no matter how hard it might be. 
 I would much rather hunt for work, but I must not 
 waste time on that now. Something told me I should 
 find what I wanted somewhere in the lower sections of 
 the town; and my instinct proved to be correct, for it 
 led me to this place. It is poor enough for the poorest, 
 and the surroundings are sordid and offensive, but it is
 
 PERDIDA. 187 
 
 a refuge. The German woman who keeps the place 
 seems honest and assures me she will do her best for 
 me. It is all I can expect. How fortunate it is I 
 saved my money. God alone knows what would have 
 become of me but for that. The woman asks a high 
 price for my board and care, but what am I to do? It 
 will take almost every cent, but there is no help for it. 
 By and by, if I must, I can get work. But I am hop 
 ing that time will not come. God will surely let me 
 go to Him, when I have done my very best to show 
 Him how hard I try to do right. His wisdom will tell 
 Him how necessary it is that I should go, now that I 
 have no mission here. 
 
 Every day that passes brings me ^nearer to the hour 
 of my release. I will not think otherwise. I shall do 
 nothing to hasten it, and will add no guilt to my load 
 of sorrow. But I shall pray all the time, and trust. I 
 feel that He will take pity on me. 
 
 Chicago is not so very different from New York. It 
 is merely another big city, with the same turmoil and 
 excitement and the same struggle for bread going on 
 every day. I took a walk this morning, and saw some 
 thing of the town. It gave me a sense of heartache to 
 see the young women in the stores, they seemed so like 
 duplicates of those I have long known. Many of them 
 are good girls, and my feelings went to them like those 
 of a sister, and I could not help wondering if any were 
 bearing trials like mine. There may be some; God 
 pity them! Why will He permit such cruelty? I 
 dined at a nice place, and it seemed good once more to 
 sit where things are clean and tidy. There was a 
 handsome man near me with a pretty girl, and they 
 drew my attention by their evident fondness for each 
 other. Something about ,the man made me believe the 
 girl is not his daughter, or sister, and that he is not a
 
 188 PERDIDA. 
 
 man she ought to go with. How suspicious I have be 
 come! I would like to have been able to know her and 
 warn her, for I am very sure he^means to do her harm, 
 and she is plainly very pure and innocent, even as I 
 was once. Ah, me ! 
 
 But I am neglecting my duty and forgetting to truth- 
 full} set down the course of events since leaving home. 
 It is painful to recall those last hours, but I must do so 
 at least once more, or my diary will not be the 
 record that I wish it to become, after 1 am gone. 
 
 It is hard to write of the treatment Aunt Sarah used 
 toward me, when I tried to tell her all, and threw my 
 self upon her kindness. I did not desire to cause her 
 pain, but what else was I to do? She is the only person 
 in the world who has an interest in me, and my 
 mother s dying words were a request that she would 
 always stand by me in time of trouble. I try to think 
 she is a good woman, but it is hard to school my heart 
 to justice when I recall her cold ways and her harsh 
 words. After supper, when she said she was ready to 
 hear what I wanted to say, I began to tell her, as well 
 as I could, how cruelly I had been treated, and would 
 have told her all, omitting nothing, if she had let me; 
 but she broke out at once with fearful words, that it 
 makes me shudder to remember, and called me by 
 names that I scarcely understood, and informed me, in 
 the cruelest language, that she would listen to nothing, 
 and that I must go back to the city at once. 
 
 My pride made me want to run away and leave her, 
 but I still felt she would, perhaps, understand, if I 
 could only get her to listen, and that she would pity 
 me and give me help ; so I tried again. God knows it 
 was not an easy task I had assumed, and that the bur 
 den of shame and anguish nearly killed me. 
 
 "Oh, auntie!" I said, "please do not speak to me
 
 PERDIDA. 189 
 
 like that. Try to listen to me, and let me tell you the 
 truth. I have no wish to conceal anything; truly, I 
 am guiltless of any willful sin. My heart is broken, 
 and I shall die if you will not try to understand and 
 endeavor to help me. What have I done that you 
 should be so harsh?" 
 
 "What have you done?" said she. "You have done 
 the wickedest thing a girl can do. You have brought 
 disgrace and shame onto them that raised you, and 
 loved you like they was your own mother." 
 
 "No, no!" I cried, for I was desperate. "It is not 
 so, auntie. I have only been wickedly wronged and de 
 ceived. God knows I am innocent. * 
 
 "Don t talk to me about innocence," said she. 
 "You re a brazen hussy and the worst girl in the vil 
 lage, and you vo got to leave town to-morrow." 
 
 "But where shall I go?" I pleaded. 
 
 "What do I care where you go," she replied. "All 
 I want of you is never to see you again. The idea that 
 such a girl should be a relation of mine. God has seen 
 fit to bring my gray hairs to sorrow, after all my obe 
 dience to His commands." 
 
 Her words stung me, they seemed so self-righteous 
 and unlike what they ought to be. I felt she was more 
 wrong than I now, and something made me resentful; 
 I had suffered so much injustice already. I could not 
 help it, but I spoke bitterly. 
 
 "Auntie," said I, "you are unjust. You will not 
 even listen to me. I never told you an untruth in my 
 life, yet you as good as call me a liar. And then you 
 fall back upon your duty to God, and attempt to defend 
 your hardness by blaming Him. Do you think that is 
 the way He would do, if I went to Him as I have come 
 to you, honestly and in sorrow, and asked Him to help 
 me?"
 
 190 PERDIDA. 
 
 She became very angry at this, and told me to "shut 
 my mouth," and not set myself up to teach my betters. 
 She walked up and down the room, bemoaning her fate 
 and God s "unkindness to a poor lone creature, that 
 never forgot to seek Him on bended knee every day," 
 and finally turned upon me like a mad woman, and 
 told me that I must remain in the house until the 
 second day following, after which she would send me 
 away. 
 
 "It s no use talking, Nellie," she said. "I won t 
 listen to a word. You are a wicked, shameless creature, 
 that no decent person would want to know. All the 
 village will hear of it, and then I ll never dare look 
 them in the face. Oh, what have I done!" she cried, 
 wringing her hands, "what have I done to be cursed 
 with such an ungrateful niece!" 
 
 I had nothing to say now. I saw that it would be 
 useless to try to move her. 
 
 How I suffered. It was the parting of the last tie 
 that bound me to the world, and I realized that I must 
 go away somewhere and die alone. I had a hope that 
 Cora would write me a letter; in fact I felt certain she 
 would, and wanted to see her. But no letters came 
 during the next day, so I dropped all thought of going 
 back to New York, and decided to go away just any 
 where. My aunt said nothing to me, all the morning, 
 and I kept my room, but in the evening she sent me 
 some food, and soon after came upstairs and told me 
 that Deacon Popgrass would take me to the train next 
 day. 
 
 I made no reply; my heart was too full of sadness 
 for that. I simply nodded my head. I had shed no 
 more tears, and there was a dryness in my throat and a 
 feeling of deaduess in my whole body. I did not care 
 what happened. Anything was better than staying
 
 PERDIDA. 191 
 
 there. With all the shame and heartache and mortifi 
 cation that were upon me, I felt no sense of conscience 
 that told me I had sinned. Yet I was, I well knew, 
 an outcast, upon whom no good man or woman would 
 look with anything but contempt. I must get away 
 somewhere and die, that Wc.s all. I sometimes wish I 
 was more like Cora. She does not feel so keenly as I. 
 
 In the morning when I was ready, my aunt came to 
 me and said : 
 
 "There s just one thing I want you to understand, 
 Nellie. I ain t the person to let my private trials make 
 me forgetful of the duty I owe my neighbors. So you 
 might as well learn before you leave, that every one in 
 the village knows all about what you have been doing, 
 and has been warned against you. I felt it was only 
 right they should know, for the company of the wicked 
 is not good." 
 
 "Do you mean to tell me, auntie," I said, "that you 
 have made it your business to go about and publish my 
 misfortune among the people?" 
 
 "Yes," she replied; "I felt they ought to know, so s 
 my skirts would be clean. I hain t seen every one, of 
 course, but them I ve seen will soon tell the rest. You 
 needn t blame me. Them that sins must be ready to 
 take the consequences " 
 
 It seemed so cruel, so heartless to thus expose the 
 shame of a young girl, and destroy her reputation 
 among her people, that I felt very angry, sad as I was. 
 
 "Auntie," I said, "I am astonished. I believed you 
 to be at least a Christian woman, if you are hard and 
 unloving and merciless to others. Yesterday I was 
 sorry for you, unjust though I think you have been. 
 But now I believe you are really the wickedest woman 
 in the world. What you have done is cruel, cowardly 
 and mean. If I had a hope of ever redeeming myself,
 
 192 PEED ID A. 
 
 such treatment would make it impossible. As Christ 
 is my witness and still my last hope and refuge, I tell 
 you you have done the most dreadful thing that one 
 woman can do to injure another. God may forgive 
 you for it, but I cannot. I shall [never see your face 
 after this, no matter what happens. And don t you 
 presume to attempt to speak to me again. You are a 
 viler creature than the poor girl whom your self -right 
 eousness and bigotry would condemn unheard. If my 
 mother were alive she would cast you from her with 
 loathing. Let me pass out." 
 
 She paled as I turned from her, and I felt that I was 
 cold and white myself. But my outburst of anger did 
 me good, and I was stronger for it. I knew what I 
 had to face and was prepared. 
 
 It was with a feeling of intense shame that I entered 
 the wagon and took a seat beside dear old Deacon Pop- 
 grass, for I like him, and understood how much he has 
 always thought of me. It seemed that my aunt must 
 have selected him on purpose to humiliate me, but 
 there I was mistaken. It was his own proposition. 
 
 Nothing was said as we drove away. I glanced 
 back quickly just once, and saw my aunt standing in 
 the doorway, but she did not move, and there were no 
 signs of a desire to wish me godspeed in her attitude. 
 Thus I left my home, the home from which I have 
 often watched you, Moon, in days when I was light- 
 hearted and happy and knew not care. 
 
 When we had gone well out of the village a strange 
 thing happened. Without a word of preliminary, the 
 deacon dropped the lines across the dashboard of the 
 wagon, letting the horses go at their own gait, gently 
 clasped me in his arms and drew me to his breast. I 
 was so surprised that I could not speak, but as I looked 
 into his face I perceived there were tears in his aged
 
 PERDIDA. 193 
 
 eyes, and that something in them told me I had a friend. 
 I wanted to thank him, but the choking in my throat 
 prevented. I could not even cry. Then he found 
 words and said, as if he were speaking not directly to 
 me but to others : 
 
 "He that is without sin among you, let him first cast 
 a stone at her." 
 
 And at the utterance of these words I broke down 
 and wept until I could not shed another tear. 
 
 "That s right, Nellie," said he very softly. "God 
 will remember it. He s good and merciful and kind. 
 And I low it d be small business for me to forget to 
 follow Him when the way is plain. Don t tell me 
 nothing. I can understand, I think. And remember 
 if y ever need me, I m always ready to come." 
 
 I tried to thank him, but he would not let me. After 
 that we drove in silence to the end of the journey. 
 
 He grasped my hand ..tenderly as we parted, and 
 handed me a letter. 
 
 "I was asked to give this to you," he said, "just as 
 you was going." 
 
 I took it and put it into my satchel. In a few min 
 utes the train arrived and I bade him good-by. God 
 bless him ever! 
 
 How hard it is to tell all that has happened since I 
 left my home. Some of it is so painful that I write it 
 with my eyes full of tears, and then it becomes so 
 shameful that I feel the hot blushes in my cheeks as I 
 pursue my relentless way to each detail. Oh, Moon, 
 you little know what it costs a human heart to be honest 
 with itself. 
 
 The letter that the deacon gave me was from John 
 Hadley. When I opened it I hoped it would be 
 another word of cheer to bear me company on my jour 
 ney. But it was not. I shall not speak of it. It is 
 enough to quote it truthfully and let it stand by itself.
 
 194 PEED ID A. 
 
 "Miss NELLIE BROWN: I feel that I should be doing 
 myself an injustice not to tell you how the news of your 
 recent conduct has affected me. I had supposed, when 
 I made the blunder of asking you to become my wife, 
 that I had been loving a pure and upright girl, whom I 
 could honor and trust. But I now perceive that I was 
 mistaken, and realize how grateful I should be to God 
 that I did not happen to take your fancy sufficiently to 
 become your husband. Men have been deceived before 
 by beautiful women, so it is not strange that, I too, 
 have made a mistake. If you have any idea that I still 
 think of you with tenderness, unburden yourself of the 
 thought, for I assure you there is nothing of my for 
 mer infatuation left. I have nothing else to say to 
 you, beyond expressing my regret that you should have 
 thought so poorly of me as to wish to include me 
 among your possible victims. 
 
 "Sincerely, JOHN HADLEY." 
 
 I shall never read this letter again. Nor will I ever 
 think of the writer except with contempt. Miserable 
 as I am, I think it is a good thing I did not marry him. 
 One who can thus condemn another when no chance is 
 offered for defense, is weak and unmanly. I do not 
 believe Mr. Sappleigh would write such a letter as that 
 to the worst woman in the world. Dear- Mr. Sap 
 pleigh ! I almost learned to love him well enough to 
 make him happy. I know now that I could, were it 
 possible. How hard my fate is. But the day of rest 
 is not far off. Thank God for that. I dread the ap 
 proaching ordeal, for I always was afraid of pain ; but 
 with His help I shall pass through it, and then will 
 come the end and peace. Good-night, Moon; who 
 knows whether I shall look upon your face again with 
 earthly eyes. 
 
 June 21st: I had not thought to write again in you, 
 my diary ; and I certainly did not wish to. I do not ques-
 
 PERDIDA. 195 
 
 tion the purposes of the Almighty, but it is hard to 
 understand what I am here for, why I am alive. Just 
 now I am at rest, in that temporary resting-place that 
 even a poor convalescent, outcast girl may find the 
 hospital; but it is not the rest for which I prayed a 
 month ago, and it cannot last long, for I am almost 
 well enough to be sent away, and then But I will not 
 think of that. 
 
 How long it seems since I forgot everything. I only 
 remember that I was in pain, that I believed I would 
 soon die and be at peace, that I heard voices and saw 
 people, and that then I knew nothing. My next recol 
 lection is of the day when I awoke in this place and 
 saw a kind-looking woman watching me. 
 
 "What is it?" I said. "Where am I? Have I been 
 very ill?" 
 
 "Yes," she replied, "you have been ill. But you 
 are better now, and will soon get well." 
 
 "But I don t want to get well," I insisted. 
 
 "Oh, yes, you do," shesaid, "you are weak now and 
 must not talk any more. I will see you again soon." 
 
 Then she left me, and I began to look about me. It 
 was not long before I understood where I was ; but how 
 it happened that my bed was a hospital cot and not the 
 one at my boarding place, I could not understand. 
 But I was too weak to care very much, so just rested 
 and did not fret about it. 
 
 In a few days, Sister Alice (that is the name of my 
 nurse) told me briefly of my transfer to the hospital. 
 My landlady, the German woman, had, it appears, sent 
 me away, saying she feared I would die on her hands. 
 
 "But you need not worry about that," said Sister 
 Alice, "for this is a better place than the one in which 
 we found you. In truth, dear, it was a very bad place 
 where you were."
 
 196 PEED ID A. 
 
 "Is that so?" said I. "I only thought it was a poor 
 place." 
 
 She smiled a sad smile and moved on. Later she 
 told me that my satchel with the locked clasp was safe 
 in her care, and that I would find the key that was tied 
 about my neck ready for me when I left. I asked her 
 what had become of my trunk. 
 
 "Did you have a trunk?" she asked. "None was 
 sent here." 
 
 She promised to have it looked up, and the following 
 day sent to the German woman to get it. The man 
 who had the errand returned with the news that the 
 woman had moved and taken everything with her. 
 Sister Alice told me, with sympathy in her voice, of 
 my loss, and hoped it was not great. But it was very 
 great to me, for the trunk contained all my spare 
 clothes, and every dollar of my money. I think the 
 woman who would thus rob a helpless and possibly 
 dying girl, must be dreadfully degraded. 
 
 My diary was in the satchel. I was glad of that, and 
 to-day I am permitted to sit up and write in it. They 
 are very kind here, and do not try to annoy me with 
 questions. Of course they know what I am, but they 
 do not say anything to hurt my feelings. I wish I 
 could always remain. But that cannot be. In a few 
 days more, I must leave the good nurses and seek work. 
 This seems to be God s plan for me. Why could He 
 not let me die? 
 
 I never saw my baby at all. It did not live, and it 
 does not seem now that it has ever been. All that has 
 passed since last I wrote in you, dear diary, is like a 
 dream. But I know where I am and what I am, and 
 the knowledge is verj T cruel. 
 
 There is only one thing clear to me now. Being 
 utterly alone and condemned to always remain so, I
 
 PERDIDA. 197 
 
 must get to work as quickly as possible and earn a liv 
 ing. I shall never repeat my past errors, and I am too 
 intelligent now to fall into danger ever again. It is a 
 sad, lonely life that stretches before me, but it must be 
 lived. Possibly I may find some good friends among 
 my new associates. I wish I could see Sue Dodge. 
 When I am settled and doing well, I will write to her, 
 and perhaps renew at least that one tie. She is very 
 noble and would keep my secret to the end of her life. 
 God bless her always. 
 
 I have received an unexpected kindness that caused 
 me to cry but it does not take much to do that now. 
 One of the doctors came to me to-day and said that, 
 having heard of me from Sister Alice, he had become 
 sufficiently interested to ask if I had any means of liv 
 ing when I left the hospital. You see, I have told Sis 
 ter Alice enough to show her that I intend to go back 
 to my work, and she has faith in me. Acting upon 
 her suggestion, he tendered me his good-will and 
 offered to lend me five dollars. 
 
 "It will be all right," he said kindly. "You will 
 soon repay it. I feel that you are honest." 
 
 I did not know just what to say, yet I needed the 
 money, if ever a poor girl did. He saw my confusion, 
 and, turning abruptly, left the money lying in my lap. 
 Sister Alice says I must accept the kindness, and I have 
 done so with a grateful heart. I shall get work in a 
 day or two, for I am expert at my trade, and then will 
 send him the money. It is pleasant to feel that Sister 
 Alice, who generally suspects all the girls that come 
 here, has faith in me. I shall hope to be worthy of 
 her confidence. She is very kind and gentle and will 
 not tell tales. 
 
 Good- by for awhile, little diary; I: am wretched and 
 sad enough at times and life is very dark, but I still 
 trust in Christ, and hope for peace.
 
 198 PERDIDA. 
 
 BOOK TWO. 
 
 THE DEFEAT. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 BEGINNING LIFE AGAIN. 
 
 " Experience is like the stern-lights of a ship, which illumine 
 only the track it has passed." Coleridge. 
 
 IN schooltime days, when struggling through the 
 jungles that entangle the wayfarer on the road to 
 knowledge, it was a favorite indulgence of the writer s 
 teacher to impress on the mind of his pupil the value of 
 the sentence, " Usus magister optimus," not only as a 
 specimen of excellent Latin but also as an important 
 precept in education. At that period of life, when no 
 disturbing elements had yet entered the problem he has 
 since tried without success to solve, it seemed a com 
 plete solution of all possible difficulties that might arise 
 in balancing the accounts of life, and the aforesaid 
 pupil believed that nothing more could be needed, and 
 esteemed his instructor the wisest of men. But a some 
 what extended course of experiences, viewed in the 
 light of that after-knowledge which such things bring, 
 has taught him to doubt the absolute certainty of a 
 purely experimental training; while a wider knowledge 
 of men has shown him that, in so far as experience 
 itself entered into the value of the lessons of that time, 
 the youthful teacher of the writer s boyhood had never
 
 PERDWA. 199 
 
 experienced anything himself and was almost as callow 
 as his pupil. The result of these reflections has, there 
 fore, brought the sometime pupil of the quondam school 
 master of other days to a point where, while he is will 
 ing to admit the value of experience, he insists that it 
 should be supplemented by a clear understanding of the 
 lessons taught by the experiences of others who have 
 gone before, and is constrained to believe that the first 
 without the second is a dangerous delusion and a snare 
 for the unwary. 
 
 Much also depends upon the application of the adjec 
 tive in this case. What is a "best" teacher? Is it that 
 which most thoroughly imparts a knowledge of some 
 thing, or that which tells one how to know? The old 
 statement that "a burnt child dreads the fire," care 
 lessly examined, seems good. Yet there have been 
 burned children who could not learn to avoid fire, even 
 with experience behind them. The baby that has been 
 hurt by contact with the cook-stove will often try to 
 touch the lamp chimney or the gas-jet; and the moth 
 er s faith in experiences of this kind is so wisely weak 
 that she does not cease her warnings until she has 
 taught the child, by every method she can devise, to 
 shun all things that are hot. That experience is a 
 definite teacher of definite facts is self-evident; but is 
 it not also true that it often is nothing more, and that, 
 in many instances, he who gets his knowledge in 
 this way only, pays for it a price that is much too high? 
 Everything, therefore, depends on the sense in which 
 we use the adjective. Much also rests upon the fitness 
 of the experiencer to learn in this way; which brings 
 us to the real point. 
 
 Given a person whose knowledge is sufficient to 
 guide him, and whose perceptions are cultivated to such 
 a degree that he can apply the test of reason to his ob-
 
 200 PERDIDA. 
 
 servations, and his experiences will become not only in 
 structive but useful. But no man can ascend the lad 
 der of knowledge to this height unless he has the bene 
 fit of the experiences of others, and a good understand 
 ing of the things which they teach. Knowledge is not 
 based wholly on personal tests of things; if it were, 
 most of us mortals would live very short mundane 
 lives, for we are, at best, a blundering set of creatures, 
 whose instincts, unlike those of the brutes, have become 
 so atrophied through lack of use, that we cannot even 
 scent a danger which is purely physical, while our moral 
 perceptions seem almost to need continual sharpening 
 to keep them fit for use. It is, for these reasons, im 
 perative that nothing that can be gleaned from the ex 
 periences of others should be denied us in our youth. 
 
 That experience is necessary in many ways, 1 frankly 
 admit. But I will not believe that it is always neces 
 sary ; nor do I believe it the best of teachers. There 
 are thousands of experiences which none of us ought to 
 have, which we should be taught to avoid and dread to 
 encounter. Experiences, like trifles, make the sum of 
 life. True; but what a fearful sum it is, when they 
 happen to be of such a kind that nothing can cure the 
 injuries they have brought with them. When the 
 state of being well-informed, of which thoughtless peo 
 ple often speak so carelessly, is only the result of a 
 chain of experiences that destroy and cannot make a 
 character, one may reasonably ask whether such infor 
 mation is worth having at all. Even dense ignorance 
 is preferable, if it bring with it no consciousness of its 
 degradation. 
 
 It is knowledge, not experience, that is the best 
 teacher. Knowledge begets knowledge; it leads the 
 mind upward; it teaches what is good and how to get it; 
 it tells what is bad and how to shun it; it is not seduc-
 
 PERDIDA. 201 
 
 tive, it keeps no secrets, it never lies. In it is con 
 tained all of experience that is worth anything, and a 
 guide to experience that will not fail in time of need. 
 Armed with this weapon of defense, the purest soul 
 may pass unharmed through perils that would surely 
 overwhelm it, were it forced to grope in blindness for 
 the light that experience hides behind itc back and 
 never shows the novice. 
 
 Armed with the bitter knowledge of her own experi 
 ences, and with just five dollars between her and starva 
 tion, Nellie Brown bade farewell to Sister Alice, and set 
 forth alone to begin work anew in a strange city. In 
 spite of all she had passed through, it was still her de 
 sire to lead an upright life. No thought cf anything 
 else entered her mind. She understood that henceforth 
 all ties that bound her to the past must be severed ; that 
 never again must she expect to see the people she loved 
 and 3 T earned for; that, with the possible exception of 
 Sue Dodge, none of them must know that she was still 
 alive, and that even Sue must think her dead for a 
 long time -to come. This seemed the best way to begin, 
 for there was something in her proud nature that re 
 belled against the thought of any present contact be 
 tween her past and her future. She would, she said, 
 become a new person, and none should know whence 
 she came, or what she once had been. She would try 
 to drive the remembrance of her enemy from her mind. 
 
 Of the immediate future she did not worry, for she 
 would soon get work, being competent and a really ex 
 cellent correspondent, and it was with a feeling of 
 pleasure that she thought how fortunate it was she had 
 always been diligent and anxious to do her best. The 
 reflection gave her confidence in herself, and hope. It 
 could not be very long before she would be earning
 
 202 PEEDIDA. 
 
 more than enough to support herself, and then she 
 would send the kind doctor his five dollars with a letter 
 of thanks. Sad and lonely as she was, there was yet a 
 sense of independence in her that did her good as she 
 walked through the streets and planned her new life. 
 Now that she was well and strong again, she felt a 
 deep resentment toward the sordid woman who turned 
 her out to die and then stole her trunk. She also felt 
 the loss, for the satchel that was saved contained but 
 little of her wearing apparel, most of her clothes hav 
 ing been in the larger receptacle. Fortunately, the 
 dress she had laid aside the day she was taken ill, and 
 one other which was not in the trunk, were still in her 
 possession, so she was able to keep tidy; and Sister 
 Alice had given her some small helps at her toilet 
 which were very acceptable. She knew, therefore, 
 that her attire would pass, and had no fear about her 
 personal appearance. In truth, though she did not 
 know it, she never looked so pretty in her life, for kind 
 care and good nursing had brought her round to per 
 fect health, and there was an added something in her 
 beauty which often comes to young mothers, a ripeness 
 of development and a tender expression in the eye that 
 one does not find in girlhood. She felt differently too, 
 and there was that in herself which told her she was no 
 more a child, and that sorrow and a knowledge of things 
 real had made her a woman. 
 
 She would get work. She would, perhaps, make 
 new friends, for she still yearned for friends, but she 
 would be careful what friends she cultivated. Like 
 Sue Dodge, she would be reserved and grave and al 
 ways kind, and, like Sue, she would keep her own 
 secret sacredly to herself through the years that were 
 to come, unless perchance it should become necessary 
 to tell it to save some other girl, and then it would be
 
 PERDIDA. 203 
 
 , \ 
 
 right to speak. Thus she planned, as she walked on 
 toward the bufliness center of the town. 
 
 It occurred to her that she would have to find shelter 
 for the night. Her means were too small to admit of 
 again using a hotel, so she bought a newspaper and, 
 entering a small park, sat upon one of the benches to 
 read the advertisements. She found many places 
 where board could be obtained, but her knowledge of 
 locality being a blank, she found it difficult to select 
 anything. And again, it was not board but lodging she 
 wanted just then. After much thinking, she at length 
 decided upon one that seemed reasonable, and going to 
 a policeman asked him to direct her to the place. He 
 looked at the advertisement in a critical way, and at 
 the girl, as if they did not seem to precisely accord; 
 but it was none of his business, so he told her how to 
 reach the neighborhood. She thanked him and moved 
 on, the officer turning about and gazing at her with an 
 expression of doubt and wonder on his face as she 
 passed into the street. 
 
 "It s a queer go," he mumbled to himself. "Any 
 one ud say she d been given a steer to send her to that 
 place. But you can t never tell about them fine-look 
 ing ladies an what they re up to. She don t look it, 
 though," he added, "I d swear to it. An I m not the 
 man that s oft taken in, either. If she d asked me for 
 information she d a-got it. But she didn t, so it s no 
 affair of mine." 
 
 Nellie found the house after some hunting. It was 
 an ordinary brick building, and the street was dirty 
 and full of quarreling children, hand-organs and push 
 carts. In truth it was not a neighborhood that often 
 saw women dressed as neatly as she, and her appear 
 ance attracted some attention as she walked to the place 
 where lodging was to be had "cheap." A large,
 
 204 PERDIDA. 
 
 round-eyed woman, with flaxen hair tangled about her 
 head, and dressed in a dingy gown of unkempt appear 
 ance that burst at the seams with the fullness of its con 
 tents (for the woman was immensely fat), opened the 
 door, and asked her what she wanted. 
 
 "I have come in answer to this advertisement," said 
 Nellie. "Could you let me have a room for a few 
 days?" 
 
 "Yes," replied the woman, eying her with looks of 
 surprise not unmixed with suspicion. "How long 
 would you want it?" 
 
 "I do not know," said Nellie. "It might be for a 
 day or two, possibly longer. I am a stranger, unac 
 quainted with Chicago, and am looking for work." 
 
 "You don t look like them as generally comes look 
 ing for work," said the woman, with some interest in 
 her tones; "most of em s poor- looking and not so much 
 like ladies." 
 
 Nellie smiled at her and replied that she was pleased 
 to be thought well of, adding: "I see you are perplexed 
 at my dress. But what I have said is true. I am a 
 poor girl out of work, and in need of a shelter. I am 
 alone and do not know the city, but hope to get work 
 soon at my trade." 
 
 "And what trade is that?" said the woman. "You 
 don t seem like you could do much work." 
 
 "I am a stenographer." 
 
 "And what s that?" 
 
 "Why," said Nellie. "I write with a machine for 
 offices where they have many letters to send." 
 
 "Oh, that s it. I see. We call that kind typewrit 
 ers down here. Can you get much at that?" 
 
 "Ten dollars a week sometimes." 
 
 "You don t say! But it s none of my business. Let 
 me show you the room."
 
 PERDIDA. 205 
 
 She led the way up a dark staircase to the second 
 floor, and opened the door of an apartment that fronted 
 the street. It was a dingy place and far from clean, 
 but it looked fairly comfortable. Nellie, after her ex 
 periences at the German woman s house, was naturally 
 suspicious, and it was not without a sense of fear that 
 she inspected the apartment. 
 
 "It s the best I ve got," said the fat woman, after 
 she recovered the breath she had lost in mounting the 
 stairs, "and it s safe and handy. There ain t nobody 
 else here just now, excepting my husband, and he ain t 
 home only nights. We thought a few dollars wouldn t 
 come in bad, and would help out in the rent. So we 
 let this room to people that s respectable. The last one 
 that had it was a young man that was hunting for a 
 job in the packing-houses." 
 
 Something about the woman inclined Nellie to believe 
 she was honest, and that despite its uninviting condition 
 the room would be a safe refuge. She engaged it for 
 the day and night, paying the fifty cents charged, and 
 promising to remain longer, if she needed it. 
 
 "You needn t be afraid here, miss," said the woman. 
 "This is a tough neighborhood, I own, but we don t 
 have none of it in our house, and my husband s always 
 home nights. I d like to advise you a bit, if I don t 
 give no offense, miss, because I see you re alone and 
 strange. Don t stay out late nights here, and, if you 
 have to go, let my husband go with you." 
 
 Her remarks alarmed Nellie. 
 
 "Why," she said, "is it such a bad neighborhood 
 as that? Perhaps I d best not remain." 
 
 "No," replied the woman, "you don t need to go. I 
 only told you for your good, because I see you re hon 
 est and you re strange here. There won t no one harm 
 you. Only sometimes there s rough men out round
 
 206 PERDIDA. 
 
 here at night, and a decent girl don t want them talk 
 ing to her. But you ll be safe in the house. And if 
 John goes with yon, they d never dare look at you." 
 
 There was a sincerity about the woman s manner 
 and words that reassured the girl, so she said she would 
 try it. Taking her satchel with her, for she did not feel 
 like trusting it out of sight, she left the house and went 
 back to the business part of the city. 
 
 "I guess I ain t made no mistake," said the woman, 
 as she tidied up the room a little after Nellie had left 
 her.. "Some of them handsome-looking girls ain t no 
 better than they ought to be, but I think this one s all 
 right. The way she took scare at what I said makes 
 me feel that way. But it s queer she should want to 
 come here, she s so like a lady. I wonder what s hap 
 pened to make her so poor. I ll watch her a bit any 
 how." 
 
 When Nellie returned at evening she was tired and 
 unhappy. Her day s experience was not reassuring, 
 and, bravely as she faced the morrow, it was not with 
 out doubts that she did so. A new knowledge had 
 come to her the knowledge of the fact that it is not al 
 ways possible for even the best-equipped person to get 
 employment, and with this came the thought that it 
 was but little money that stood between her and utter 
 homelessness. 
 
 After leaving the lodging house, she went first to a 
 restaurant, where, being very hungry, she ate a good 
 lunch. It cost her thirty cents, which, with the fifty 
 she had paid for her room, left her only four dollars 
 and twenty cents, and this, even with rigid economy, 
 would soon go. Immediate employment was therefore 
 necessary. After lunch she looked over the newspaper 
 and found two advertisements of men who wanted 
 stenographers. With the help of a policeman she found
 
 PERDIDA. 207 
 
 the first, in a small real estate office. He was an 
 elderly man of benevolent appearance and slow speech. 
 She approached his desk with a sense of trust at his 
 kindly appearance and stated her errand in a business 
 like manner. He inspected her attentively for a min 
 ute, and then asked if she could take from dictation 
 direct on the machine as well as by stenographic note. 
 She said that she could. 
 
 "Let s try it," said he, going with her to the table 
 upon which stood the typewriter. Nellie s heart beat 
 gladly, for she at once perceived it was of the same pat 
 tern as that which she had used last. It seemed an 
 omen of good luck. Every typist who reads these 
 words will realize how great a help the machine that 
 one knows best is to an applicant who is expected to 
 pass a test of this kind. She removed her gloves and 
 seated herself ready for the gentleman to begin. He 
 took up a newspaper and read from its columns slowly 
 and with nice emphasis, and she at once proceeded to 
 take down what he read. For about ten minutes this 
 performance continued without interruption ; and then 
 the gentleman stopped. 
 
 "Let me see what you have done," he said, taking 
 the sheets that had passed through the machine. "Yes, 
 yes," he continued, "it is excellent. Good enough for 
 anybody, and just what I want. Thank you, miss. I 
 think nothing more will be necessary to prove com 
 petency. When could you come to me, and what 
 salary would you expect?" 
 
 Nellie replied that she was ready to begin at once, 
 and that she would leave the salary to him. 
 
 "The first proposition is business-like," said he, 
 "and I like it; but the second is not so good. Surely 
 you must have some idea of what you would expect." 
 
 "Well," said Nellie, "at my last place they paid me 
 twenty-five dollars."
 
 208 PERDIDA. 
 
 "That is more than I can afford," said the gentle 
 man, "and it is really above the average even of the 
 best paid operators in Chicago. Where were you last 
 employed, please?" 
 
 The wages she mentioned we re indeed above the 
 average; and the fact aroused the gentleman s curiosity 
 and made him suspicious of the girl. 
 
 It was the question of all possible questions that she 
 dreaded most. She had hoped it would not be neces 
 sary, but it had been asked and must be answered. 
 
 "In New York City, sir." 
 
 "And who were your employers there?" he continued. 
 
 Nellie felt the hot flush that came to her cheeks as 
 she faced the question. For a minute she hesitated, 
 and the gentleman noticed that something was the mat 
 ter with her. The answer came, however, quietly and 
 with no apparent effort : 
 
 "Jadman, Stein & Company." 
 
 "I don t know them," said he. "But of course they 
 are all right. Why did you leave them?" 
 
 This was too much. It was like being stretched 
 upon the rack. She felt she could bear no more. And 
 yet it was very proper. But she began to see that it 
 would be impossible to go farther without telling false 
 hoods, and she simply could not tell the truth. 
 
 "Mr. Griggson," said she, "you will pardon me, 
 but I cannot answer that question. Really, I cannot do 
 it. It is impossible." 
 
 "Why, my dear young lady," said he, "it is the 
 most natural question in the world. If everything is 
 right, you certainly cannot object to referring to your 
 previous employers." 
 
 "I cannot answer it," she said 1 . 
 
 "Then I am afraid we cannot agree, " said he. "I 
 make it an invariable rule to require a reference, and
 
 PERDIDA. 209 
 
 would not care to break it now, satisfactory as your 
 work evidently is. I am sorry, Miss Brown, but I can 
 say nothing more except to add that I think you rather 
 foolish." 
 
 "Perhaps I am," said she, "but if so it can t be 
 helped. Good-afternoon." 
 
 It was with pain at her heart that she left him and 
 sought the other place, dreading the same ordeal, yet 
 determined to get work. It seemed positively cruel 
 that, at every turn, something must happen to open the 
 old wound and remind her of her wrongs. But she 
 would try. Every man might not be so particular 
 about the antecedents of his clerks. She could not but 
 ask herself how Mr. Griggson would like to have her 
 question him as he had questioned her, and what would 
 happen if every girl who sought work had a right to 
 investigate the previous character of her employers. 
 
 The second application was a failure, too. It was a 
 lawyer s office, and a previous applicant had secured 
 the place. It was disheartening. She tried one or two 
 of the large stores in the hope of finding a position, but 
 nobody seemed to want any help, and six o clock came 
 with nothing in view for the morrow. It was with a 
 heaviness upon her that she sought her room, after eat 
 ing a bun and drinking a cup of coffee that she bought 
 at an eating house. The fat woman saw her as she 
 entered, and greeted her with a smile, asking her if she 
 had had any luck. 
 
 "No," said Nellie, "not yet. But I shall expect 
 better fortune to-morrow." 
 
 "Work s always hard to get," said the fat woman 
 kindly. "But if you try you ll succeed soon. Is there 
 anything I can get you?" 
 
 "No, thank you," replied Nellie gratefully, for it 
 seemed good to have anybody say a kind word. "I
 
 210 PERDIDA. 
 
 will go to bed early, and get a rest, so I may be strong 
 in the morning. 
 
 She went to her room and sat by the window to think. 
 The twilight was falling in the street and the noises 
 that came from below were not restful to her tired 
 nerves. But it was too warm to shut the windows. 
 She wondered how people managed to live in such a 
 place, and how they could endure its squalor and noi 
 some atmosphere, and with this came the remembrance 
 of her childhood s home and the sweet smell of the coun 
 try air and the peace of the hills, and she bowed her 
 head upon the sill and wept. She was very unhappy, 
 and God seemed farther off than ever. But she had no 
 idea of giving up, for her heart was still courageous. 
 
 Next morning she arose early and left the house 
 without seeing its landlady. As she passed out she 
 met an old man, who was just coming in with a pail of 
 milk. 
 
 " Scuse me," he said, stopping her, "be you the lady 
 that s took the room upstairs?" 
 
 "Yes," said Nellie, noticing at the moment that he 
 seemed a vigorous and manly old fellow, and that his 
 ej es were clear and honest. 
 
 "I thought so," said he. "Wife said I d know you 
 by your hair. You didn t have no luck yesterday, she 
 said, and I m sorry to hear it; so I thought I d just stop 
 you and say, better luck next time. : 
 
 "Thank you," said Nellie, her voice trembling slightly 
 as she felt the sympathy in his tones. "You are very 
 kind." 
 
 "Oh, that s all right," said he. "I always hates to 
 see a nice girl hunting work. It don t look right. 
 Have you had your breakfast?" 
 
 "No," she said, "I am going now to get it." 
 
 "Then, you re hungry," said he. "Just take a sip 
 of this to stiffen you up as you go. There s plenty."
 
 PERDIDA. 211 
 
 "But I shall be robbing you of your breakfast," re 
 plied the girl. "You are very good to me, and 1 must 
 thank you." 
 
 "No," persisted the old man. "There s plenty. 
 Take a good drink. I d like you to." 
 
 Nellie perceived that he was sincere and that he 
 would be glad to see her accept his offer; so she tipped 
 the pail as he held it up and drank of its contents. 
 
 "Take a lot," said the old man. "It s good for you." 
 
 She did as he wanted her to, and thanked him again. 
 
 "Do you good," he said. "Nothing like it for a girl 
 that s got to hunt work. Some of them s foolish when 
 they s down on their luck and takes what s not good for 
 em. But you ain t that kind I can see. Better luck 
 next time," he called after her, as she went up the 
 street, and the words cheered her. It was something 
 to feel that everybody was not against her. The sur 
 roundings of this incident were offensive and unroman- 
 tic, it is true, but Nellie felt that even the dull fronts of 
 the houses took on a brighter hue because of the sun 
 shine shed by the kindness of just one poor man, who 
 had the heart to turn aside and encourage a friendless 
 girl in her honest efforts to live. He at least did not 
 seek to probe her wounded soul. 
 
 It was Saturday, and she realized that she must pass 
 the Sabbath without opportunity, so she made the most 
 of the day. She answered four advertisements, and at 
 every place her luck was the same. Either the posi 
 tions were filled before she got there, or the refusal to 
 refer to her previous employers lost her a chance to 
 work. Then she tried the stores again, in the hope of 
 finding some vacancy that had suddenly occurred. At 
 one of these the manager offered her a position, after a 
 few questions as to her competency, but h& did so in 
 such a way that there was no mistaking his purpose in
 
 212 PERDIDA. 
 
 giving her the place, and she left him with shame in 
 her face and rage in her heart. Hers was a gentle 
 soul, but there was that in the manner of the fellow 
 and in his looks when he glanced at her which made 
 her want to kill him, and she wished she were a man 
 that she might fall upon him then and there and beat 
 him with severity. 
 
 "O God!" she sobbed, as she passed into the street. 
 "Have pity on an unprotected woman, who only asks 
 to live as she should." 
 
 Footsore and worn out she again sought her lonely 
 dwelling-place, caring for nothing but seclusion and 
 rest. Yet she still had hope, for she knew that, once 
 permitted to prove her worth, she could hold a position. 
 Perhaps, after all, her experiences were not different 
 from those of others ; and Chicago is a very large place. 
 A few days would surely end the trial. There must be 
 room for just one more in such a big city. 
 
 When she awoke it was late, and she knew she had 
 slept a long time. As she began ,her dressing she 
 heard a timepiece in some house across the street strik 
 ing the hour, and, pausing to listen, counted the strokes. 
 It was nine o clock. She felt stronger after her rest 
 and less despondent than when she went to bed. The 
 day promised nothing and she felt it would be pleasant 
 to attend services in some church. How long it seemed 
 since she last entered a sanctuary. She decided that 
 she would spend the morning among the worshippers, 
 and hoped to get some encouragement from this closer 
 communion with God. Any church would do, for all 
 alike were strange to her. She felt that attendance at 
 service would put her in touch with the better life she 
 wanted to lead. 
 
 Having finished her toilet, she opened the door of her 
 room, turned the bedclothes over the footboard to air
 
 PERDIDA. 213 
 
 them, and then started to leave the house. Beside the 
 door- jamb stood a small pitcher. She took it up to re 
 move it to a safe distance from the door and noticed 
 that there was a piece of paper sticking through the 
 handle. Curiosity led her to glance at it, and, in doing 
 so, she saw that it bore a pencil scrawl which read as 
 follows : 
 
 "DEAR Miss: This milk is for you its good for you 
 drink a lot and beter luck nex time. 
 
 "FRIEND." 
 
 The expression of a regard so tender and a remem 
 brance so thoughtful moved her to tears, as she poured 
 the milk into a glass that stood upon her washstand. 
 There was nobody about whom she could thank, and it 
 was plain that the giver of this present had no wish to 
 be seen, for she could hear him splitting wood in the 
 cellar and singing in a lusty voice as he plied his ax; 
 so she drank the welcome draught and went out, bless 
 ing him for his goodness as she walked along. It was 
 probably a small matter to him, but it was worth much 
 to her to feel the touch of kindness that his thoughtful- 
 ness conveyed and her heart grew lighter at the recol 
 lection. 
 
 She felt that the milk alone was a sufficient break 
 fast, for the quantity had not been stinted, and that she 
 could get along until noon without spending anything 
 for food. Her money had dwindled down to a meager 
 allowance now, owing to car-fares that she was com 
 pelled to pay and the cost of her meals, and she realized 
 that, if the next two days did not bring work, she 
 would be penniless. But she resolutely put the thought 
 aside for the day, which she determined to spend as the 
 Sabbath should be spent. The church bells were ring 
 ing now, and she could distinguish several that called
 
 214 PERDIDA. 
 
 from various points farther on. But there were yet a 
 few minutes before the services would begin, so she 
 walked past two of the churches to use up the time and 
 at length selected a third. 
 
 It was a superb building, evidently one of the great 
 churches of the city, and, as she entered its doors, she 
 noted the splendor of its architecture and the richness 
 of its decorations. A gentleman who stood at the foot 
 of one of the aisles noticed her at once, and, perceiving 
 her to be a stranger, came to her and asked if he could 
 show her to a seat. She thanked him and followed his 
 lead, and was soon placed in a comfortable pew from 
 which she had an excellent opportunity to observe and 
 hear. She saw that it was a fashionable church she 
 had selected, and that many of the people who entered 
 were persons of wealth and station, but it mattered 
 little to her what kind of a church it was, since her 
 object in coming was only to once more mingle with 
 others in divine worship. The organ was playing now, 
 and its music soothed and comforted her, touching both 
 the religious and artistic sympathies of her nature, and 
 she began to feel a sense of peace, and a better state of 
 mind came upon her; and when the music at length 
 changed its character and the choir arose to sing, it 
 was with a feeling of renewed strength that she drank 
 in the words of the beautiful voice that spoke to her as 
 it spoke to few others of the congregation that day. 
 The singer was well trained and his enunciation was 
 distinct. There was also in his singing that sugges 
 tion of personal feeling which carries an emotional 
 motif in music as nothing else can, and Nellie felt, as 
 she listened, almost that he must be conscious of her 
 presence and know how much she yearned for the com 
 fort that his opening words conveyed to her aching 
 heart.
 
 PERDIDA. 215 
 
 "The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. 
 
 He maketh me to lie down in green pastures : He leadeth me 
 beside the still waters. 
 
 He restoreth my soul : He leadeth me in the paths of right 
 eousness fcr His name s sake. 
 
 "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of 
 death, I will fear no evil ; for Thou art with me ; thy rod and 
 thy staff they comfort me." 
 
 There are many of us mortals who have had occasion 
 to appreciate the strength and beauty of this psalm, 
 many with whom it has become indeed a means of com 
 fort and an uplift amid the trials of life; but I doubt 
 whether any of us who read these lines have ever been 
 in a position to feel them more deeply than the poor 
 girl who sat in the solitude of the crowd that day, and 
 took them to herself as her benison of peace. 
 
 She felt that, in turning her footsteps toward this 
 particular church, it must have been God himself who 
 had mysteriously led her on. 
 
 She had never been made familiar with the forms of 
 worship in the Episcopal church, but she had attended 
 with Sue Dodge when in New York, and to a girl of 
 her temperament they were very satisfying. It was, 
 therefore, with a sense of pleasure that she joined in 
 the responses and let herself become a part of the con 
 gregation in spirit as in fact. 
 
 During the services she had taken no notice of the 
 officiating clergyman and had given no thought to him. 
 But when tne time came for the sermon, it was with 
 astonishment in her eyes that she perceived the speaker 
 to be a man whom she had seen before, and with the 
 knowledge that it was the Rev. Frank Tatterton who 
 stood before her, all sense of comfort left her, and she 
 wished she had not come. It seemed a hard thing 
 that, just when she was beginning to forget, a reminder
 
 21G PERDIDA. 
 
 of the time that must be put aside forever should be 
 thus rudely thrust upon her to blight her peace of mind. 
 Yet her common-sense told her there was nothing about 
 Mr. Tatterton that need cause her alarm and that his 
 coming to Chicago was not at all strange, for churches 
 often change their preachers and clergymen often move 
 from one pulpit to another. Perhaps after all, he 
 might even be a second agent of kindness who would 
 bring her a comforting message. And in this surmise 
 she was correct, for Mr. Tatterton did deliver a most 
 eloquent and soothing discourse. She had not fancied 
 him when she heard him preach in New York, but, on 
 this new occasion, he seemed in a different mood and 
 had nothing of that style about him which, in her girl- 
 ishness, she had once called frivolous, sensational, and 
 worldly. Plainly Mr. Tatterton was a man of many 
 emotions and could discourse on many themes in 
 many ways. That he was a fine orator she had always 
 admitted, and she realized it now, as she felt each tell 
 ing sentence that fell from his lips and saw with what 
 force he made each point in his argument. 
 
 His theme was "Be ye therefore perfect," and his 
 treatment of the subject was masterly. He showed 
 how impossible it is for a mortal man to attain absolute 
 perfection, and why it is that God does not expect it of 
 him ; after which he went over the grounds of every 
 day life with care and clearly pointed out the obstacles 
 that stand in the way, and the means which should be 
 used to remove them ; and closing, pictured in eloquent 
 words the deathbed scene of an honest man who has 
 made it a point throughout his whole life to sincerely try 
 for that degree of perfection which can never be fully 
 reached on earth. Nellie felt better after the sermon 
 was finished, and something of her first sense of peace 
 returned, now that the shock of recognition had passed
 
 PERDIDA. 21? 
 
 off. But she dreaded to be seen by Mr. Tatterton, who 
 might know her, so she hastened away when the serv 
 ice was over, and going to a quiet restaurant, ate her 
 dinner. After this she took a long walk. 
 
 She went to bed that night in better spirits, for her 
 day had not been altogether a weariness, and the mem 
 ory of the music that comforted her was with her still.
 
 218 PBUDIDA. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 A WOMAN S HATRED. 
 
 MEANTIME events occurring in New York wrought 
 several changes in the lives of Nellie s friends. Mr. 
 Stein, as we already know, quarreled with Mr. Jad- 
 man and withdrew from the firm, going to Chicago 
 and taking Cora Wasson with him. Jadman s deal 
 ings with Nellie had something to do with his partner s 
 leaving, but they were not the only reasons. The truth 
 is, Stein had often contemplated the change, because he 
 felt that Jadman s conduct in many other matters was 
 of such a kind that longer association with him was 
 becoming dangerous; and the junior partner had no 
 desire to retain connection with one who he feared 
 might, sooner or later, involve himself in scandals, and 
 possibly in legal proceedings that would injure the repu 
 tation of the house. Again, the opportunity that had 
 opened in the West was good and promised an excellent 
 future, and Mr. Stein had ambition to be the head of a 
 business some day. So it was really a combination of 
 inducements that led him to separate from Jadman, 
 whom be had never liked, sometimes feared, and now 
 detested. 
 
 Cora was, therefore, no longer a member of Mrs. 
 Ferguson s household. She wrote occasionally to Sue, 
 bright, chatty letters that contained nothing in particu 
 lar, and sometimes referred to their lost friend in words 
 of kindness, but she never had any information to send, 
 and Sue felt that, like herself, she believed Nellie dead.
 
 PERDIDA. 219 
 
 Once she sent something that caused the elder woman 
 to wish that it had been she and not Cora who had 
 gone to the West. It was this : 
 
 I had a fright the other day. Just as I was pass 
 ing round a corner, I thought I saw Nellie Brown 
 walking ahead of me on the other side of the street. 
 For a moment I could have sworn it was she, the same 
 beautiful golden hair, the same lovely figure and grace 
 ful walk. I was tempted to follow, but, on second 
 thought, remembered how absurd it would be, so did 
 not do it. Wasn t it singular?" 
 
 "Yes," thought Sue to herself; "and if it had been I 
 who saw that woman, I would have followed her to the 
 ends of the earth, until my doubts were satisfied. But 
 then, it is, of course, as Cora says, absurd. Poor dear 
 little Nell!" 
 
 Not long after the time of Cora s departure, Mr. Sap- 
 pleigh was called home by his father to attend the funeral 
 of his stepmother. The lady died very suddenly. Mr. 
 Sappleigh, of course, realized that there had never been 
 anything but unhappiness in his father s second mar 
 riage, and that it was not the good husband wno had 
 been to blame for it. But he understood how lonesome 
 his father would be living by himself in the family 
 mansion, so he went to him for a season. But life in a 
 twenty-room house is hardly an ideal life for two men; 
 and both father and son, after trying it awhile, decided 
 to close the place and live in some other way. 
 
 "We can t change our habits with comfort, Lispen- 
 ard," said the old man, "so my suggestion is that we 
 resume our club meetings and each sleep where he 
 pleases. Of course you will want to go back to Mrs. 
 Ferguson s. I suppose it s a good place, but I m get-
 
 220 PERDIDA. 
 
 ting so set that I think I ll do better at the clubhouse. 
 There are very good rooms there." 
 
 So the house was closed and left with caretakers, 
 and father and son resumed their former ways of life. 
 
 One night Mr. Sappleigh met his father at dinner 
 and was surprised to perceive that he was anxious about 
 something. 
 
 "What s up, Pop?" said he. "There scare on your 
 mind." 
 
 "Only this, Lispenard," replied the elder. "I ve 
 just been compelled to discharge Dilleck, and it s dis 
 agreeable after trusting him so long. He s dishonest." 
 
 "That surprises me," said Mr. Sappleigh. "I never 
 would have suspected him. What has he been doing?" 
 
 "I don t altogether know," said Sappleigh senior. 
 "I suspect he s been playing the races. He hasn t 
 taken much, but I can t trust him any longer. I don t 
 know how to get another private secretary. I must 
 have somebody who is honest and bright and careful 
 and who can keep his mouth shut; not the easiest com 
 bination to make. Every young man is not fitted for 
 the job." 
 
 Sappleigh thought a moment. He had an idea; and, 
 as he weighed it, it somehow grew immensely. After 
 a time he was ready to unload it. 
 
 "See here, Pater," said he, "why don t you try a 
 woman? Generally they are more honest than men, 
 and some of them have all the qualities you ask." 
 
 "I ve no objection to women workers," replied Sap 
 pleigh senior, "and what you say of them is correct. 
 But I d have to get one that was well-equipped and 
 was not too young." 
 
 "Would something about thirty or so do?" 
 
 "Yes, she ought to have sense at that age, if she is 
 ever going to."
 
 PERDIDA. 221 
 
 "Well, Pater, I can help you. I ve got the right 
 woman in mind now." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Miss Dodge." 
 
 "But would she leave Jadman? She has been there 
 a long time. Probably he treats her decently. She 
 must be valuable, or she would not hold the place she 
 has year after year." 
 
 "I cannot say about that, Pater, ; replied Mr. Sap- 
 pleigh. "But I m inclined to think she would like to 
 change. She has no love for Jadman, that I know." 
 
 "Then ask her to call on me," said Sappleigh senior. 
 "I remember meeting her that night you took me to 
 call, when we tried so hard to get your sweet young 
 friend out of danger. I shall never cease to blame my 
 self for not beating Jadman that time. Yes; it s a 
 good idea. Miss Dodge would do. Do you happen to 
 know what her salary is?" 
 
 "Eighteen dollars." 
 
 "Then tell her I ll pay twenty-five to the right party. 
 Jadman shan t beat me this time. And do it to mor 
 row. I ve a lot of accounts that must be gone over at 
 once." 
 
 The result of this conference was that Mr. Sappleigh 
 went to Sue, with a beaming face and full of the hap 
 piness that a sense of benefiting a friend gives, and 
 urged her to accept the position tendered by his father. 
 There was a look of gratitude in the woman s eyes as 
 she listened to what he said, and she promised to call 
 upon his father at noon the next day. True to the 
 minute, she kept this engagement; and it was not long 
 before Sappleigh senior recognized the worth of her 
 services and the quality of her character, and could 
 understand why it was that his son admired her. She 
 was plainly anxious to make the suggested change, yet 
 had some reason for wishing time.
 
 222 PERDIDA. 
 
 "I am thankful to yon, Mr. Sappleigh," she said, 
 "and assure you I appreciate the benefits of what you 
 offer me. One who was moiled over the books of a de 
 partment store for years realizes what a relief it will be 
 to take up lines of this kind. Give me time to see Mr. 
 Jadman and arrange to leave him, and I will be happy 
 to come and serve you here." 
 
 She left him much pleased with what he had done 
 and almost willing to forgive Jadman the defeat he 
 had suffered at his hands. 
 
 Later in the day she informed her employer of her 
 wish to accept another position that had been offered 
 her. He eyed her a moment and said : 
 
 "Suppose I forbid it." 
 
 The woman colored and anger showed in her face as 
 she replied : 
 
 "I think, Mr. Jadman, that this time I will not 
 obey. Something tells me it is now or never. I wish 
 to leave your employment, and the opening has come 
 for it at no solicitation of mine. I am going to make 
 the change." 
 
 "You would not dare to," said he. 
 
 A pallor spread over her countenance, but her reply 
 was steady, as with scornful lips she said : 
 
 "Mr. Jadman, listen tome. For several weary years 
 you have held me in your hateful presence by a bondage 
 that I feared to break. And yet, to-day, I have no 
 dread of it; for I am convinced that you dare not do 
 what you have so often threatened. I believe you are 
 too great a coward. Of course you will do as you see 
 fit, and I know you would not hesitate to injure me, if 
 you could do it safely. I have not forgotten how, 
 when I repulsed you with disgust, years ago, you tried 
 to make use of knowledge you had stolen to keep me 
 near you that YOU mieht eloat over my unhappiness;
 
 PEEDIDA. 223 
 
 but I now believe that I have been in error in thinking 
 you would dare do what you threaten. And even if 
 you should so far forget yourself, remember I am not 
 wholly friendless, and it might be a man, not a weak 
 woman, whom you would have to face. Oh, yes, Mr. 
 Jadrnan, I see that has a different look. You may do 
 as you please now ; but remember, if you do it, I shall 
 certainly make it a point to tell what I know about the 
 fate of poor Nellie Brown, and to tell it to the man who 
 loves not only her but myself also. Now do your 
 worst. I defy you. I wish that I had done it years 
 ago." 
 
 Without waiting for a reply she handed him the keys 
 of her desk and turned from his presence. Then she 
 put on her hat and cloak, and after spending some time 
 going about among the clerks to bid them good-by, left 
 the store. Those who knew her liked her well, and it 
 was a sincere good will that she carried with her as she 
 parted from her friends. She made no haste at leaving 
 and enjoyed the sense of elation with which she stepped 
 from this person to that to tell of her changed posi 
 tion and exchange the farewell clasp of hands. The 
 next morning saw her busy at another desk and deep in 
 the intricacies of old Mr. Sappleigh s rather carelessly 
 kept accounts, for he had been trying to straighten 
 things a little, and being somewhat rusty at that kind 
 of work had stewed himself into a bad state of mind. 
 
 In a week s time affairs were running so smoothly 
 that when the elder Sappleigh met his son, one day, 
 he felt constrained to remark with vigor : 
 
 "By Jove! Lispenard, she s a treasure! Just think 
 what Jadman has lost and I have gained. I don t 
 wonder at your admiration. Why, do you know, if I 
 were younger, or she older but that s rather silly for 
 an old fellow like me. It s a good thing, isn t it? To
 
 224 PERDIDA. 
 
 think of such a woman toiling over the pin and needle 
 accounts of a dry goods house from early morn to .dark 
 makes me tired. I wonder how she could have man 
 aged to keep so good-looking with such confinement. 
 At first I thought her rather gloomy, but she isn t. 
 She is sunshine in the office and everybody swears by 
 her. It s a great hit." 
 
 It certainly was "a great hit," for the sad and lonely 
 Sue; she realized it and life looked brighter from that 
 day on. The sense of release from what had been a 
 bondage to a nameless dread was also very good, and 
 she felt that at last she was really a free woman. 
 
 But in one thing she had made a mistake. Her 
 enemy was bolder than she thought. It often happens 
 that men who are cautious in most things when goaded 
 by a desire for revenge will venture far beyond the line 
 of prudence. Jadman had always abused Sue. From 
 the day she detected his intentions toward herself and 
 sternly repelled his advances he had hated her, and 
 having it in his power to make her suffer, he used his 
 opportunities without mercy. The sense that she was 
 in a way his slave, if not his victim, pleased him and 
 fed the base passion of his cruel nature with pleasant 
 food. He could humble her, he could make her wince, 
 he could threaten her with terrors, proud and defiant 
 though she was, and it did him good to dwell upon the 
 fact. So whenever she thought of leaving he refused 
 to let her go and held before her eyes the punishment 
 that was in reserve for disobedience. It made her life 
 a purgatory and with an almost demoniac delight he 
 witnessed her suffering when it was his pleasure so to 
 do. Now she had at last defied him and carried out 
 her defiance by an overt act and the result on his part 
 was a defiance of the ordinary rules of caution. And 
 yet his plan was well laid.
 
 PERDIDA. 225 
 
 Sue had been with Mr. Sappleigh s father several 
 weeks when it happened one afternoon that her em 
 ployer entered the private office while she was at work 
 and said : 
 
 "Miss Dodge, I wish to speak with you a few min 
 utes. Kindly lay aside your work and listen." 
 
 She did as he requested, and gavj him her attention. 
 
 "Yes, sir," she said. 
 
 He paused a minute, standing by the mantel that 
 was corbelled out above an open fireplace, and looking 
 her kindly in the face, addressed her : 
 
 "How long is it since you came here, Miss Dodge?" 
 
 "Nearly four months." 
 
 "And have I, during that time, proved a just and 
 fair taskmaster? Don t fear to speak your mind." 
 
 "Indeed you have, Mr. Sappleigh. What should 
 cause you to think I have other thoughts of you?" 
 
 "Nothing. I knew you would say that. Now, dur 
 ing that time have I ever taken occasion to find fault 
 with you?" 
 
 "No, sir; I cannot remember an instance." 
 
 "And I have always treated you with the courtesy 
 due a woman from a man?" 
 
 "Certainly you have, Mr. Sappleigh. How strangely 
 you talk." 
 
 "Just like a woman. When a man asks a question 
 she adds something to the reply that has nothing to do 
 with it. Let me proceed. Miss Dodge, what do you 
 say a man should do if some one told him disagreeable 
 things about a friend?" 
 
 "I should say he ought to go to the friend and get 
 the truth." 
 
 "That s right. Now, suppose, instead of telling 
 these things, some one should send him an open letter 
 that it would injure that friend to have read?"
 
 226 PERDIDA. 
 
 "I cannot answer that question as I did the other. 
 But I think he ought to use discretion and kindness in 
 considering the matter. 
 
 "That s what I think, Miss Dodge. I have received 
 such a letter. From whom would you imagine it has 
 come?" 
 
 "It would be impossible for me to guess, Mr. Sap- 
 pleigh ; I have had charge of your correspondence too 
 short a time." 
 
 "Well, Miss Dodge, the letter is sent me by Mr. 
 Jadman, with a request that I read it." 
 
 She knew it now, and realized tbat her persecutions 
 were not ended. But the thought of her enemy and his 
 cruel purpose gave her strength. For a minute she 
 hesitated; then, gathering courage, she arose from her 
 seat and standing before Mr. Sappleigh, looked him in 
 the face and said : 
 
 "Have you read it?" 
 
 "No," he replied, "I have not. What shall I do?" 
 
 "You may read it, Mr. Sappleigh," she said. "It 
 may be just as well you should." 
 
 "Thank you," said he. "You have taken a load off 
 my mind. Could you kindly get me a match from 
 your desk. I would like to light a cigar." 
 
 Sue did as he suggested. Taking the match from 
 her, ho applied the necessary fire to his cigar; and 
 drawing a letter from his pocket, he held it above the 
 still burning wood and let it touch the flame. Sue 
 watched him in silence. When the letter was burning 
 well, he laid it upon the hearth of the fireplace and 
 fixed his attention upon it until nothing was left of it 
 but the ashes. Then turning about, he moved closer to 
 the still motionless woman and, looking straight into 
 her eyes, he said : 
 
 "I am very much obliged to you for your help. Sup-
 
 PEED ID A. 227 
 
 pose we get to work on the accounts that we did not 
 finish when we closed up yesterday. I feel ready for 
 business now. And, by the bye, it is not necessary to 
 mention that little matter again/ 
 
 They worked along down the columns as they had 
 done every day since the beginning of Sue s service, 
 and nothing was said excepting business talk ; but the 
 old gentleman noted, for he was keen, that there was a 
 flush of excitement upon the woman s cheek and a sug 
 gestion of happiness in her soft gray eyes, that he had 
 never noticed before, and it did him good to see it. 
 
 She did indeed feel happier than she had felt for 
 many a day. And yet, as night came on and she 
 sought her room, another feeling grew upon her that 
 could not be suppressed, a feeling of hatred so intense 
 that she became at heart a murderess, and would at 
 the moment have had no hesitation about taking the 
 life of the man who sought to destroy her last chance of 
 peace. She felt that she wanted to kill him, so strong 
 became this desire for an avengement of the wrongs she 
 had suffered and those she had witnessed in the suffer 
 ings of others. With the recollection of her years of 
 pain ar d self-abasement and persecution, and with the 
 remembrance of the fate of Nellie, her friend, and of 
 others whom she had seen go down before this man, 
 while he went free, unpunished, he seemed to her a 
 devil whom it would be only right to cast back into 
 the place of evil whence he had come, and that the per 
 son who would put him out of the way would be a 
 benefactor of the race. Nor, despite her gratitude to 
 the manly old gentleman whose kindness could not be 
 marred by malice, and whose sense of justice was too 
 fine to question the character of one he trusted on honor, 
 could she rid herself of this desire to take the life of the 
 villain she abhorred ; and it was often, in after days,
 
 228 PERDIDA. 
 
 that she felt as she did this night. The desire to see 
 Jadman dead never left her. 
 
 Lispenard, " said old Mr. Sappleigh, as they sat 
 over their wine after dinner, "do you know that man 
 Jadman is the meanest scoundrel that ever went un 
 hanged. Never mind why I think so; it s so. Mark 
 my words; he ll be found dead some day. I said so 
 once before, because I felt it, but I say it now because 
 I know it. It s sure to happen." 
 
 Next day old Mr. Sappleigh dictated the following 
 letter to one of his office stenographers : 
 
 "MR. SAMUEL JADMAN. 
 
 "DEAR SIR: Your letter and inclosure received yes 
 terday. Thanks. Have read the first. Burned the 
 second without reading it. 
 
 " Yours sincerely, 
 
 "JOHN SAPPLEIGH. 
 "perM. B."
 
 PERDIDA. 229 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A LESSON IN EXPERIENCE. 
 
 WHEN Nellie again started upon her quest for work, 
 it was with a belief that the next Sabbath would find 
 her established. She carried with her the memory of 
 the psalm that had done her so much good and a recol 
 lection of the sermon that had strengthened her, and 
 hope led her on as she pursued her way into the busy 
 parts of the city. The little pitcher of milk was again 
 at her door, this time with no message to explain its 
 presence, and she drank the welcome draught with a 
 feeling of gratitude to the kind old man whose thought- 
 fulness was so practical and so unpretentious. She 
 had made it a point, the night before, to find the fat 
 woman and to ask her to thank her husband. The 
 woman smiled upon her with her big round eyes, as she 
 replied that "it was all right" and she "guessed it 
 couldn t harm nobody to get a fill of milk before taking 
 a tramp in town." 
 
 "Me and John don t never count it much to help an 
 honest girl along," she said. "Jest don t say nothing 
 about it to him. He d like it better that way." 
 
 The good-will of the woman and her husband cheered 
 the lonely girl and helped to keep up her courage. She 
 resolved that, when she once got on her feet again, 
 these old people should not lose sight of her, and that 
 she would endeavor to reward them for their generos 
 ity. She had not expected to find friends among per 
 sons so poor and lowly, and it pleased her to discover
 
 230 PERDIDA. 
 
 such evidence of true Christian charity where she least 
 sought it. Ignorant Nell ; not to understand that it is 
 most often among those who struggle daily for a bare 
 subsistence, that the milk of human kindness is a free 
 gift for which no payment is expected. 
 
 She spent the morning in a fruitless hunt for a posi 
 tion. Several men upon whom she called detained her 
 a long time, only to inform her when she stated her 
 errand, that they had no need of "her services; others 
 who wanted help demanded letters of recommendation 
 from her previous employers ; and one told her frankly 
 that he liked, her looks, but would rather have a young 
 man, if he could get him, and asked her to call again. 
 It was disheartening, but she persevered, and after tak 
 ing a little nourishment, started off once more, to see 
 what the afternoon would yield. But her luck was no 
 better than before ; and she went back to her lodging, 
 at night, tired and anxious and full of trouble. 
 
 She bought an evening .newspaper on the way and 
 before retiring read over its advertisements in the hope 
 of finding something that would encourage her. There 
 were no calls for stenographers, but there were demands 
 for services of other kinds. It occurred to her that, if 
 she could not get work at her special trade, she might 
 perhaps get a chance at some other, so she studied the 
 advertisements with care, and finally selected several 
 that called for housemaids. 
 
 "I know I can do that kind of work," she said, "for 
 housekeeping is one of my best points. Auntie always 
 admitted that. Oh, auntie!" she cried at the recollec 
 tion the reminder brought, "How could you be so 
 cruel!" 
 
 Early in the morning she called at the house of one 
 of the ladies who advertised for a maid. A kitchen 
 servant opened the door and showed her into the par-
 
 PERDIDA. 231 
 
 lor, after which she disappeared. It was some time 
 before the lady of the house came in, and asked Nellie 
 to explain her errand, for the kitchen girl, with that 
 nonchalance which marks the typical cook, merely in 
 formed her that "there was a lady in the parlor as 
 wanted to see her," and then went back to her pots, 
 with resentment in her heart at the thought that she 
 should be expected to tend door, "when it wasn t her 
 place at all." 
 
 "I have called," said Nellie, "in answer to this ad 
 vertisement. I am out of work, and would try to serve 
 you well." 
 
 The lady noted the elegance of her manner and, with 
 a skilled intuition that took in every detail of her dress 
 and the beauty of her face, perceived at once that this 
 was no ordinary housemaid. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "I need an upstairs maid. But I 
 was not expecting any person of your style to call. 
 Have you ever been at service before?" 
 
 "No," replied Nellie (she did not think to use the 
 appendixious "mum," in fact she did not know 
 enough), "I have been a stenographer. But I cannot 
 find an opening just now, and, being in need, will be 
 glad to work at anything." 
 
 "I should think you d find it easy enough to get a 
 place if you are competent," said the lady. 
 
 "It would seem so," Nellie replied, "but I find it 
 very difficult." 
 
 "Well," said the lady; "of course you might try 
 it here, but I m afraid you would not suit me. To be 
 frank with you, you seem altogether too fine. I would 
 not know just how to address you. And yet," she 
 added thoughtfully, "why not? It is honest work. I 
 will make you a proposition. If I do not get just what 
 I want in a week, I will try you, if you call then. Of
 
 232 PEEDIDA. 
 
 course, you will not object to sharing a room and bed 
 with my cook? Our house is not very large. " 
 
 Nellie thought of the slovenly, ill-smelling woman 
 who had let her in ; but she was in no position to be 
 dainty. She replied that she would be willing to try 
 the work, and, with the understanding that she was to 
 call again in a week, left the house. 
 
 But she had no intention of waiting a week before 
 getting employment, and, in half an hour, was ringing 
 at another door bell. It was the lady of the house who 
 answered the summons. Nellie stated her object in 
 calling. The woman began to laugh. 
 
 " Why, good gracious!" said she with perfect good 
 humor, and not the slightest apparent wish to hurt her 
 caller s feelings. "It would never do in the world to 
 have you here, Miss. I should have no end of trouble. 
 You re too awfully pretty." 
 
 Nellie was perplexed, but she could not help smiling 
 at the woman s words as she asked her what difference 
 that could make. 
 
 "The greatest of differences," said she. "I m a 
 comfortable person, and I like peace. I ve got a hus 
 band who is built so that he wouldn t be able to keep 
 from flirting with you, no matter what I did or you 
 tried not to do. You see, I m perfectly frank with 
 you. It s the truth. And then," she added quietly, 
 "you aren t really a housemaid at all." 
 
 "No," said Nellie, "I am not. I m a stenographer, 
 and cannot get work just now, so am willing to take 
 anything. 
 
 "That is hard," said the woman with kindness in her 
 eyes. "And I sincerely hope you ll have better luck 
 soon. But take my advice. Don t try to be a house 
 maid, for it certainly is not in your line. And with 
 such hair, too!" she added admiringly, "and such a
 
 PERDIDA. 233 
 
 face and figure ! Why, my dear, if I was as handsome 
 as you, I d get a rich husband before I went begging 
 for work. I ve had three myself, and I m positively 
 plain too." 
 
 "You must have experienced some sad losses, " said 
 Nellie, scarcely knowing what she ought to say to a 
 woman who had buried two husbands, and was still 
 young and comely. 
 
 "Oh, no; nothing very sad about it," said the woman 
 laughing. "None of my previouses are unhappy. In 
 fact both have made new alliances and seem very well 
 pleased. Of course I can t predict when they will be 
 gin to fret and want new divorces; people are so pecu 
 liar that you never know them, even after you have 
 lived with them." 
 
 The thought that this woman, who seemed a lady in 
 her feelings and was apparently sensible and kind, 
 could speak so lightly of her past, and could even tell 
 it without a blush, caused Nellie much uneasiness, and 
 it seemed to her that the sooner she got away the better 
 it would be. So she hastily departed, realizing that 
 there were things in life of which she had yet not 
 learned much. Divorce, in her mind, was little better 
 than crime; yet this woman, who had been divorced 
 twice, was married for a third time, and seemed to 
 think it a matter of no consequence. Nellie was glad 
 she had not engaged with her. 
 
 It was midday now, and she was hungry, but her 
 money was almost gone, and she did not dare to spend 
 even the price of a lunch. So she drank some water at 
 a public fountain, and seated herself in a park to rest 
 awhile. She was very tired, and was faint from lack 
 of food, for she had taken nothing since she arose but 
 the milk the kind old man had given her in the morn 
 ing.
 
 234 PERDIDA. 
 
 She sat there a long time, wondering what she should 
 do. Her courage, which had been unflagging until 
 now, had left her, and a sense of despair began to fill 
 her heart. Could it be possible, she thought, that an 
 honest, sincere and capable girl, who asks nothing of 
 the world but a chance to earn her living, would be 
 denied the privilege of accepting with gratitude the 
 curse of Adam, "In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat 
 bread," that with no taint of guilt upon her, she must 
 submit, like a criminal to the fate of Cain and become 
 "a fugitive and a vagabond in the earth," and that it 
 would come to pass that every one who findeth her 
 should slay her? It seemed too unlike anything of 
 which she could conceive to be true. Yet it was very 
 plain that within the next twenty -four hours her only 
 shelter would be the sky, and her only food tho beggar s 
 dole. Surely there would soon be light. Such dark 
 ness could not last. And then she prayed ; prayed as 
 she had never prayed before, throwing herself on Jesus, 
 as she sat alone, apart from the people who were mov 
 ing to and fro about the place. She was only a pretty 
 girl resting after a tour among the shops, they thought, 
 as they passed and saw her sitting there with her chin 
 upon her hand and her satchel by her side. Nothing 
 told them that she was hungry and tired and suffering, 
 that here was an opportunity to do God s work and save 
 a fellow-mortal from destruction. Had she been ragged 
 and woebegone in manner, had she cried aloud or 
 moaned in her distress, they would have taken interest 
 in her and someone of them would probably have made 
 it his business to lend a helping hand. But silent 
 grief and well-dressed poverty alike pursue their way 
 alone. We have ears only for noise, and eyes that see 
 naught but what lies on the surface; and so weak do 
 the natural instincts become under our system of de-
 
 PERDIDA. 335 
 
 velopment that while esteeming ourselves the shrewd 
 est of peoples, we yet learn nothing beyond the ken of 
 the five senses after all. Of the hundreds that noticed 
 the solitary girl that day, not one perceived the truth. 
 Yet a minute s keen attention would have told a 
 thoughtful person of her need. She wanted help, not 
 much, a mere lift that would cost nothing would suffice, 
 and there was no help. 
 
 It was three o clock when she resumed her tramp 
 among the stores. She had now abandoned the idea of 
 becoming a housemaid and would try to get- work at 
 her trade. Her luck was no better. Everybody seemed 
 to have all the help that was needed. She began to 
 realize that Chicago, like New York, is a very popu 
 lous city, and that the workers there, as in the other 
 town, far outnumber the subdivisions of the work. 
 She also perceived how difficult it is to get a chance to 
 labor unless one has the good-will of some one else, 
 and the thought that she had no references troubled her 
 and filled her with a sense of injustice, for she under 
 stood that she was entitled to the credit of her previous 
 services. But an impassable gulf lay between her 
 rightful credit and her right to use it. 
 
 As she passed along a crowded thoroughfare, she sud 
 denly recognized a face, and terror seized her, as she 
 quickly turned away lest she, too, should be seen. It 
 was the face of Mr. Stein that had appeared among 
 others in the crowd. He must not see her; anything 
 but that ; and yet he was possibly the one person who 
 could have helped her. She thought of this, too, but 
 with the sight of him came the remembrance of another 
 man, and she hurried on in the opposite direction lest 
 he should meet her again. She was very miserable 
 and her strength was failing, for she was still without 
 food.
 
 236 PERDIDA. 
 
 It was six o clock when she at last gave up trying, 
 and, utterly exhausted, turned back. She had just 
 forty cents left, and the question was whether to pay 
 for another night s lodging or buy food. Of course she 
 could ask the kind woman to trust her one day; some 
 thing told her the favor would be granted; and she was 
 so hungry and faint that it seemed she could never 
 walk to her lodging without refreshment. She felt 
 that she must eat or she would perish. She stopped 
 irresolute before a small cafe and gazed at the food 
 upon the counters with a feeling that none but the 
 starving know. At this moment a fine-looking, well- 
 dressed woman joined her, and, addressing her politely 
 said: 
 
 "Pardon me for speaking to you, Miss, but some 
 thing tells me you are in trouble. I have a good eye 
 for faces, and yours shows care and worry. I don t 
 mean to be an intruder, but your manner interested me 
 so that I felt I must at least speak to you. And I m 
 old enough to be your mother, so please do not be 
 offended." 
 
 Nellie looked at the woman. She was comely, stout 
 and rosy-faced. Her eyes were a very dark brown and 
 were bright and intelligent. Her attire was rich and 
 costly and there were perhaps too many jewels on her 
 person for good taste ; but she seemed sincere and her 
 manner was kind. The girl s heart yearned for sym 
 pathy. 
 
 "Yes," she replied, "I am in trouble. To be frank 
 with you, I am almost starved and have no money. I 
 am a stenographer out of work and a stranger in the 
 city, and have spent almost the last cent that I had, 
 while trying to get a position. To-night I am in de 
 spair." 
 
 "That is very sad," said the woman, "and you are
 
 PERDIDA. 237 
 
 so young too. Please do not feel hurt, but would you 
 be willing to join me in a supper. I was about to go 
 in alone. It would make me very happy; and some 
 day you can return the compliment. Please accept." 
 
 The tears sprang to the girl s eyes as she thanked 
 this stranger and followed her into the cafe. There 
 were not many persons there just then, it being early in 
 the evening, so they found a quiet corner where con 
 versation was possible without interference. 
 
 "Let me fix it all," said the woman as she removed 
 her gloves. "I want you to eat all you can. And I m 
 hungry myself." 
 
 She ordered a supper that seemed to Nellie the finest 
 she had ever tasted, and pressed the viands upon her 
 guest with a cordiality that was grateful to the hungry 
 girl. 
 
 "Don t let s hurry;" said the woman, "eat until you 
 feel strong and then we ll talk." 
 
 After a time appetite was satisfied, and the woman 
 ordered ices and coffee. Then she began to ask questions 
 and, in a ladylike manner that was not offensive, drew 
 from the girl the story of her attempts to get work and 
 her trials since she left the hospital. She did not ask 
 Nellie how she came to fall ill, and seemed very sen 
 sitive about prying into her affairs, but confined the 
 talk to the employment question and made her feel that 
 her interest had in it no idle curiosity. It was not long 
 before she learned that Nellie was an orphan without 
 friends in Chicago and alone, and that she was depend 
 ent wholly upon herself for a living. She seemed 
 much interested in these points and asked her several 
 times if there were no people of her own to whom she 
 could apply for aid. 
 
 Nellie told her she had no one to whom to go, and 
 that she had lost even the few friends she once had.
 
 238 PERDIDA. 
 
 The woman spoke with sympathy in her tones, as she 
 asked her where she had been staying, and, when in 
 formed of the trials of the past days, seemed much 
 affected hy the homeless condition of the girl. 
 
 "But you must not be downcast," she said encourag 
 ingly. "Things won t always run that way. You 
 will soon get work, and then I shall expect to meet you 
 again and have you treat me to dinner. I was think 
 ing," she continued, "whether you would be offended 
 if I offered to entertain you overnight at my house. I 
 live very quietly, have no husband, and there is nobody 
 in the place but the girls." 
 
 "Has your husband been dead long?" said Nellie. 
 
 "Fifteen years, dear," replied the woman. "I shall 
 never marry again. I don t believe in second mar 
 riages." 
 
 "Then you have been alone a long time." 
 
 "Yes, indeed, pretty much alone. But I manage to 
 keep busy, and do about as I please. Isn t it strange I 
 should have spoken to you to-night the way I did? I 
 seldom accost strangers." 
 
 "It was very thoughtful and kind, and you can never 
 know how grateful I am to you, not only for the supper 
 which I sorely needed, but for the generous thought 
 that moved you to address a stranger in whom you 
 could not have any possible interest." 
 
 "Oh, that s all right," replied the woman. " Help 
 a worn and weary brother, pulling hard against the 
 stream. That s what the old song says, you know, 
 and I don t see why it can t be a sister too, or a daugh 
 ter, or a grandmother for that matter. But what do 
 you say to spending the night with me? I don t like 
 the idea of your going alone through that neighborhood 
 where your lodging is, and, to tell the truth, I m afraid 
 to go there with you at this hour, though it may be 
 safe enough."
 
 PEBDIDA. 239 
 
 Nellie had not thought how late -it was; hut now she 
 remembered what the fat woman had said to her about 
 always asking her husband to accompany her if she 
 went out after dark, and she began to feel timid. 
 
 "I m afraid myself," she said. "It is a bad section 
 and not agreeable after nightfall." 
 
 "Then come home with me," said the woman. 
 "That makes me think. How careless I am. I never 
 told you my name. I am Mrs. Ralston." 
 
 "Well," replied Nellie, "I have been just as rude 
 myself, for I have not told you mine. It is a very 
 plain name, Nellie Brown." 
 
 "That is indeed a plain name," said the woman. 
 "But it s a good one, and I like Nellie. You can 
 change the other, some day, you see," she added smil 
 ing. 
 
 Nellie did not reply to this pleasantry, but it re 
 minded her of the fact that she was likely to remain 
 plain Brown the rest of her life. 
 
 "Let s go," said Mrs. Ralston. "It will please me 
 very much to keep you overnight. Really, dear, I 
 have learned to like you already, and shall hope to see 
 you again. Possibly, too, I may be able to help you to 
 a living, for I know a good many people and have some 
 influence with business men. It s an informal intro 
 duction that we ve had, I know ; but bless your heart, 
 why should that stand between us? Please accept the 
 hospitality of my home." 
 
 Nellie thanked her and said she would go; and to 
 gether they left the place. 
 
 After a short walk through the brilliantly lighted 
 thoroughfare, Mrs. Ralston led the girl into one of the 
 cjoss-streets and brought her to a quiet-looking house 
 that stood in a row. They ascended the high stoop, 
 and Mrs. Ralston opened the door with her latchkey 
 and entered, Nellie following.
 
 240 PERDIDA. 
 
 "This way, dear, - she said, leading up the stairs to 
 the floor above and through the hall to a rear apart 
 ment. "Everything is quiet to-night, and you can get 
 a good rest. Let me help you with your clothes. You 
 really are very tired," she continued, noticing how the 
 girl s weariness and exhaustion had worn upon her, 
 "and the sooner you get to bed the better it will be. 
 Let me tuck you up good. There. Now sleep well. 
 I ll see you in the morning, and we can get better ac 
 quainted. This dress of yours needs dusting off," she 
 added, as she picked up the garment. "I ll take it 
 down to Kate and send it up before breakfast. Good 
 night." 
 
 "Good-night," said Nellie, as the woman departed 
 with her dress on her arm, "and thank you very much 
 indeed." 
 
 The girl really was worn-out; and, as her head sank 
 among the pillows she felt that sleep, just then, was 
 best of all. She wondered vaguely how it came to pass 
 that Providence had sent a friend to her literally 
 from the streets, but she was too sleepy to think con 
 nectedly and a drowsiness fell upon her almost ere she 
 realized that it was coming. She must have slept an 
 hour or more she could only guess when she became 
 sensible of a presence in the room. After that her re 
 membrance was a nightmare of horrors that she never 
 could analyze; and when, next day, she awoke to full 
 consciousness, after a sleep of utter exhaustion, it was 
 with a realization of the fact that the gates of hell had 
 closed upon her, and that it would be useless ever again 
 to try to struggle upward toward the light. 
 
 " Usus magister optimus." Yes, in the sense that a 
 definite thing learned by personal experience, is a thing 
 thoroughly taught; but is it not also an important part 
 of education to learn that "the first step toward useful 
 knowledge is to be able to detect falsehood?"
 
 PERDIDA. 
 
 There is that in faith which demands that it shall be 
 entire, unquestioning, absolute. "What we believe, we 
 must believe wholly and without reserve." The faith 
 that Nellie Brown had hitherto placed in God was of 
 this character. She never in her life had questioned 
 the goodness, the justice or the mercy of her Creator. 
 Throughout the trials that had been upon her so long, 
 she never once departed from her faith in the power of 
 her Heavenly Father to still protect and save her from 
 harm. But now, for the first time, she began to feel 
 that He had abandoned her and to doubt His kindness 
 and His care for those who trusted in Him ; and with this 
 feeling there came a sense of wrong and a resentment 
 that was deep and bitter. She thought of the text of 
 the sermon she had found so strengthening only a few 
 days before, and wondered how anybody could expect her 
 to obey the injunction, "Be ye therefore perfect," when 
 God was willing to cast her into a pit of iniquity where 
 even decency was impossible; she recalled the words of 
 the psalm, "I will fear no evil; for thou art with me: 
 thy rod and thy staff they comfort me, but found no 
 rod upon which to lean and nothing from which to 
 draw comfort in her present need ; and, as she dwelt 
 upon all that had befallen her since she left her child 
 hood s home, and saw how cruelly she had been be 
 trayed at every step of the way, her heart grew wrath 
 ful toward her God and she wanted to curse him, and 
 her faith, that until now was absolute, became a confu 
 sion of doubts and fears and perplexities. And yet she 
 still believed in God, and there was that in herself 
 which could not deny His existence. When a human 
 soul arrives at this stage of its journey toward eternity, 
 its condition is most pitiful. Yet behind it lies a de 
 mand for justice that may not be denied. Its feelings 
 are therefore entitled to the greatest consideration; and
 
 242 PERDIDA. 
 
 should it find itself unable ever again to regain its for 
 mer faith, it is not becoming in us happier mortals to 
 assume to judge its worth, or to fix the standard of its 
 value in the sight of God. 
 
 Brave, patient, honest, trustful Nell; it was indeed a 
 chain of cruel and pitiless events that followed on her 
 venturing from the shelter of her country home. And 
 yet how natural they were, how simple were the hap 
 penings that, step by step, with each advancing day of 
 innocent endeavor, defeated every effort that she made. 
 No criminal fleeing from his just deserts was ever more 
 relentlessly pursued, more harshly hunted down. And 
 she was sinless, while the criminal is not. It is the 
 contemplation of such inequities as this that often 
 turns the mind upon itself and sets it marveling at the 
 thing we men call justice, scarce knowing what we 
 mean by the conception. "And then," we say, "it 
 happens every day. We can t stop it. Everybody 
 must learn to take care of himself. Am I my broth 
 er s keeper?" 
 
 The tawdry, garish fittings of the room, now that the 
 sunlight filled it and brought its furnishings out with 
 distinctness, jarred on the nerves of the sensitive girl, 
 as she inspected her prison. They were of no conse 
 quence to her, but they affected her strangely and 
 seemed to speak of ruined splendors and a time when 
 the place was not the scene of villainy and the home of 
 crime. A few old draperies, once the pride of 
 former inhabitants, hung at the windows and doors, 
 and a picture that spoke of mountain life and the pure 
 air of nature s wilds gave a suggestion of better things; 
 but the rest of the decorations and the furniture itself 
 were of modern styles and cheap, and there were sev 
 eral other pictures that would never have been there
 
 PERDIDA. 243 
 
 years ago, or anywhere else that was respectable at any 
 time. She looked about her wearily, not caring 
 whether she arose or not, hoping she would soon die and 
 end it all ; and as she did 30 she perceived upon the 
 chair that had held her clothing the night before, some 
 garments that did not belong to her. Curious, even in 
 her trouble, to learn what they were, she left the bed 
 and went to them. 
 
 Plainly they were intended for herself, for every item 
 of her own attire was gone; yet she felt she never could 
 put them on, for there was a style about them that 
 shocked her, and they seemed indeed a badge of shame. 
 Throwing them aside she returned to the bed, not car 
 ing what happened next. She only asked to die. 
 
 After a time the door opened it had been locked on 
 the outside though she did not know it until she heard 
 the key turned and a negress came in, bearing with 
 her a tray upon which was food. She looked at the 
 girl a minute not unkindly, grinned with an expression 
 of good- will, set the tray upon a table and was about to 
 depart, when Nellie called her. 
 
 "Please," she said, "may I speak to you?" 
 
 "Co se ye kin," replied the negress. "What am it?" 
 
 "Would you be so kind as to get me my clothes. I 
 cannot wear those." 
 
 "Oh, Lawd, Missy!" said the negress, "I couldn t 
 do dat. Madam d never let me. Dose I brung last 
 night is fine nougb, I say. Dey all wants deir own 
 clos when dey fust comes, but I ain t never llowed to 
 let em have em." 
 
 Nellie turned away with a sigh, and the negress left 
 her, locking the door as she went. Plainly there was 
 no hope of escape. 
 
 Oh, why could not God let her die now? She even 
 prayed for this release; but it was not with faith, but 
 despair, that she prayed.
 
 244 PERDIDA. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 "PERDIDA." 
 
 A MONTH, it seemed a year, had passed since lust, 
 "Capricious, wanton, bold and brutal, meanly selfish, 
 when resisted, cruel," had "like the blast of pestilential 
 winds" that "taint the sweet bloom of Natures fairest 
 forms," destroyed the faith that once had strengthened 
 her, and killed the hope within her soul; and she was 
 now become like others of her kind, a creature of re 
 lentless circumstances, drifting onward with the tide to 
 utter darkness and a nameless grave. It was not that 
 her character had changed, or that she was become less 
 kind of heart and gentle. Neither was she one who 
 had learned to be contented with her lot and found it in 
 any way agreeable; she had been compelled to submit, 
 that was all, and understood that for her there was no 
 other visible existence. Like the captive slave, who 
 first resists his fate, then finally accepts it, seeing no 
 escape, she dwelt among her fellows and shared their 
 common woe without dissentience, living as they lived, 
 and doing as they did. There was no other way, for 
 escape meant nothing that was better. And yet she 
 wanted to escape, some day; not now perhaps, but 
 sometime; any time would do. It did not really make 
 very much difference when; but she would leave the 
 place, by and by, she said, even it were to enter a 
 worse one, because it would take her from the sight of 
 the woman she abhorred, and from her she wanted to 
 part.
 
 PERDIDA. 245 
 
 They had returned her satchel and its possession was 
 precious, for her diary was still safe. It had no value 
 and could not aid in keeping her secure; so, with a 
 pretense of kindness that was not wholly a pretense, 
 since in some things her jaileress was kind, all her be 
 longings that would not clothe her for the street had 
 been given her. She had money too, not much the 
 bulk of the money was always extorted in payment for 
 board and attire but she had no use for it, having no 
 desire to buy anything, so she saved it, thinking it 
 might aid her escape when the time should come 
 to run away. She had no work to do, that was the 
 privilege of Kate the negress, and other decent women, 
 and life was become a round of idleness and mid 
 night dissipation ; for now she drank without hesita 
 tion whenever it was possible to get wine. It seemed 
 to be the only thing that had the power to make 
 her forget herself and her wrongs, and that dulled 
 the sense of degradation which was her hardest trial. 
 When she had enough of it, she could even become 
 brilliant and interesting. Day passed into day, and 
 nothing that was worth remembering happened to 
 vary the monotony of her sad and miserable ex 
 istence. Each twenty-four hours was a counterpart 
 of its predecessor and wrought no change in anything. 
 Her food was good, her dress handsome though she 
 loathed it, her time generally her own. But there was 
 a dull weight of helplessness upon her soul and a pain 
 at her heart that never left her excepting when the 
 wine was in, and that was as often as it was possible 
 to secure it. And yet she had no liking for strong 
 drink. She used it simply as a help to forgetfulness. 
 
 Among her companions were two or three whom 
 she liked better than the others. They were not so 
 coarse and did not use vile language and had, like her-
 
 246 PERDIDA. 
 
 self, a regard for decent things and a sense of modesty 
 that was genuine and made them rightful claimants to 
 a place in the ranks of good women, no matter what 
 their environment. With that natural affinity which 
 draws persons cf like temperament and common fortunes 
 toward each other, they became her friends, and she 
 learned to love them and they were fond of her. Thus, 
 even among the worst associations, friendship, that at 
 tachment, "of which the sincere affections of the heart 
 are the substance," found a foothfM and made life 
 more tolerable than it would otherwise have been, and 
 the sweetness of Nellie s character was not wholly 
 soured by contact with corrupt surroundings. 
 
 She was by all odds the handsomest girl in the house, 
 but even this dangerous fact brought her no enemies, 
 for she had no favorites, was not considered especially 
 entertaining, and had no vanities or coquetries that 
 would irritate her mates. In truth, she was rather of a 
 retiring and taciturn disposition now, and lived and 
 moved about in a dull fashion that made her unattrac 
 tive despite her beauty, once you learned to know her. 
 She was kindly, accommodating and polite and made 
 no attempts to repulse anyone, but she was not interest 
 ing in any sense, and drew to herself neither the liking 
 nor dislike of anybody. She lived chiefly to herself 
 without offense to others, and was not unpopular even 
 with the worst. Some of them also felt that she de 
 served a little kindness, for they perceived how guilt 
 less she was of any complicity in the making of her 
 condition, and, detesting the mistress heartily, liked the 
 girl better because of their aversion to her captor. 
 There is often in the hearts of the wicked a sense of 
 justice that pities the victim of an undeserved wrong, 
 and vice at times will even pause with sympathy at the 
 contemplation of outraged virtue. Some of them told
 
 PERDIDA. 247 
 
 her their stories, but she never told them hers. There 
 was something in her nature that forbade mention of 
 the past; and again, she felt that it could do no good, 
 since it only added to her pain and would not help her. 
 She understood that with them the case might be differ 
 ent and that some people are happier for having un 
 loaded their sorrows upon others, but it was not thus 
 with her. So she listened patiently to all they said, 
 and gave them cheering words where it was possible to 
 do it, but told them nothing in return. They did not 
 really care, however, for it was not curiosity that 
 prompted them to talk but a desire to confide in others. 
 And then, there was really nothing in the lives of any 
 of them that could have the interest of novelty with 
 persons of their class. 
 
 Some of them had their petty jealousies and quarrels, 
 but Nellie kept clear of these annoyances. She could 
 not understand why they should care, and it seemed 
 to her absurd to engage in such things, when calamity 
 great enough to overshadow all small worries was upon 
 them and life could become no better for trifles. In 
 this respect she was different from the rest, that, while 
 it was possible for them to take interest in living issues, 
 she found her only comfort in oblivion and abandon 
 ment of thought. 
 
 Thus the days passed on and dragged her slowly 
 downward toward the grave which was her only goal. 
 She seriously contemplated taking her own life, and 
 once or twice had actually prepared to do so; and yet, 
 with the knowledge clear before her that this would be 
 the best thing she could do, she could not do it. Some 
 thing that was not a fear of death restrained her, and, 
 with each approach to the point of action, it became 
 more difficult to face the consequences of such a course, 
 for she found herself wondering what God would say.
 
 248 PERDIDA. 
 
 Her religious education bad been of the kind that 
 teaches one to believe that suicide is criminal in the 
 sight of the Creator, and sinful though she now knew 
 her life to be, she yet felt that she was not a criminal 
 condemned by Him. She had little faith in anything, 
 she scarcely trusted even the Christ whom she once re 
 lied upon without question, but [she .still believed in 
 God and feared His anger. It was a pitiful sort of re 
 ligion for a friendless girl to entertain, but it was the 
 best that experience and a contact with cruel facts had 
 left her, though it supplied no refuge and offered no 
 comfort. 
 
 At times, too, she thought of the past. She tried not 
 to, but it was impossible to forget the people she had 
 known and loved. Of the man who had destroyed her, 
 she resolutely refused to think, for, if she did so, it was 
 always with a sense of anger that made him the sole 
 cause of all she had suffered ; and in this she was cor 
 rect. But for him she might have become the wife of 
 John Hadley, whom she now despised, but who she 
 knew would have offered her honorable marriage; or 
 missing that, the honored consort of a better man whom 
 she now loved with the strongest passion of her nature ; 
 and, as she thought of Mr. Sappleigh, a pain that was 
 too intense to be endured would fill her soul, and she 
 would throw herself upon her bed and give way to 
 paroxysms of the wildest grief, thus consecrating her 
 place of sin to the memory of the purest affection of her 
 woman s heart. 
 
 Often she would think of those who had befriended 
 her, or tried to, and these memories did her good. She 
 thought of Sue, the brave generous woman who had 
 bared her soul that she might save another from 
 peril; of Cora, the weak and foolish one who yet had 
 meant to do no harm ; of kind old Mrs. Ferguson whose
 
 PERDIDA. 249 
 
 motherly ways were often so comforting; and Miss 
 Odom bosky the ever-genial comrade of many an evening 
 gathering. Were they still living as before; and did 
 they yet miss her and speak of her with tenderness? 
 She hoped it might be so, and she knew it was so with 
 Sue and Cora. Then her thoughts traveled home 
 ward, and she remembered her old pastor and recalled 
 his last words, but it was with a feeling of doubt con 
 cerning the value of prayer that she did this, although 
 it was pleasant to remember him and think how sincere 
 he was in all he had said. Deacon Popgrass too, the 
 last to tender her a deed of kindness and a reassuring 
 word ; God bless him (yes ; she could say it for others) 
 would he ever know the truth and love and pity her 
 still? She hoped he would, in fact she knew he would, 
 and it was with positive comfort that she thought of 
 him. Her aunt no that memory could do no good. 
 She would think only of those who were noble. 
 
 Thus her life moved on, in alternate spells of sadness 
 and wild revelry, monotonous always, even at its high 
 est pitch, and with it came no suggestion of change 
 that would improve it or hope of anything but a final 
 release. She was subdued, the struggle was over, her 
 defeat was complete; and yet she did not surrender, for 
 she still rebelled in spirit and wanted to lead an up 
 right life. 
 
 There are institutions in many of your large cities, 
 Ladies and Gentlemen of the Best Society, which you 
 have amply endowed and have consecrated to the work 
 of reclaiming girls like this, and no man doubts the 
 generosity of the motive that lies behind your giving. 
 These places of refuge are always open to the poor and 
 needy, and none that knock at their doors are ever 
 turned away. But they do not willingly come to the 
 open gate, and seldom is it that any one enters it unless
 
 250 PERDIDA. 
 
 compulsion and police [power bring her there. You 
 marvel at this strange objection to your charity, and 
 sometimes speak in unkind words of those who refuse 
 to accept the succor that is offered so liberally. And 
 yet the reason is not far to seek. The place whence 
 come the penitents is secret, it keeps no records that can 
 tell cruel tales, its inmates never betray their fellows, 
 it does not even ask to know their names, it has no sign 
 upon its wall to stigmatize its occupants. But let one 
 of them enter the house that you have built, with best 
 intentions, it is true, and from that hour on throughout 
 her life s full limit, any one who has the legal right to 
 inspect your books may know her history and bear it 
 with him to his fellow-men. The very sign upon your 
 doors is a stamp of dishonor for the inmates and sig 
 nifies that they are not what they wish to seem and try 
 to be. Dismissal with a certificate of good conduct be 
 comes a diploma of shame; a reference to your benevo 
 lence is the confession of a guilty past ; and the best that 
 you can do under your system is to permit the object of 
 your kindness to again enter the world bearing upon her 
 lips the words: "I was what I was. I am what I am. 
 What I would become I cannot be, for all men know 
 the truth." 
 
 What sensitive, unfortunate, proud and modest girl 
 would care to test the merits of your kindness in 
 the face of such a fact? Some there are who do not 
 care, but it is little good you can do these. It is for 
 those who do care that your hearts should yearn and 
 your benevolence be expended. 
 
 The trouble with your institutions, ladies and gentle 
 men, is that they only aim to deal with effects, and take 
 no note of causes. I also object to them because they 
 perform before men those deeds which should never be 
 done save in secret. We have need of public institu-
 
 PERDIDA. 251 
 
 I 
 
 tions, and many of them cannot be too publicly exposed, 
 but in the line of work which you here undertake, noth 
 ing valuable can be accomplished by any method that 
 leaves the beneficiary the slightest point of contact with 
 the world of her past. It is a good thing in general to 
 "let your light so shine before men, that they may see 
 your good works," but in this exceptional instance, it 
 is well to -so give thine alms that they be done "in 
 secret." It is easily possible to reclaim a fallen girl, 
 provided all knowledge of her past be limited to three 
 necessary persons her reclaimer, herself, and her God. 
 Beyond these conditions the question becomes a matter 
 of doubt. There is not one in a thousand who would 
 not undo her past, if she could, and change her present 
 for a better life; but no such change is fully possible 
 where the truth is known to others. 
 
 It happened one afternoon, when Nellie had been for 
 over six weeks an inmate of Mrs. Ralston s house, that 
 she sat alone in the reception room, as the doorbell 
 rang and a stranger was ushered in. He seemed to be ill 
 at ease and acted as a man acts who is.suspicious that he 
 may be seen by persons he wishes to avoid. His man 
 ner attracted her attention and, as he entered the room 
 she took a critical look at him. Her look of inquiry 
 was followed at once by one of recognition, but she 
 perceived that he did not remember her. An inspira 
 tion came upon her that she could not resist, and she 
 arose from her seat and, beckoning him to her, led him 
 to a private apartment in the rear. He followed in 
 haste as though still anxious to meet no one else, and, 
 after entering the room, turned and locked the door. 
 Meantime a flush, that had come to her .cheeks when 
 she first saw him, left them, and a pallor overspread 
 her countenance. She motioned [him to a chair and he
 
 252 PERDIDA. 
 
 sat down, now perplexed at her behavior which he 
 noticed for the first time. Stepping near him she 
 looked him directly in the face and, without prelimi 
 nary of any kind, said : 
 
 "Mr. Tatterton, what are you doing here?" 
 
 The man turned paler than the woman at this re 
 mark, and his voice trembled as he tried to reply with 
 some incoherent words in which he attempted to deny 
 his identity. But she interrupted him, speaking with 
 scorn in her tones : 
 
 "Oh, yes," she said, "you would give excuses, would 
 you? You whom I once thought the purest of men, 
 and who pretended you were too good even for com 
 radeship with a good wife. Bo ye therefore perfect; 
 you see I remember your texts better than you do your 
 self. That was a fine sermon, Mr. Tatterton, really it 
 was; I drank in every word of it and thought it did 
 me good. Please explain how you reconcile the preach 
 ing and the practice in your own case." 
 
 "For God s sake, tell me who you are?" said he in 
 confusion and fear. "I do not recognize you." 
 
 "I knew you did not," said she; "but that is not re 
 markable, for I was never often near you. But I have 
 heard you preach, both here and in New York, and you 
 have done me the honor, on a few occasions, to call at 
 my previous residence, where I was permitted the 
 gracious privilege of admiring your immaculate ideal 
 of life. Do you know, I believe I detest you more 
 than any man I ever saw." 
 
 She had regained her color now, and her beautiful 
 eyes flashed with excitement, as she stood there superb 
 in her contempt of the thing that was so far below her 
 self that even she could feel called upon to condemn. 
 Her words had stung him keenly, but he was also still 
 afraid.
 
 PERDIDA. 253 
 
 " Won t you kindly tell me who you are?" he began. 
 M I see you know me and shall not try to conceal my 
 identitv. You surely do not intend to expose me," he 
 continued. "I have never harmed you." 
 
 "No," she replied, "I shall not expose you, although 
 I believe it would be right. But who would listen tr 
 my testimony against so eminent and pure a man at 
 you. Do not be afraid of me. I have no wish to ex 
 pose anybody, not even myself. I recognized you at 
 once, and the thought that you, of all people, could 
 want to come here filled me with such pain that I had 
 to say what I have said. I thought my life had be 
 come bad enough, through no fault of mine (for I tell 
 ou Mr. Tatterton, I am in this place against my will 
 a prisoner) but much as I have learned in recent weeks, 
 I did not believe it possible that you could be what you 
 plainly are." 
 
 "My dear young lady," he said, recovering his com 
 posure somewhat, but still nervous, "there is nothing I 
 can say to you. I believe what you say, and God 
 knows I pity you. From your point of view I am all 
 that you think me. And yet," he added, "I have tried 
 to shun temptation. Truly I have." 
 
 "Tried to shun temptation!" said she bitterly. 
 "What temptations have you ever had to shun that 
 you could not have dismissed if you had chosen to do 
 it?" 
 
 "I am human," he said sadly. 
 
 "But you pretend to be an honest man, a better man 
 than your fellows. Every opportunity to live a good 
 life has always been open to you. Oh, Mr. Tatterton, 
 you have destroyed the last remnant of my faith in the 
 men of God!" 
 
 "That is not right," said he. "Most of us are what 
 we seem."
 
 254 PERDIDA. 
 
 "Perhaps," she replied. "But how am I to know 
 it? Why have you led such a life as this?" 
 
 "My church does not believe in the marriage of its 
 clergy," he replied. 
 
 "Then leave it, and be man enough to abandon a 
 form of church law that you cannot obey." 
 
 "I have thought of that," be said, "yet never could 
 come to the point." 
 
 "So you are a coward as well as a hypocrite, " she 
 replied. "Heaven pity the woman that marries you, 
 if you ever do change your mind. Mr. Tatterton," she 
 continued, "I wish you had not come here. This meet 
 ing has awakened painful memories that I always try 
 to keep down ; and your coming has also robbed me of 
 what little faith I had left, and has taught me to de 
 spise a man from whose lips I once received words of 
 comfort in time of sorrow. Everything seems a sham 
 now, even the text of your sermon. If I had it in my 
 heart to pray as I used to, do you know what I would 
 do? I d pray for you. I think it would be a good test 
 of God s power." 
 
 She interested him, despite his discomfiture at being 
 discovered, and her beauty charmed him. He wanted 
 to know who she was. His recollection ran rapidly 
 over the names of people in his congregations, but 
 nothing came of it. He could not place her. 
 
 "May I know who the brave girl that does not hesi 
 tate to show me my worst self is?" he said gentlj T . 
 
 "Yes," she replied. "It can do no harm. I am the 
 girl whom you met when calling on Miss Dodge, in 
 New York, a long time ago at Mrs. Ferguson s board 
 ing house, Miss Nellie Brown ; but here I am known 
 as Perdida" We take new names here, you under 
 stand. Do you remember me now?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," he said, "very well. The reference to
 
 PERDIDA. 255 
 
 Miss Dodge makes it clear. I always admired Miss 
 Dodge, though she never took any stock in my doc 
 trines." 
 
 "Miss Dodge was right," said Nellie. "I see it 
 now." 
 
 "You are hard on a fellow-sinner," he replied, trying 
 to be jocose. 
 
 "Please do not call me your fellow-sinner," said she. 
 "No matter what 1 am, my record is as white as yours 
 is black. And yet," she added sadly, "you are a fine 
 man naturally, and might have become a good one." 
 
 "That is true, I hope," he replied. 
 
 "Then leave your church and become an honest 
 man." 
 
 "I will think it over," he said. "You have really 
 done me good." 
 
 "No, don t think it over," she urged, "do it. Oh, 
 Mr. Tatterton!" she cried, her face softening and the 
 tears rising in her eyes, "think what it must be to be 
 doomed as I am, as thousands of poor women are, 
 and take pity on us who are being driven to perdition 
 by such men as you. Abandon your absurd doctrine, 
 leave the church that you cannot serve with honesty, 
 and try to lead an upright life. Let the poor ruined 
 girl, who has no opportunity herself, become the means 
 of turning you back to ways of righteousness and the 
 opportunities that are yours." 
 
 "Miss Brown," said he rising, and for the first time 
 standing up bravely, "let me thank you. You have 
 spoken very hardly of me and you have said only what 
 is true. But you have been kind also and a sincere 
 friend. Do not let what I have done stand between 
 you and the words of my sermon, but take the sermon as 
 the message of the Christ whom I so meanly serve, and 
 believe that it is good. I have sinned, I confess it freely,
 
 256 PEED ID A. 
 
 and I have been a coward ; but with God s help I will yet 
 redeem myself. If one so unhappy as you can find it in 
 her heart to plead with one so vile as I, there surely must 
 be hope. Now, I am going," he added, "but before I 
 do so, let me ask you if I can serve you in any way 
 whatsoever. 1 truly mean what I say. Let me help 
 you away from here to a better life." 
 
 "I wish 1 could say yes, to that, Mr. Tatterton," 
 she said. "And perhaps I will yet accept your kindness. 
 But our cases are not alike. You are a man, I am a 
 woman; and the world makes a great distinction be 
 tween us. And then you are a person with a reputa 
 tion to lose while I have one to gain. There is a very 
 great difference in our opportunities. But I will think 
 it over. I really do not desire anything much except 
 ing to die." 
 
 The man s eyes filled with tears as she spoke, and he 
 held his hand toward her in farewell. She took it in 
 hers, and, looking him steadily in the face, said : 
 
 "Good-by. If I do not die soon, perhaps I may 
 avail myself of your kindness. God pity us both." 
 
 That night the revelry ran high. Nellie was posi 
 tively bright, and as she took glass after glass of the 
 liquids that fired her blood and dulled her sensibilities, 
 she became at times hysterical and gay beyond her 
 usual custom. And yet there were moments, even in 
 this hour of excitement and abandonment, when the 
 picture of the afternoon would flash upon her mind, 
 and she would again see the Rev. Frank Tatterton 
 standing before her, humbly promising to do as she had 
 asked him, and gazing upon her with penitent eyes 
 that seemed sincere and truthful. 
 
 Meantime, alone in his study, the man walked the 
 floor throughout the hours of the night, and wrestled
 
 PERDIDA. 257 
 
 with himself. The habit of indifference to his own 
 condition that had grown upon him with each recurring 
 act of surrender was, he now saw, no small transgres 
 sion, nor could he, as before, find any justification that 
 would serve his purpose. He realized the truth of 
 what the girl had so clearly set before his conscience 
 and knew that he was indeed the meanest of hypocrites 
 and the most contemptible of cowards. And now that 
 the matter stood revealed deyond a chance of doubt, and 
 he saw himself as he was, a sense of his debasement 
 seized him that made him loathe himself. He con 
 trasted his life with that of his weak and helpless ac 
 cuser, and saw by the contrast that, poor as they both 
 would seem in the sight of men, it was himself alone 
 who would be judged unworthy in the sight of God ; 
 and as this thought grew upon him and he understood 
 how really noble was this girl and how base he must 
 appear in her eyes, it was with the first wholly genuine 
 desire to abandon his evil ways that he had ever had that 
 he clinched his hands in agony of soul and smote upon 
 his breast, like the publican of old saying, "God be 
 merciful to me & sinner," and called on Heaven for 
 help. 
 
 He was not a bad man she had been correct in her 
 analysis of his character he was simply one who bad 
 permitted habit to conquer his sense of rectitude, and 
 who thought to mitigate his offences by charging the 
 fault to a system of which he was become a part and 
 from which he had not the courage to divorce himself. 
 Having no desire to injure others, he had schooled him 
 self to believe that he could uphold a theory which he 
 could not practice, and that his lapses into moral sui 
 cide were not unpardonable so long as they harmed no 
 one but himself. In fine, he knew he did wrong, but 
 did not think his practices wholly inexcusable; and
 
 258 PERDIDA. 
 
 sometimes felt it was the system, not himself, that 
 should bear the blame. And yet he upheld the system 
 with a vague idea that it was good, and that it was 
 best to adhere to it openly, even while he secretly be 
 trayed the people who sincerely trusted him. His 
 training caused him to admire and advocate it, while 
 his common-sense told him it was unnatural and con 
 trary to his instincts. Thus, between the two in 
 fluences, he preached according to his training and 
 lived in obedience to his instincts, and justified himself 
 by the thought that he was human, and that really, 
 after all, he was better than some others whom he 
 knew. His conscience was still active, it is true, and 
 he often had to fight it, but frequent surrenders to temp 
 tation and the habit of viewing the case from the most 
 agreeable point of observation had weakened his char 
 acter until nothing short of a literal stripping of his 
 soul to utter nakedness could check his downward 
 course. The interview with Nellie had wrought this 
 miracle, and he now saw the truth and realized what a 
 monster of hypocrisy it was that stood revealed in him 
 self. And, as the force of conviction came upon him, 
 he thought of the wretched girl who was become his 
 judge, and filled with a genuine pity for her that had 
 in it no thought of self, he fell upon his knees and 
 pleaded with the Master for her life.
 
 PERDIDA. 359 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 IN THE GRASP OF THE LAW. 
 
 IT was a few days after her interview with the 
 Rev. Frank Tatterton that Nellie came to a decision 
 concerning her desire to escape. It had been growing 
 on her for a long time, but her indifference to every 
 thing and the thought that one day was as good as an 
 other, since nothing really good would come of it, had 
 left her undecided. Now, however, she said she would 
 go, and once more drift out into the world just any 
 where. Possibly, too, death, that she wanted yet did 
 not dare encourage, might come sooner somewhere else. 
 She was, therefore, planning to run away at the first 
 opportunity that would give her the opening. To do 
 this it would be necessary to recover her dress. It was 
 somewhere in the house, she thought (the truth is it 
 had long ago been sold) and she would manage to se 
 cure it. Perhaps she might bribe one of the maids to 
 get it; but if she could not do that she would steal 
 some garment and thus cover her shame while seeking 
 a hiding-place. If it should be possible to obtain it, 
 work at anything would be her object. Surely there 
 were mills where a girl might get employment with 
 out inquiry as to her past. But if this could not be 
 done well, that she would leave to the future. 
 
 She was planning this escape and hying to devise 
 means by which to secure her dress, when she became 
 aware of a commotion in the house, and Fifine, a little
 
 260 PEEDIDA. 
 
 French girl who was one of her two favorites, rushed 
 intc the room with her arms full of clothes. 
 
 Quick," she said, "take one of zese and put it on. 
 I get zem in madame s closet. She have run avay so 
 fast she fail to lock ze door, so I take zem and bring 
 one of zem for you, ma cherie. Quick; zey are com 
 ing!" 
 
 Nellie was so astonished by the girl s conduct and 
 her evident haste that she could scarcely speak. 
 
 "Why!" she said. "What is " 
 
 "Nevair mind, petite," replied the girl panting as 
 she hurried herself into another gown. "Get it on 
 quick. Ve must go wiz zem. Zere ees no escape. 
 Only madame get avay. She leave us all to suffer. 
 Ah! but she ees ze bad voman." 
 
 Nellie hastened to do as the girl told her, and taking 
 the dressed slipped it over her attire, asking her at the 
 same time to explain. She could hear sounds of excite 
 ment in other parts of the house and words of alarm. 
 Loudest among these were the cries of Kate, the negress, 
 who seemed to be somewhere on the floor below. 
 
 "Zere," said Fifine," as Nellie finished her dressing. 
 "Now ve can go wiz zem. Ah, but it ees cruel. Vy 
 did not madame tell us of ze raid." 
 
 At this moment a policeman opened the door and 
 stepped into the room. As Nellie glanced at him, she 
 saw that he did not appear to be harsh in his intentions, 
 for he grinned good-naturedly and beckoning with his 
 baton merely said : 
 
 "Come an now, girls; ye ve had plenty av toime to 
 tog up. Just walk along like two little angels an it s 
 not meself as ll want to harm yez." 
 
 "Oh, what does it mean?" cried Nellie. "Please tell 
 me what it means." 
 
 "A lot yez don t know, me foine lady, " said the
 
 PEEDTDA. 261 
 
 officer. "But it s yourself as ll be soon informed. 
 They re all below waitin an some o thim ll tell ye." 
 
 "What does it mean?" again said Nellie, this time 
 to her companion. 
 
 "Ah, cberie!" replied the girl. "It is ze raid. Ze 
 place ees made ze complaint. Ve have ze misfortune 
 of ze arrest. 
 
 Fifine plainly did not care to cry about it, and her 
 strongest sentiment was evidently her feeling toward 
 the absent woman. Neither did she seem afraid of the 
 officer, by whose side she walked as pleasantly as if 
 they were merely taking a friendly stroll. 
 
 Now that Nellie understood it, her soul was filled with 
 horror, and a sense of despair that was almost like 
 madness fell upon her. Her trials had been hard 
 enough, she thought, without this exposure to public 
 shame. Surely it must be the last drop in the cup of 
 her misery that she was now about to drink. 
 
 "Yez nayden t feel too bad about it," said the officer, 
 as he noted her distress and saw that she was really 
 frightened and in pain, "for it s not much harm they ll 
 do to the likes of you. It s th old woman they do be 
 wantin mostly, an her they didn t get. Th captain 
 11 be that mad he can t hold himself. But its not yer- 
 self they care to be hard on. So cheer up. Ye re a 
 dacenfc lookin gurril an I ll not say a word agin yez." 
 
 Nellie felt the kindness in his voice and it encouraged 
 her, but she saw nothing to be cheerful about. She was 
 being dragged to prison or to something that was 
 equally shameful, and the realization of the truth made 
 her sick at heart and desperate. She began to sob hys 
 terically saying : 
 
 "Oh, what have I done? What have I done to de 
 serve this awful fate!" 
 
 "It s nothin at all that ye ve done," said the police-
 
 262 PERDIDA. 
 
 man, with a touch of sympathy in his tones. i *It s 
 what other people done that gets ye in throuble, an I m 
 thinkin that s generally the way. Thim that s doin 
 the mischief gets off, an thim that s manin no harm 
 gets the dose. It s the way of the worruld." 
 
 The officer was right. In his uncouth way he had 
 uttered a potent truth and raised a question that has 
 often perplexed the minds of greater men than he. 
 For, say what you please, and argue as hard as you 
 will, the fact yet remains that it is chiefly through the 
 sins of others that we mortals suffer most. If the pun 
 ishments of this life could be limited to those only who 
 deserve them, the great majority of mankind would be 
 free from heartaches. Every crime demands a victim, 
 every wrong a sacrifice, every fraud an innocent loser, 
 and it is not infrequently that the number of those who 
 suffer through the sins of others far exceeds the number 
 of the sinners. It is one of ihe saddest phases of mun 
 dane life. Philosophers have given thought to this 
 subject without arriving at any satisfactory explana 
 tion, moralists have studied it with no better results, 
 and even those best versed in the teachings of religion 
 fail to reach any conclusion concerning it that suffices 
 to allay the demand for justice that is born in the 
 human soul and will not succumb to any sophistry. 
 The best that any of us can do with the problem is to 
 fall back on the laws of nature, no matter what they 
 may seem to be, and leave the rest an unsolved 
 mystery. 
 
 "What hava I done?" It is the cry of the human 
 heart seeking an explanation of that which may not be 
 explained, demanding a reason for that which is not 
 reasonable, blindly groping for a light that will not 
 show itself. There is not an hour in the day when 
 some poor sufferer from the world s injustice does not
 
 PERDIDA. 263 
 
 send it from his lips appealing!}* to God. Yet how sel 
 dom does an answer come. When it happens that the 
 voice is of one who has no guilt upon his soul, there is 
 that in it which bewilders even the strongest intellect 
 and makes it doubt itself. The officer was right. It 
 is generally those who do not deserve the punishment 
 who receive the heaviest part of it, sometimes, alas, 
 even unto the third and fourth generation of them that 
 sin. 
 
 It was a vulgar crowd that gathered in the street to 
 witness the unhappiness of Nellie and her fellow-crim 
 inals, and that followed them all the way to the police- 
 station and filled the room into which the prisoners 
 were brought. Nothing draws a crowd better than the 
 sight of the sufferings of others this is one of our 
 peculiarities as members of a new advanced civiliza 
 tion and it was therefore natural that there should be 
 many spectators present when the justice, who had 
 opened his court for this especial purpose at a con venient 
 hour, took his seat upon the platform that stood at the 
 farther end of the room. Certain political reasons (of 
 course not mentioned in the proceedings) had led to the 
 raid, and there were others yet to follow. It was an 
 noying to the captain to feel that he had not been able 
 to apprehend the principal in the affair, but the matter 
 did not appear to worry the court much, for he made 
 no mention of it. The truth is, it had been finally de 
 cided by certain powers in the background, that, while 
 it was plain that public outcry and the voices of the 
 press demanded some action that would convince the 
 people of the sincerit} of the party in control, it would 
 never do to get on the wrong side of those whose back 
 ers were closely allied with the powers. So, after 
 mature and deliberate consideration behind closed 
 doors, orders had been issued to the police to "make a
 
 264 PERDIDA. 
 
 showing," and secret information had been sent to per 
 sons not wanted advising them to keep out of the way. 
 In this way justice, from a political point of view, was 
 to be satisfied, and the standing of the party in control 
 maintained. Nobody cared what became of Nellie and 
 her comrades, but it made a great difference to certain 
 persons whether several other people suffered or not. 
 In short, the policeman was right. 
 
 Proceedings of this character are generally brief and 
 it is seldom that much time is wasted in legal quibbles. 
 Arguments that interest lawyers when cases involve 
 those rights which lawyers deem most sacred of all 
 rights, property and money, have no place k in matters 
 of this kind, since the prisoners are always poor and 
 have no friends. It may take months, even years, to 
 satisfy a court that a man has received all his rights at 
 the law, when the contention is one of contract or the 
 settlement of property; but ten minutes are ample time 
 in which to decide whether a girl like Nellie Brown 
 ought to be set free to lead a better life or go to jail to 
 be eternally damned. 
 
 As she glanced timidly about the courtroom and 
 noted the demeanor of the spectators and the awesome 
 presence of the justice, it was with a failing heart that 
 she dropped her eyes while awaiting the doom she now 
 contemplated with a sense of dull despair. Escape she 
 saw was impossible, hope of future redemption there 
 was none. Henceforth her way must be that of those 
 whose lives are blighted by the taint of the prison and 
 whose trade is crime. And yet she felt she had done 
 no wrong. It was very bitter, and what she suffered 
 in those few minutes, nothing may describe. 
 
 She noticed that there was one man in the crowd who 
 did not seem to be like the rest. He was plainly 
 dressed, stood erect and manly, had the manner of one
 
 PERDIDA. 265 
 
 whose interest was not an enjoyment of the scene, and 
 seemed to be looking at her frequently as though he 
 would send her a message of assurance. She had never 
 seen him before, yet he certainly was singling her out 
 and trying to catch her attention; and so compelling 
 was his glance that she at last turned her eyes toward 
 him and looked him full in the face. He immediately 
 returned the look of recognition and sadly smiled. By 
 this the proceedings had begun and the court was rat 
 tling off the cases at a good pace. 
 
 "John Brown ! Stand up." 
 
 A man arose from his seat on the long bench and 
 stood sheepishly facing the judge. 
 
 "What s the charge against this man?" 
 
 "Disorderly conduct, your honor." (By the police 
 man.) , 
 
 "Have you anything to say, sir?" 
 
 "No, your honor; I was never there before, sir." 
 
 "And probably won t go again, eh? Well; I m 
 ashamed of you. Ten dollars fine, or stand com 
 mitted." 
 
 The man found ten dollars in his pocket and paid the 
 fine, after which he hastil} T left. 
 
 "Next case. John Brown (huh! Brown seems to be 
 a favorite name just now). Stand up, John Brown! 
 What s the charge against the prisoner?" 
 
 "Same as the other, your honor." 
 
 "Have you anything to say, sir? Nothing at all, 
 eh? Sorry, and promise never to offend again. They 
 all say that, my friend. Ten dollars and stand com 
 mitted till paid." 
 
 The prisoner was a youthful fellow evidently of good 
 family. He hunted through his clothes, but the ten 
 dollars were not forthcoming. "Please, your honor," 
 said he, "May I send to a friend for the money?"
 
 266 PERDIDA. 
 
 "Certainly, sir; officer, take him "in charge until 
 further orders." 
 
 In a few minutes the young man was writing a letter 
 which the officer let him send by a messenger. As he 
 glanced at the address he muttered to himself, "That s 
 a genuine name, and so is the onetthat s inside. I ll 
 bet it ain t John Brown." 
 
 The next prisoner was a woman, 
 
 "What is your name?" 
 
 "Mary Nelson." 
 
 "Have you anything to say, Mary Nelson?" Mary 
 Nelson of course had nothing to say. She began to 
 cry. "Well; we may as well get through," said the 
 court. "Of course they re all alike now. Sixty days. 
 I assume there is no occasion for mentioning a fine, " 
 he added. 
 
 The woman was led away by a policeman, loudly 
 lamenting her fate as she disappeared. This seemed to 
 please the spectators, for many of them laughed heart 
 ily until suppressed by a peremptory command from 
 the court. 
 
 "Next case Fifine Lament; pretty name that. 
 Well Fifine, have you anything to say." 
 
 The girl hung her head in silence. 
 
 "No; same charge I presume. Sixty days." 
 
 And Fifine was gone. 
 
 Several of the girls made so much noise by their crying 
 that it was difficult to preserve order, but the court was 
 equal to the strain on its dignity; and in due course, 
 Nellie, who, thanks to the kind policeman, was last on 
 the list, stood pale and proud before her judge. She 
 had become very calm now, and a certain sense of in 
 jury that mingled with her despair gave her a tem 
 porary strength and nerved her for the ordeal. 
 
 "What is your name?"
 
 PERDIDA. 267 
 
 "My name I will not tell you sir; but I am called 
 PerdidaV 
 
 She spoke with dignity, looked him in the face with 
 out fear and made him feel that she was entitled to re 
 spectful treatment. Being naturally a shrewd and ob 
 serving man he perceived she was different from the 
 others, and his interest was aroused. 
 
 "That sounds honest," he said. "You know the 
 charge against you. Have you anything to say in 
 defense?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, I have," she replied. "I am not guilty." 
 
 "Please do not attempt to joke with the court," he 
 said. 
 
 "I am not guilty," she repeated. "I have been a 
 prisoner against my will. I am blameless." 
 
 "That is a serious charge," said the judge. "Are 
 you willing to prosecute the person or persons whom 
 you accuse?" 
 
 "No sir; I am not. It would do no good. All that 
 I ask is that I may go away and lead a different life." 
 
 He gazed critically upon her, fearing deceit; but 
 there was a look in the unflinching glance of her eye 
 and a ring in the tones of her voice that convinced him 
 of her truthfulness. 
 
 "I am sorry," he said, as he softened his utterance 
 and spoke for the first time with feeling. "Something 
 in your manner leads me to believe you tell the truth." 
 
 "It is true." 
 
 "I believe you, my girl," he continued. "But you 
 have placed the court in a peculiar position by what 
 you have said. You are here upon a certain charge, 
 which technically cannot be denied, no matter how in 
 nocent of wrong intent you may be, and it is the duty 
 of the court to hold you and to dispose of the case on 
 its evidence. But you charge others with a crime that
 
 268 PERDIDA. 
 
 is beyond the full jurisdiction of this court, and, then, 
 when asked to substantiate your charges, refuse. I can 
 do nothing with your accusation under such circum 
 stances, even while I sympathize with you and under 
 stand your aversion to publicity. If you will consent 
 to appear as a witness against the parties whom you 
 accuse, I shall be happy to take your statement, and 
 will in the meantime suspend sentence on the charge 
 against yourself." 
 
 "I cannot do it," she said. "It would do no good. 
 Nothing will do me any good. I have no wish to 
 suffer longer. But I am not guilty." 
 
 "Your honor," said a voice among the people. 
 "May I be permitted to address the court." 
 
 "Certainly, sir. What is your name?" 
 
 "John J. Sipperly, your honor. I am a member of 
 the Massachusetts bar, and wish to appear for the pris 
 oner by courtesy." 
 
 "That is readily permissible," said the court. "You 
 may speak Mr. Sipperly." 
 
 The gentleman stepped within the inclosure and ad 
 dressed the justice. Nellie stood near, scarce knowing 
 what she did, so sudden had been the coming of this 
 friend, whom she had never heard of. 
 
 "Your honor," said he; "M} T client will make no de 
 fense to the charge against her. Such being the case, 
 I ask the court to at once pass sentence and impose the 
 fine." 
 
 "Very well," replied the justice. "I can make n 
 objection to that. The sentence is sixty days or sixtj 
 dollars fine." 
 
 "Thank you," said the gentleman, as he opened his 
 pocketbook, "here is the amount that my client owes 
 the court." 
 
 It was done so quickly that it seemed not real to the
 
 PERDIDA. 269 
 
 person most interested; and when the lawyer, having 
 settled with the clerk, turned to her and said, "That s 
 all; now you are free," she still stood motionless before 
 the court like one in a dream. But the spectators hav 
 ing caught the contagion of the scene, were now be 
 coming noisy, and Mr. Sipperly saw that it would not 
 be long before the girl would become the center of a 
 mob of excited people. So he gently took her by the 
 hand and led her out by a rear door through the judge s 
 private room. She allowed him to lead her as he would 
 a child, and neither spoke until they were well away 
 from the scene of distress through which one of them 
 had just passed. In a few minutes he released her 
 hand and walked by her side, still making no advances, 
 until they were come to a park, which they entered. 
 Then he addressed her. 
 
 "Let us sit on that bench awhile," he said, "and 
 talk. But let it be with this understanding; nothing 
 that you do not wish to tell me need be said." 
 
 She tried to reply, to thank him, to say the right 
 thing; but it would not come. Nothing but tears 
 seemed ready. He perceived her condition, and said : 
 
 "That s right. Have a good cry, if it will do you 
 good. God knows you have cause for tears." 
 
 "That is true," she replied convulsively, "but they 
 are not all tears of sorrow now. How can I thank you, 
 sir?" 
 
 "You do not need to," he replied. "Any man that 
 was a man would have done the same thing." 
 
 "But I am not what you think, " she said. "lam 
 guiltless that is true. I was a prisoner in that place. 
 But oh, how can I explain it? I was there a long 
 time. I must not lie to you." 
 
 "Yes, my dear girl," he replied. "I understand. 
 You are not the first who has been made a victim by
 
 270 PERDIDA. 
 
 men worse than I, who am not perfect, as you seem to 
 think, but only a believer in justice. Don t try to 
 thank me any more, but accept the help as you would 
 expect another to accept it from you." 
 
 He was kindly, and she felt it; he was strong-look 
 ing and straightforward, and she admired him; he had 
 done her a great service, and she appreciated it. Her 
 heart went toward him tenderly. 
 
 "You have been so good; so very good," she said, 
 "just to believe and to understand." 
 
 "And why not," he replied. "Even that little 
 police- justice believed you, and. those fellows generally 
 assume that all men are liars. Let s not talk of it any 
 longer," he continued. "What are you going to do 
 now?" 
 
 "I do not know," she said. "I am homeless and 
 friendless and penniless. I have never been able to 
 get work since my baby died, and I left the hospital. 
 Nobody will take me because I cannot give a reference; 
 and now it will be impossible even to try. I am lost." 
 
 There was a wail in her voice that pierced the man s 
 heart. He felt drawn to her by a protecting desire, 
 and wished to help her. 
 
 "I will tell you what we must both do first," he said 
 gravely. "We must get something to eat. Now don t 
 refuse. Food may be a gross appeal to the inner man, 
 but it really is a necessity of life. Let us go to that 
 quiet place over there and dine." 
 
 "I thank you very much," she replied. "But how 
 can I ever repay you. Think what I owe you now." 
 
 "You owe me nothing at all," he said. "I am not 
 ruined yet; and I still have the price of a dinner. I 
 think you owe me the pleasure of your company too." 
 
 He spoke cordially, and sincerely; and she was very 
 unhappy. Just then it seemed to her that to part from 
 him would be the last thing she could bear to do.
 
 PERDIDA. 271 
 
 During the dinner she remembered her lost satchel. 
 She had no hope of recovering it, but she wanted it. It 
 was the one thing that she felt she must not lose. So 
 anxious did this make her, that she had to speak of it, 
 telling the gentleman what it contained. 
 
 "If that is so," said he, "the satchel must be found. 
 I can help you. We will go to the police station and 
 get a permit to search the place, and if it is still there 
 we shall find it. Do not worry." 
 
 He took a memorandum book and tore from it a 
 sheet of paper upon which he wrote a note. This he 
 directed to the police captain and sent by a messenger. 
 
 "Now, my friend," said he, "we will continue our 
 dinner." 
 
 In half an hour the boy returned with an officer who 
 had the satchel. Nellie could scarcely believe her eyes, 
 and the light that shone in them, when she received her 
 precious property, made them very beautiful; at least 
 so Mr. Sipperly thought, as he noted [their expression, 
 and felt how pleasant a thing it is to make another 
 happy. 
 
 "How did you manage to get them to send it?" she 
 said, after thanking him. 
 
 "Oh, "he replied, "there are ways. Certain references 
 often help in dealing with these cases. I am very glad 
 you have it back. How are you fixed for clothing?" 
 he continued kindly in a tone that was not offensive. 
 "Did those people steal all that you had?" 
 
 "Yes," she said. "Everything. The dress I have 
 on is not mine. I do not know whose it is." 
 
 "What a set of villains," he murmured, as he looked 
 at the girl and realized how truly sweet she was, de 
 spite her degradation, how worthy of a better position 
 in the world. 
 
 At length the dinner was finished, and they left the
 
 PERDIDA. 
 
 eating house. The lights were burning in the streets 
 and night was coming on. It seemed an age since last 
 she had walked abroad a free and unmolested person, 
 and the experience was almost a novelty. Something 
 in the companionship of the man at her side added to 
 the melancholy pleasure of this new entrance upon life, 
 and she wished it could last. She did not know what 
 to do next, and had no idea of anything that was defi 
 nite, excepting the fact that she was free and that she 
 was feeling the touch of kindness. She was too re 
 fined, however, to wish to selfishly detain one who had 
 proven himself literally a savior, and realized that the 
 hour was now come when she must part from him. 
 
 "You feel better now, do you not? * said he, glancing 
 in a friendly way at her face. 
 
 "Yes," she replied, "I do. It is worth much to me 
 to have met you, and to learn that kindness still exists. 
 I cannot thank you half as much as I would, I am so 
 helpless and so perplexed. Do you know what has 
 made me think very gratefully of you, since I recovered 
 my composure sufficiently to realize what you did for 
 me?" 
 
 "Why, no," he said, "what is it?" 
 
 "You have not even asked my name." 
 
 "That is so," said he, "and yet I won t deny that I 
 have wished I could know it. It is better somehow, to 
 know with whom one is talking. But I assumed that 
 you had good reasons for wishing to remain incognita." 
 
 "Indeed I had," she said, "and I would have let 
 them take me to prison before I would have told them. 
 But I feel that it is different with you. You have a 
 right to know. My name is Nellie Brown, just plain 
 Nellie Brown. It isn t much of a name, is it?" 
 
 She smiled wanly as she spoke, and he noted the 
 beauty of her face as it thus appealed to him, trustingly
 
 PERDIDA. 273 
 
 turned half-upward, and smiled in return as he an 
 swered her. 
 
 "Not uncommon, I must say; but it is a pretty 
 name, and one that suggests gentleness and simplicity 
 and goodness of heart." 
 
 "I am glad you think so," she said, "for I like it 
 myself. And then, it s not a conspicuous name." 
 
 "And they call you Perdida ?" 
 
 "Yes. It seemed an appropriate name to take, and 
 it signified so much to me. You can understand." 
 
 It was night now, and the streets were so crowded 
 that nobody noticed any one in particular whom he did 
 not know. The solitude of the multitudes was upon 
 them. He tenderly touched the hand that was near 
 him as they walked along, and murmured : 
 
 "Poor little girl!" 
 
 "Did you speak?" she said. 
 
 "Yes," he replied, "I was saying poor little girl! 
 and wondering what is to become of you." 
 
 She did not answer, but her face showed him how 
 thankful she was for his solicitude. Sipperly was a 
 fair-dealing man, he had no wish to harm anybody, 
 and would always go farther to do a kindness than to 
 begin a wrong. It seemed that this utterly lonely and 
 helpless creature was become a part of his responsibili 
 ties, that he ought not to abandon her to wander into 
 greater perils than those she had just escaped. Her 
 loveableness appealed to him strongly and he certainly 
 was not insusceptible to her beauty, and the ladylike 
 charm that was still a part of her manner in spite of 
 all she had passed through. She was also companiona 
 ble and interesting, that he had already discovered, 
 and, what was better yet, she was true of heart and 
 honest. A long experience with men and his practice 
 in the law had made him keenly attentive to points in
 
 274 PERDIDA. 
 
 character, and he perceived that here was a character 
 that was exceptional. 
 
 "Yes," he repeated, "poor little girl. What is to 
 become of you? Walk with me a little longer and let 
 me think it out. I shall feel better if you are still in 
 sight." 
 
 "I d walk with you every day, if I could," she said, 
 with a passionate yearning in her voice that was an ap 
 peal for protection against the persecutions of the world. 
 "Oh, pardon me!" she quickly added. "I meant noth 
 ing but an expression of my thankfulness." 
 
 He drew her arm through his own and let her lean 
 upon his strong support; and thus they walked the 
 avenues of the Western metropolis, oblivious to sur 
 roundings and safe from interruption as they passed 
 among their fellow-men unnoticed in the crowd. It 
 was scarcely a conventional acquaintance that they 
 were making ; the arrangements were certainly not in 
 accord with the rules and regulations of the best society ; 
 they had not even exchanged cards. Possibly it was 
 all wrong and even very wicked. But it is true, never 
 theless, that neither of them had the faintest desire to 
 harm anybody, and that to one of them, at least, the 
 companionship of the other was very precious and 
 brought with it the first sensation of kindness she had 
 felt in many a weary day.
 
 PERDIDA. 375 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 "WHAT AM i?" 
 
 AUGUST 30, 18: What am I? That question 
 has been on my mind for several days, and to-night, 
 as I take my diary out, for the first time since I 
 left the shelter of the kind old couple who took me 
 in the day I left the hospital, it comes to me like a 
 riddle I cannot seem to answer. I shall now con 
 tinue to faithfully set down in this, the third of my 
 small volumes, the story of my life and its recent 
 sufferings, omitting nothing important and conceal 
 ing no necessary detail, for I do not wish to deceive 
 any one who may read these words after I am gone, 
 and shall hope at least to receive justice at the hands of 
 just people. Therefore I say, what am I? What I 
 have been up to this point I can clearly understand, 
 and it is with a sense of comfort I realize that, through 
 out the past, I have done no guilty deed, that my con 
 science is clear of self-accusation and no willful wrong 
 doing lies upon my record, frightful though it is. But 
 to-night, as I sit here alone, while my good friend is 
 absent on business, and contemplate my present posi 
 tion, the doubt that has grown upon me, since the day 
 I met him and became his debtor for much kindness 
 freely given without thought of reward, increases, and 
 I find myself asking over and over, what am I? 
 
 Am I worse or better than I seem? Is my conduct 
 unpardonable in the sight of God or excusable by the 
 circumstances that surround me? I am not supersen-
 
 276 PERDIDA. 
 
 sitive I know ; many of the old notions that once con 
 trolled my actions have been driven out or been beaten 
 down by^the crushing blows of fate. I understand that 
 there are some things in life that can never be mine, 
 certain happinesses that I have no right to seek, ways 
 of living that are not open to poor me, and I do not 
 care so much as I used to, because I have learned to be 
 resigned. But I would still be honest with myself in 
 all things, for, strange as it may seem, I have [never 
 ceased to detest a lie. Perhaps my association with 
 cheats and liars has strengthened my hatred of treach 
 ery and deceit, perhaps it is only a way that I have 
 which will not leave me ; I do not attempt to explain 
 it, but simply feel this is so. Being honest with my 
 self, I therefore ask, what am I? Is the present course 
 of my life honest or not? I wish I could settle this 
 doubt, because then I could be happy with Mr. Sip- 
 perly, even though I cannot love him as I would love 
 dear Mr. Sappleigh, who is the only man I shall ever 
 give my heart to fully and without reserve. But that 
 is very absurd, for I shall never see him again. It is, 
 however, the truth, and I shall not hesitate to confess it 
 here. 
 
 What a beautiful, tender, noble thing a woman s 
 love is! I don t believe one woman in a thousand ever 
 has a chance to place her affections just where they 
 ought to be placed. We women are so inexperienced 
 when young, so easily taught to believe that the first 
 inspirations of our girlhood s heart are the full develop 
 ment of a ripened love, that we often give ourselves in 
 haste to the wrong man, only to discover later that we 
 have made a mistake. I almost did this when I 
 thought I loved John Hadley. Probably if things had 
 turned out that way, I should never have thought of 
 Mr. Sappleigh as I do. I think most good women set-
 
 PERDIDA. 377 
 
 tie down to their mistakes, and let their natural loyalty 
 to the men they marry wipe out other ideas; that is, 
 unless the men happen to be very bad. A good man 
 can win his wife s heart, often after she has made the 
 mistake of taking the wrong husband. How fortunate 
 that is. We women do not ask so very much, after all. 
 Give us kindness and tender care and support in our 
 trials, and we are willing to put aside our thoughts of 
 our mistakes and repay goodness with goodness. That 
 is because our hearts are loving and true to those we 
 love. I know there would never have been any trouble 
 between myself and John and yet I despise him now, 
 and, under present circumstances, would much rather 
 think of Mr. Sappleigh. If Mr. Sipperly were Mr. 
 Sappleigh I think I could answer the question, what am 
 I? Then I would feel that I was doing the best I could 
 under peculiar conditions, and that my heart was in 
 accord with my inclinations. And yet I dearly love 
 my good friend and would give my life cheerfully for 
 his sake and count it no sacrifice. He is one of the 
 most generous and noble men I shall ever know, and 
 he has made me his debtor beyond all possibility of 
 repayment. I thank him in my heart every hour. The 
 trouble is that I do not wholly give him my heart, and 
 without that gift I feel a sense of infidelity to myself 
 and to him. And yet he asks nothing more than I can 
 give. Am I worse or better than I seem? 
 
 He never even suggested any attachment that I 
 would not freely consent to. The thing that seemed to 
 move him most was my helplessness and the thought 
 that he could at least protect me from greater harm 
 than I would receive at other hands. I was lonely and 
 sad and had suffered cruelly and was so much afraid of 
 the world and so sorely in need of some one to lean 
 upon, and his generosity was so genuine. What
 
 278 PERDIDA. 
 
 woman in my position would have done differently? 
 What else was there that I could do? He would not 
 abandon me to my fate; I really had [nothing to sacri 
 fice for him. And then, he makes me happy and 
 soothes my tired mind and comforts my weary heart, 
 and treats me as if I were the most honored woman in 
 his circle of friends. I cannot feel that he is doing 
 wrong. What a mixed-up problem life is. I doubt if 
 anybody can straighten it out, and faith counts for so 
 little in the face of facts, that it does not help one very 
 much in time of perplexity. Even Mr. Tatterton, with 
 everything in his favor, failed. I wonder what he has 
 done? If he has the strength to abandon his church, I 
 shall have some faith in him, but I have none now. 
 What strange things I have seen and learned. Yet all 
 men are not alike. I do not believe Mr. Sipperly 
 would ever show such weakness, and I have reason to 
 know that Mr. Sappleigh would not. Dear Mr. Sap- 
 pleigh ! Kind Mr. Sipperly ! I have at least two true 
 friends among men, I, who am the most friendless of 
 women. 
 
 I hear my good friend coming now; his latch key is 
 in the door and he will be here in a minute, bringing 
 some little dainty that he has puchased for me, but no 
 wine. We never touch wines. What a blessing it is 
 to meet a clean man who does not drink, and who al 
 ways comes to you bright-eyed and full of intelligence. 
 I feel a sense of happiness and peace as I hear his foot 
 steps on the stairs. Yes, dear friend, I was writing, 
 but your presence is dearer than pen or book. Let me 
 drop them now, and take your hands in mine a minute 
 and feel how strong and kind they are. 
 
 SEPTEMBER 10th : While still in Chicago, I learned
 
 PERDIDA. 279 
 
 through Mr. Sipperly, who could easily get informa 
 tion, something of the movements of Mr. Stein and 
 Cora. It wao with great surprise that I discovered 
 that they had come to Chicago, and that Mr. Stein is 
 there in business, having separated from his partner 
 long ago. Mr. Sipperly learned these facts through a 
 New York correspondent. He also learned that Cora 
 has left her friend and has probably gone back to New 
 York City, but he did not learn why. I wonder what 
 can have happened. They certainly were on good 
 terms. Perhaps I may find out later. 
 
 My good friend has also found me other news. All 
 I have to do is to ask him, and, without seeking to dis 
 cover my reasons, he gets me what I want to know. 
 He is a very busy man and travels a good deal for cer 
 tain companies of which he is legal representative and 
 has a large correspondence. When E learned this I 
 told him of my trade and offered to do his work. At 
 first he objected, saying he did not intend I should toil 
 for him ; but I pleaded that work would be a pleasure, 
 so he bought a beautiful machine and I now often help 
 him, when he has no one he can trust. You see, we 
 are changing from city to city often and good stenog 
 raphers are not always obtainable; and then some 
 times too, he does not care to let strangers know his 
 business. I am never so happy as when I can aid him. 
 
 The other day, he got me information of my old 
 friends. Mr. Sappleigh is still at Mrs. Ferguson s and 
 spends his time as usual I presume. His father has 
 lost his wife, but JE assume that the loss is not unbeara 
 ble, judging from the little I have learned in the past. 
 How any woman could fail to be happy with such a 
 man as he is a mystery. Some folks seem never to 
 know when they are well off. The thing that pleased 
 me most however, was the news that Sue, dear, noble
 
 280 PERDIDA, 
 
 Sue, my dearest friend, is now with old Mr. Sappleigh 
 as private secretary. What a blessed change that 
 must be. Miss Odombosky has married an old pro 
 fessor and has disappeared somewhere down East. 
 Dear old soul, I hope she will be very happy. The 
 only missing point now in my investigation is the ab 
 sence of Cora, whom we cannot trace. Mr. Sipperly 
 even went to the extent of seeking information at Mr. 
 Stein s new place, but they told him there that nobody 
 knew where she had gone, beyond the fact that she said 
 she was leaving for New York. I should like to find 
 out about her. 
 
 I have sought no news from home, and shall attempt 
 no search. That is a dead past. 
 
 With all this hunting up of old friends, Mr. Sipperly 
 has never once asked me to tell him of my life, and in 
 sists that he does not wish to know it unless I have 
 reasons for telling him that will be good for myself. 
 I appreciate his considerateness, and like him better for 
 it. How noble he is; and yet once upon a time I would 
 have called him a very bad man and would have judged 
 him harshly. But what am I, that I should judge 
 anybody. Yet I did pass censure on Mr. Tatterton, 
 and do not regret it. 
 
 Boston is a fine old town. We have been here several 
 weeks and I like it. It is Mr. Sipperly s home and 
 naturally he is proud of it. He tells me he has no rela 
 tives but his sisters who both live here. He thinks a 
 good deal of them, and wishes it were possible for us 
 to meet, but that of course cannot be. Yesterday I went 
 alone to a church and heard a fine sermon by an eminent 
 preacher who is visiting the city. I had not supposed 
 I could ever enter a sanctuary again, and my sensations 
 were very strange as I sat there. The preacher s text 
 was, "Let your light so shine," and I wondered what
 
 PERDIDA. 281 
 
 he would have said to me if I had proposed to let mine 
 shine in public before his congregation. Most of them, 
 I imagine, would have turned me over to the police. 
 Such talk is wicked I suppose, but I cannot help my 
 feelings at times. I could not help wondering, also, 
 what would happen if God s all-pervading light were 
 to be suddenly turned upon the men sitting about me 
 so gravely attentive to the sermon. It was an awful 
 thought, yet it was not unnatural in a woman like me. 
 I really do not know what I believe. 
 
 What a lot of traveling we have done, and what 
 quantities of things I have seen. It has been an educa 
 tion for me, and I wish I could make some good use of 
 it. But I fear that is not possible. All that I can ex 
 pect from it is the pleasure it gives me. Were it possi 
 ble to wipe out all that has happened, and be as other 
 women, I might become the wife of the good kind man 
 who cares for me so tenderly, and then our journeyings 
 would indeed be both pleasurable and useful. I often 
 think how much a well-traveled mother could do for her 
 children. But such thoughts are not for me. I must 
 not dwell upon them, for, when I do this, my heart be 
 comes rebellious and I cry out for a better life and 
 yearn for justice. I certainly am not wholly bad. 
 But what am I? How many of us are creatures of cir 
 cumstances and how many are not? Are we all judged 
 by the same standard? I would like to answer these 
 questions. The more I contemplate them the more I 
 doubt. But I try to make the best of what is and suc 
 ceed fairly well. No one can understand how my pres 
 ent peace and safety affect me after what I have gone 
 through. It seems as if I had recovered from some 
 horrible delirium that had left me, not as I was be 
 fore in perfect health, yet comfortable and almost 
 free from pain. Naturally I enjoy my release, and love
 
 282 PERDIDA. 
 
 my kind physician. Would not you, dear Sue, if your 
 experiences had been like mine? Yes, I know you 
 would, and I know that you will understand and think 
 kindly of me, too. I am astray, it is true, and not 
 what I would be, my life is not that perfection some 
 would insist upon; the world would condemn me with 
 out trial, and I now have no defense that would be 
 considered good. All that I ask of you, dear Sue 
 when in the coming years it shall be your sad duty to 
 think of me is that you will not forget your promise 
 to remember me at my best, and that you will always 
 find it in your heart to say of me, "Although she was 
 weak and unwise and not true to her ideal, she was but 
 yet a woman," and let that cover all the rest. 
 
 SEPTEMBER 27th. We have been in New York a 
 week and a half. I did not want to come, but Mr. 
 Sipperly said there was no danger of annoyance in 
 such a great city, and urged me so that I could not re 
 fuse him. The man actually misses me when we 
 are apart, and I can see that his regard for me is sin 
 cere and unselfish. He is the second unselfish man 
 I have known, and it is pleasant to think of it. All 
 the rest have been utterly bound up in themselves; 
 John Had ley worst of all, for had he been free from 
 that sin, he could not have treated me as he did. 
 Sometimes I think all sin is the result of selfishness, 
 and that if that trait could be removed there would be 
 no evil done. I try to be generous myself, but find it 
 difficult to keep pace with my good friend; and then I 
 am trammeled by my environment. 
 
 It seems a strange thing to be going about in the 
 city that was the beginning of my life work and life 
 failure, and I have not been happy here. The very 
 streets and buildings appear to be aware of my pres-
 
 PERDIDA. 283 
 
 ence, so I have gone out but little and stay pretty close 
 in our hotel. One of my walks, however, has brought 
 me a return, a very sad one it is true, but still some 
 thing that I wanted, for it has led me to Cora, whom I 
 have always wished to trace. Poor girl, hers has been 
 hard luck, and she is so light and frivolous and unfitted 
 to cope with trouble, that I fear for her. I met her 
 suddenly one evening, on Fifth Avenue, ran right up 
 to her, in fact, and the recognition was immediate on 
 both sides. I thought she would never let me go, she 
 held me so long in her arms. It was fortunate the 
 block where we met was deserted just then, and that 
 nobody saw us, or they would have thought us crazy. 
 She was not looking well and seemed unhappy. My 
 eyes detected this at once, and I made her come with 
 me and tell me all. She is nearly out of money and 
 has no work, but hopes to get some soon. What she 
 told me fills me with rage and arouses the worst pas 
 sions I have. I must enter it here, or my records will 
 be incomplete, but I detest the task. 
 
 It seems her parting from Mr. Stein was a friendly 
 one, and, hard as it plainly was, she baa no ill-feeling 
 toward him. He fell in love with another (I suppose 
 most of them do) and naturally wanted to be free of 
 past incumbrances. The other in this case happened 
 to be a rich widow, and, money being one of his de 
 sires, he felt that he ought to seize the new opportu 
 nity. Cora found it out before he got ready to tell her, 
 and at once told him he need not consider her at all in 
 the matter. They had an interview, in which he ex 
 pressed his regrets and all that sort of thing, and as 
 sured her of his continued friendship; but he does not 
 seem to understand, I infer, that he has broken her 
 heart, for the poor girl loved him fondly, though I can 
 not tell why. Of course, that being the case, she could
 
 234 PERDIDA. 
 
 not bear to remain in his employment, and he did -what 
 he could to get her a new place. She returned to New 
 York, and at once went to Mr. Jadman, who took her 
 in, knowing her value as a clerk, and she thought that 
 she was at least safe to get a living. And now comes 
 the queer part of her story, which only you, dear Sue, 
 can explain. 
 
 Cora says that, not long after her re-employment, she 
 was busy one day sorting some goods near the private 
 office, and overheard Mr. Jadman and Sue talking in 
 angry words, and that among other things she heard 
 there was something about a letter Sue said Mr. Jad 
 man had stolen, and that he then told her he forbade 
 her to go and she defied him. Cora was so astonished 
 she did not think to get away. A few minutes after 
 this Sue came out and said good-by to several people, 
 after which she left. Mr. Jadman followed almost im 
 mediately and, as he opened the door he saw Cora. He 
 at once turned upon her and accused her of eavesdrop 
 ping. The frightened girl could not deny that she had 
 overheard something, but promised never to tell. 
 
 "I ll see to it that you do not," said he and left her. 
 
 About an hour afterward Stivers came to Cora and 
 told her she was wanted in the office. Jadman was 
 there with one of the women floorwalkers, an old 
 enemy of Cora s with whom she could never get along; 
 and, as soon as she entered Stivers closed the door, and 
 Mr. Jadman said : 
 
 "I am very sorry, Miss Wasson, to have to suspect 
 you; but it becomes my painful duty to inform you 
 that you are liable to immediate arrest, if you do not 
 return that point de Venice you took this morning." 
 
 Cora tells me she thought for a moment she would 
 die of fright. The next instant she saw it was some 
 trick to get her into trouble and indignantly denied the
 
 PERDIDA. 285 
 
 
 charge. Her employer only smiled and said to the 
 
 floorwalker and Stivers : 
 
 "Get Miss Wasson s cloak and bring it here. I am 
 sorry, but we must search for that lace. If it is all 
 right, no harm will come of it." 
 
 Of course they found the missing lace. It was in 
 her wrap, where they had put it to convict the poor 
 girl. Cora saw that she was in a trap, and begged for 
 mercy, assuring them she did not steal the lace; but 
 Jadman smiled again and then dismissed the other 
 two, after which he said to Cora : 
 
 "This being a first offense, Miss Wasson, and 
 being a man of kindness who would not care to rob a 
 young person of her liberty, I have decided to say no 
 more about this matter. You may consider yourself 
 fortunate that I only discharge you from service with 
 out going further. That is all." 
 
 "No, it is not all, Mr. Jadman," said she. "You 
 have done this because I overheard what you and Miss 
 Dodge were saying, and I know it. You are mean and 
 cruel, and I would kill you if I could." 
 
 He frowned at her, told her to keep her temper, and 
 pointed to the door. 
 
 So poor Cora is out of work, without a recommenda 
 tion and is suffering from an unjust accusation. My 
 heart ached for her as she told the story, and I saw how 
 she had changed from the gay thoughtless girl I used 
 to know. She positively hates that man and speaks of 
 him in a way that frightens me. I made her give me 
 her address, and intend to ask Mr. Sipperly to help her. 
 I know he will do it for my sake. When she asked me 
 what I had been doing so long, I did not know v,-hat to 
 say. She told me how I had been treated by my aunt, 
 who must have detained her letter to me, and how 
 everybody thought me dead, so I saw that I would not 
 be liable to discovery unless she gave information.
 
 286 PERDIDA. 
 
 With this thought in mind, I made her promise to 
 keep my secret, and I know she will. The dear girl is 
 unhappy and I can see that she feels very sad and is 
 worried. She wanted to know all my past, but I told 
 her kindly that it must be a sealed book, merely men 
 tioning that I had found a friend, at which she seemed 
 pleased. She meets Sue occasionally, and says she is 
 doing well at old Mr. Sappleigh s. What the matter 
 was between her and Mr. Jadman, Cora does not know, 
 but she says Sue hates him as much as she does, and 
 seems greatly agitated when she mentions him. And 
 yet neither of these women has as much cause as I. Let 
 me drop the painful subject. I shall send Cora all my 
 money to-morrow before we leave the city. I know 
 Mr. Sipperly will approve, he is so generous; and then 
 I don t really need it. He is coming in now, and I 
 must pause. . 
 
 OCTOBER 30th : I have always feared that my hap 
 piness (such as it is) could not last. Nothing good 
 ever does last long for me. Now I know that the time 
 is near when I must part from my dear protector and 
 again go into the world alone. Of course Cora is left 
 me yet, for she knows enough of the truth to under 
 stand and is aware of my existence; but how can I ex 
 pect help from her. She is even weaker and more help 
 less than I. I must, I see it very plainly, abandon my 
 present position and my friend, and do it in such a way 
 that he cannot follow me. It is hard, for he is fond of 
 me and will miss me, and lam as happy with him as I 
 have any right to expect to be. With what complex 
 feelings do we often view our misfortunes. While I 
 clearly understand that it is not right for me to con 
 tinue as I am, I yet feel that what is necessary is also
 
 PERDIDA. 287 
 
 unjust, both to Mr. Sipperly and to me. Neither of us 
 has harmed anybody in fact, although both are theoret 
 ically doing wrong to others; and because these others 
 choose to stand upon what they consider their rights, 
 we must be made miserable to please them. It is un 
 just. Our parting will do them no good and it will 
 do harm to us, especially to poor me. 
 
 It has all come rather suddenly. Misery, like happi 
 ness, generally comes that way, I think. His sisters 
 began it. How they discovered the truth I do not 
 know, nor does he, but they did, and then immediately 
 proceeded to make trouble. They are middle-aged 
 ladies both unmarried, and live in a house of their own 
 that he gave them years ago and upon money that he 
 settled upon them at the same time. Mr. Sipperly tells 
 me (he has now told me his story) that when his father 
 died, all that was left him was tea thousand dollars. 
 Mr. Sipperly was at that time a young lawyer and in 
 good practice. He took care of the whole family, and, 
 as time passed, succeeded in making a great deal of 
 money. Then, when his fortune was secure, ho divided 
 it and gave his sisters two-thirds of all that he had 
 made from the original ten thousand dollars and set 
 tled them for life in a house that was his gift to them. 
 This certainly was very fair and just, for they had done 
 nothing toward the making of the fortune. But they 
 do not seem to appreciate his generosity, although they 
 claim to be very pious and are devout churchwomen, 
 much given to preaching Christian virtues and talk 
 ing of charity. I suspect that they belong to the same 
 set of Christians as my aunt, the kind that see only their 
 own goodness and make no allowances for others. 
 They certainly are mean and narrow. 
 
 Now comes the strange part of it all. Mr. Sipperly 
 is married. He has told me that he kept this secret
 
 288 PERDIDA. 
 
 from me because he did not think it could help matters 
 any to tell it, and because he did not feel that he was 
 deceiving me in doing so. Nor was he, for I have had 
 no right to question him, and he has done mo no wrong. 
 His wife is hopelessly insane and has been confined in 
 an asylum for years. She is an adventuress, who won 
 his favor when he was much younger than now, and 
 who cheated him into marrying her, for she was 
 not what she seemed but something very different, and 
 she married him with a lie on her lips. Later he dis 
 covered the truth and suffered much, but he bore it 
 bravely until she made him so unhappy by her conduct 
 that he could scarcely bear to live with her. She would 
 even steal and thus bring him into disgrace. Her 
 mind finally gave way, and she became a maniac; but 
 he will not divorce her and says that it is tis duty to 
 care for her through life. I think that is very honora 
 ble. I see now why he cannot marry. 
 
 Now, his sisters say he must abandon me or they will 
 make a great scandal about his conduct, and they 
 threaten to even go so far as to hurt his business if they 
 can, and one of them talks of public prosecution against 
 us both. They are simply frightful in their vindictive- 
 ness, and I almost believe they want to drive him to 
 death so they may get his property. I must leave him 
 for his own sake. It is the only way. He says he will 
 not let me, but ho must. What right have I to destroy 
 the friend whose generosity saved me from prison and 
 utter ruin? I shall go with pain in my heart, but I 
 shall go with a sense of happiness at the good I can do 
 in repayment of a great kindness. And, after all, it 
 does not matter much what becomes of me. 
 
 Years ago I read an old book that told of a man who 
 almost deceived an honest woman into marrying him, 
 when he had an insane wife living, and I felt sorry for
 
 PERDIDA. 289 
 
 them both, but could never justify the man. He lied 
 to the woman all through, and would have led her into 
 crime to gratify his selfishness. I think his was a poor 
 character, and realize how weak it was beside that of 
 my friend who would not lie, even to poor me, a worth 
 less creature, that could not be much harmed if he did. 
 Mr. Sipperly s sisters traced me yesterday when he 
 was away and called on me here. We had a fearful 
 interview. I would not have believed it possible 
 women who have always lived decently could use such 
 language. I cannot say that their reproaches hurt me 
 much, but it was painful to listen to their abuse of their 
 brother and to think they could talk so cruelly of a 
 friend and benefactor. One would think he had done 
 them a personal injury, and that nothing short of hang 
 ing us both could satisfy them. I did not say much to 
 them in reply to their ravings, but just let them talk 
 and spoke only in answer to questions that needed re 
 plies. I won t deny that they hurt me and that some 
 things they said were hard to bear with patience; but 
 I have known so much real sorrow that I have learned 
 to endure small irritations. I think my reticence and 
 quiet manner angered them, for they seemed very anx 
 ious to get me to show temper. Oh, what tongues they 
 have! There is not a possibility of vileness in the 
 English language that they did not exhaust upon me, 
 and yet they have the speech of educated ladies and 
 naturally good voices. I doubt whether even my aunt 
 could cope with them in vituperation. It sounded 
 queer to hear the words and phrases of the lowest life 
 in the mouths of cultured people. If there is anything 
 bad that they did not call me I have still to learn what 
 it is. And yet, in a sense, they spoke the truth. But 
 there was something in the way they did it and in their 
 hard, cruel vindictiveness that made me feel I am bet-
 
 290 PERDIDA. 
 
 ter than they. The only thing they did not do was to 
 suggest that they would like to reform me. I was 
 glad of that, for I believe it would have made me 
 saucy. After they left me, I got a wet towel and wiped 
 the place on the floor where they had stood. It seemed 
 to need it. Then I opened the windows and aired the 
 room, and felt better. How silly it was ; but I could 
 not resist the desire to do these things. 
 
 When Mr. Sipperly returned, I told him of the call, 
 and he seemed very sad and angry. 
 
 "Never mind," said he. "They shall not harm you 
 again." 
 
 I assured him they had not harmed me at all, and 
 only hoped they would not injure him. He smiled 
 sadly and said: "Let us hope not," and I saw that he 
 was troubled, but what could I do? I was myself the 
 cause of it all, and unless the cause is removed the 
 trouble will continue. 
 
 We spent a pleasant evening after that, and later I 
 sang him to sleep with some of the old ballads that were 
 once so dear to me. He is very fond of music, and 
 loves to have me sing for him. How sweet it is to 
 make others happy when you can. Dear friend, I can 
 see you now, reclining in your easy chair with your 
 kindly face half-turned to me as it lies against the 
 cushion, and can almost hear your gentle breathing, as 
 I sit here alone and recall the last calm night we shall 
 ever spend together, the night when I sang to you for 
 the last time, and realized how good a thing it must be 
 to be the happy consort of a man like you, and lull him 
 to his slumbers at the close of each fair day of mutual 
 respect and confidence. Ah, God ! How small a thing 
 it is we women need to bring us happiness. One true 
 heart to lean upon, one pure life to lead the rest is un 
 important, after all.
 
 PERDIDA. 291 
 
 I know that, if fate had been less cruel to me, if I 
 had been given only half a chance, the time would 
 surely come when I could be what I should be, the 
 well-beloved wife of such a man as you, and worthy of 
 my place in his affections ; for I am not wholly bad 
 and do not crave that which is evil. Therefore I say 
 so often to myself, what am I? Am I some unfortu 
 nate creature whose doom it is to pay the penalty of 
 others sins that others may be saved, or am I only a 
 wretched outcast crushed down forever by a load of 
 undeserved wrongs against which I struggle hopelessly. 
 You say, in your kindness, that I seem to you like 
 some unhappy angel whom misfortune has defeated of 
 her rightful place in heaven and cheated of her oppor 
 tunity on earth. I thank you for that, dear friend; 
 for, though you would make me better than I am, I 
 yet realize that there is justice in what you say, and 
 that, no matter what I am, I would gladly be what 
 you think me. 
 
 I have decided to go to-day. Nothing shall alter my 
 decision. I have written a letter to him, a letter which 
 explains everything and thanks him for all that he has 
 done. I do not want him to think I would leave him 
 for anything but his own good. He must not believe 
 me false or willful or unfaithful to any duty. But he 
 must consent. Henceforth our ways are parted, never 
 to unite again. He has been to me a savior and a 
 tower of strength in my adversity, and though I 
 frankly admit that the full measure of my heart s affec- 
 ion is another s and he knows it, he understands that I 
 would gladly dwell with him to the end of life if it 
 were possible. He will miss me, and I shall always 
 miss him. How could it be otherwise? But he will 
 be free from perils I dread to think of, when I am gone, 
 and that will make me happy. Rather than have any-
 
 292 PEEDIDA. 
 
 thing happen to him through me, I would quickly take 
 my life. Yes; I could even do that for his sake, 
 though I dare not do it for my own. How strange this 
 is. Good -by, dear, best of friends. When you return 
 to-night it will be to loneliness and sadness, I know, 
 but you will be free from harm, and I from having 
 harmed you.
 
 PERDIDA. 293 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 STILL DRIFTING ON. 
 
 SHE decided that in New York she would find the 
 best chance to get work and the surest guarantee 
 against discovery. No one but Cora knew she was 
 alive, and Cora would tell no tales. Again, Cora her 
 self was in need of a friend, and perhaps together they 
 might be able to get along somehow. So to New York 
 she went and there sought the companion of her first 
 misfortune. But Cora was gone from the place that 
 had been her lodging, and the woman who kept it 
 could give no information that would help to find her. 
 This made Nellie very unhappy, for she loved the weak 
 and wayward girl and pitied her because of her disap 
 pointments and the cruelty that she had suffered at the 
 hands of Jadman. The more Nellie pondered over that 
 event, and realized the extent of her old employer s vil 
 lainy the deeper became her resentment against him, 
 especially when she thought of others as well as of her 
 self. Everybody who had dealings with him and was 
 not strong and able to defy him seemed to become his vic 
 tim, and among these unfortunates were her friends. 
 Sue Dodge, the noblest of women, had been injured by 
 him in some way that was plainly very exasperating, 
 Cora, a wholly innocent person, had been driven from 
 her daily bread by his persecutions; and the more she 
 thought of these things and remembered old stories she 
 had heard and had not at the time believed, the greater 
 was her auger at the thought that this man, who
 
 294 PERDIDA. 
 
 seemed to be the incarnation of cruelty, should always 
 prosper, while those whom he injured were doomed to 
 misery. She knew from her own experience how diffi 
 cult it would be for Cora to get work, and was anxious 
 to help her with the little money she now had. 
 
 After securing a lodging in a secluded part of the 
 town, she decided that she would try an advertisement. 
 So she sent the following to the Herald: 
 
 "CORA W. Please communicate with old friend. 
 Important. 
 
 "SPRING VALLEY." 
 
 This with the newspaper box address she thought 
 would be sufficiently clear, while the signature "Spring 
 Valley," would not attract the attention of those whom 
 she did not wish to have trace herself. Surely Cora 
 would understand. The next day she called for letters 
 but there were none; so she tried again, but with no 
 success. She then bought a paper, hoping Cora might 
 have answered by "personal," but there was nothing 
 in the paper that she wanted. Reading down the col 
 umn, she saw an advertisement that she at once per 
 ceived was intended for herself. It ran as follows : 
 
 "NELLIE Please communicate. It must not be. 
 Anything but that. Only send word to 
 
 "JOHN J. S., Boston." 
 
 It was with a yearning heart that she read this mes 
 sage and realized its sincerity and the spirit of protect 
 ing affection that inspired it. But she had made up 
 her mind and would not change it, so she bit her lips 
 firmty and passed on. There was nothing else that 
 she cared for. An idle curiosity that often prompts 
 newspaper readers to glance over anything that seems
 
 PERDIDA. 295 
 
 easy to read now drew her to the column of death no 
 tices; and there she suddenly discovered something that 
 awakened memories and caused her to recall another 
 time and to think of another friend she had lost. It 
 was this : 
 
 "POPGRASS At Spring Valley, N. J., Nov. 1st, Elijah 
 Popgrass, beloved husband of Jane Popgrass and 
 brother of the late Ephraim Popgrass, aged seventy- 
 eight years and ten days. Funeral to-morrow at 
 three o clock P.M." 
 
 The things that are most natural and most expected 
 as we walk through life, often come upon us with a 
 shock. We all know that death is ever present, and 
 that nothing is so liable to happen as the decease of an 
 old man; yet the intelligence of the final event brings 
 with it a sense of surprise, and we do not easily accus 
 tom ourselves to view it as something we had looked 
 for as possible at any moment. Nellie understood of 
 course that a man of Deacon Popgrass age must soon 
 pass from life that it would be absurd to think of him 
 in any other way. Yet this announcement struck her 
 with such force that for a time it stunned her like a 
 blow. It was at least an hour before she collected her 
 thoughts, and, reading the notice again, brought her 
 self to contemplate it calmly. With this calmness 
 came a remembrance of the old man as she knew 
 him, and of the day when he drove her in his wagon 
 for the last time, and took her to his heart and com 
 forted her with the only kindness she had received dur 
 ing her awful ordeal. She recollected his gentle 
 glances and the tender clasp of his fatherly arms that 
 held her to his bosom like a child that needed rest, and, 
 with the recollection came a remembrance of his words : 
 "He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a
 
 296 PERDIDA. 
 
 stone at her," and then her emotion mastered her and 
 she cast herself upon the floor, and dug her nails into 
 the carpet, and gave way to an outburst of lamentation 
 that did not subside until the twilight came and physi 
 cal exhaustion brought calmness. 
 
 It seemed like the death of the last hope she had of 
 human sympathy to know that he was gone. He had 
 told her to call on him for help if she needed it, and 
 had meant what he said. He it was, when all others 
 failed her, who gave her assurance of his trust and 
 asked no guarantee. There was absolutely nothing 
 now that held her to the past. She was utterly alone. 
 So long as he was alive there had always been a possi 
 bility of seeing him again, in fact, he was the only 
 person she had ever contemplated going to some day; 
 but that was over now. Nothing remained. 
 
 They buried the old man from the little church that 
 had been his place of worship many years, and Pastor 
 Van Home, in words that spoke a deep sincerity, did 
 honor to his worth beside his coffined clay. Many were 
 present, for the old man had numerous friends in the 
 village and the country round; but there was none 
 among them all who felt his going more than one quiet 
 woman, who sat in a corner heavily veiled and seemed 
 a stranger to everybody there. And when, at the close, 
 the pastor invited "all who wished to take a last look 
 upon our dear departed brother" to pass around the 
 casket, and the people filed in solemn line of march, 
 down the aisle, it was this solitary woman who can e 
 last, lingering a little behind the rest as if she feared 
 close contact with them. Then bending over the aged 
 face, now beautiful with the calm that often comes 
 with death upon the faces of the venerable, she pressed 
 her lips upon his brow with passionate kisses, and
 
 PERDIDA. 297 
 
 quickly dropping her veil, she hastened sobbing from 
 the quiet church, entered a carriage that stood outside 
 and rapidly drove away. It was a nine days wonder 
 in the village, and the people wasted much time in 
 guessing who the lady was, but no one had recognized 
 her; so in time the matter was forgotten, and even Mrs. 
 Call, who was extremely curious to scent a mystery 
 had to give it up. 
 
 It was an irresistible impulse that caused Nellie to 
 attend the funeral of her old friend; she would have 
 gone even with the certainty of exposure, so strong was 
 her desire to look upon his face again. Now that it 
 was over, she felt better and a new strength had come 
 to her that helped her to view the present with less 
 anxiety. She renewed her efforts to get something to 
 do, going about from place to place, as she had gone 
 when in Chicago, but without success. It was the 
 same experience as before, but she was wiser now and 
 knew what to expect. Still it was disheartening. She 
 advertised again for Cora, but nothing came of it. 
 Plainly she was not reading the newspapers, even 
 assuming her to be in the city. Once she took a walk 
 through the old neighborhood that had been her home 
 for a time and passed the house where she had made 
 her first new friends. It looked familiar, and she could 
 imagine them inside spending the time as they used to, 
 and mutually cordial in their associations. The door 
 opened and a gentleman and a lady came out. Her 
 heart gave a great throb, for she saw at once that they 
 were her two former favorites, Mr. Sappleigh and Sue. 
 They were conversing quietly as they came down the 
 steps and she heard him say: 
 
 "Yes, indeed, Miss Dodge, the Pater is a good fellow;
 
 298 PERDIDA. 
 
 the very best man in the world. I knew you d agree 
 with me, and " 
 
 Nellie did not hear the rest. She followed behind 
 them at a safe distance as far as the corner, and then 
 turned back, lest they should perceive her. It was a 
 strange experience and it made her feel her isolation 
 keenly. Something in the sight of these dear friends, 
 who must always think her dead, added to her desola 
 tion. They, at any rate, were not changed. It was 
 herself. 
 
 In a few days her money would be gone. She knew 
 what that meant and dreaded it. Something must be 
 done, but what? In sheer desperation she picked up a 
 newspaper and began reading the advertisements, as 
 others have done before when ^in despair, as others al 
 ways will while wants exist and are supplied through 
 the medium of the press, and stopped at this : 
 
 "WANTED A good soprano for light parts. Must be 
 handsome and willing to oblige. Good pay to the 
 right party. Call at office between five and six. Ask 
 for Mr. Bosco. Columbia Garden." 
 
 It was almost five o clock. The advertisement prom 
 ised something. Why had she never thought of her 
 voice before? Perhaps it would yet win her a living. 
 She hastily put on her things and started. 
 
 The Columbia Garden was not hard to find. In fact, 
 it was not intended it should be, and it had a sign that 
 you could read as you run, even if running at the speed 
 of an electric fan. Briefly mentioned, it was one of 
 those places you can enter for nothing and leave for the 
 price of a glass o beer, after hearing the music, which 
 is free, and seeing the play, which ought not to be. The 
 city is full of them, and most of them seem to do a good
 
 PERDIDA. 299 
 
 business. Probably half the men who visit them are 
 harmless and injure neither themselves nor their neigh 
 bors, and are not influenced by the attractions in any 
 special way. The rest are hangers-on and loafers and 
 fellows who manage to live somehow without too much 
 work, and who are not, above taking a hand in a brawl 
 or picking a pocket or getting into any mischief that is 
 not murderously dangerous. Among them you can also 
 find occasional parties of young men who have simply 
 dropped in to see the show and who are not regular 
 visitors. These last are of the prosperous classes and 
 spend their time generally in more elegant resorts. 
 
 Nellie shrank a little at the sight of the place, but 
 she must live, and that fact gave her courage; so she 
 knocked at the door marked " Private" and asked for 
 Mr. Bosco. A small man of Hebrew stamp turned 
 about in his chair and faced her, sizing her up, as a 
 dealer might a horse, with a quick glance that had in 
 it the alertness of long experience at trading in certain 
 commodities. 
 
 "I have called to see about that advertisement," said 
 Nellie, pointing to the paper. 
 
 "Oh, yes," said he, "that s all right. Can you sing 
 light soprano parts and comic songs?" 
 
 Nellie said she thought she could. 
 
 "Then this is your first attempt at singing on the 
 stage?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Well, that needn t make any difference with me. 
 Let me try your voice. Come this way." 
 
 He led her into the theater and to the stage. There 
 was an old grand piano there. Calling to "Simmons," 
 he motioned her to take a seat and waited. 
 
 "Simmons!" he bawled again at the top of his voice. 
 "Come here. I want you to try a voice for me."
 
 300 PERDIDA. 
 
 At this second call a side door opened and a sleepy- 
 looking old man entered and walked lumberingly to 
 the stage. He had been drinking and was not very 
 steady on his legs, and Nellie was not pleased with 
 him. He appeared good-natured and smiled a solemn 
 kind of smile, but he was conspicuously dirty and 
 unkempt and seemed a creature without ambition or care 
 for anything. He seated himself on the piano stool 
 and ran his fingers over the keys. Nellie saw at once 
 that he could play well. Mr. Bosco had now gone to 
 the rear and was standing attentive. 
 
 " Vat shall ve sing?" said the old musician. "How 
 vill dis do?" 
 
 He handed her a sheet of music that contained a 
 popular song of the gay and vivid variety, with just 
 enough of real musical feeling in it to give it the right 
 effect if well sung, and turned again to the keyboard. 
 Nellie took it and seeing that it was familiar said she 
 would try it. 
 
 She had a really fine voice. Good training would 
 have developed it splendidly, and even as it was it 
 could not fail to charm. At first the old musician took 
 little interest in the performance; it was simply extra 
 business for him ; but in a minute or so, he became at 
 tentive, and after that they performed together with 
 that mutual feeling that inspires a true singer and a 
 faithful accompanist to the best results. She sang the 
 song to the end. 
 
 "Very good," called Mr. Bosco from the rear. "Now 
 give us something different." 
 
 It was a pathetic piece that next tested her voice, and 
 this she sang even better than the other. It was more 
 in harmony with herself and something of her personal 
 ity went into the song. Of course its words were trashy 
 and commonplace but the music was good and was
 
 PERDIDA. 301 
 
 capable of nice interpretation. She sang but half of it, 
 when Mr. Bosco called out again, saying "that will 
 do," and she stopped. 
 
 He then led her back to the office and asked her what 
 salary she expected. 
 
 "I do not know," she said timidly, "I have never 
 sung on the stage, but am willing to try my best." 
 
 "Yes," he said, "I see. Hard luck and need money. 
 Well, perhaps we can be helpful to one another. Do 
 you object to dressing in tights. I always ask them 
 that first." 
 
 "I d rather not do that," said she. "Do all the 
 singers have to?" 
 
 "No," said he, "I have both kinds, but them that 
 wears the tights get the best pay. It s funny," he 
 continued, "they re the poorest singers every time. If 
 I was in the business and could sing like you can, I d 
 wear em, and get all I could. It don t hurt you any." 
 
 "No," she replied, "I suppose not, and perhaps I 
 might do it some day. But I d rather not begin that 
 way." 
 
 "Well," said he, "I ll tell you what I ll do. 
 You re green at the business and may break down; 
 but I ll try you a week on songs and such things, and 
 if it s a go, we can do better. You just get some of the 
 songs that Simmons selects ready and rehearse them with 
 him to-morrow morning, and then you can begin in the 
 evening. I ll let you go on about three times to do the 
 pretty act and the pathetic songs, just for a beginning, 
 for you ve got a fine voice and are deucedly good-look 
 ing, and we ll see how it takes. Have you any cos 
 tumes? I supposed not. Well, we can fix that until 
 you get em. Miss McGuire will lend you something 
 that isn t too short in the skirt and that 11 do very well 
 for your act. Let s call it five dollars a week until 
 further notice. Is it a go?"
 
 302 PERDIDA. 
 
 Anything that promised honestly earned money was 
 "a go" with Nellie just then, so she agreed. It would 
 pay her board awhile and she still had a little money 
 left. The place and the work were not attractive and 
 she shrank from both, but after all, she said to herself, 
 what was she to be particular about her associates. 
 She would not be compelled to live with them. 
 
 Passing out, she encountered the old musician who 
 had played for her. He joined her at once and walked 
 along with her. 
 
 "Dat is a goot voice yon haf, Miss," said he cordially, 
 "It could be made excellent uf it haf der training. 
 Vy you vant to sing for Herr Bosco? Ah, I see ; it is 
 der money dat you need. Und so young und handsome 
 too. Vat wages did he offer?" 
 
 Nellie told him what had transpired. He shook his 
 head, sighed and answered: "Dat is not mooch, dear; 
 but it is somedings. I tink you do better by unt by. 
 So you vill not vear de tights. Dat is goot. I like 
 you better for dat. I shall see you to-morrow. Goot- 
 
 by." 
 
 He left her at a corner and entered a beer saloon. 
 Something in his manner touched her heart and she 
 liked him better. Plainly he was old and poor and not 
 happy. How much unhappiness there was in the 
 world. 
 
 Just then a carriage drove by, and glancing at it she 
 saw the faces of its occupants. They were Mr. Jadman 
 and a pretty girl whom she had never seen before. 
 The sight filled her with pain. His was the last face 
 that she ever wished to look upon ; and with the sight 
 came the realization of another dreadful truth, for she 
 doubted not that the pretty girl in the carriage was 
 some innocent creature, who, like herself, had mistaken 
 villainy for kindness. She walked to her lodging sad at 
 heart.
 
 PERDIDA. 303 
 
 Next morning she went to the theater to rehearse her 
 songs with Mr. Simmons. He was there before her 
 and was already at the piano with the music. There 
 was no one else ahout. What a dismal place it was. 
 An empty concert hall is uninviting at any time, but 
 in the morning it seems positively forbidding. This, I 
 believe, is true of any theater, be it great or small, 
 costly or cheap. Take from the place of public amuse 
 ment the life that its audiences give it, and it becomes 
 a thing that is dead and cold and cheerless. An empty 
 residence is hospitable in comparison, for it still sug 
 gests the possibility of a home-life by its decorations 
 and the subdivisions of its space. But there is nothing 
 in an empty theater that speaks of reality of any sort; 
 all its sham, from the painted scenery that shows dully 
 in the daylight to the empty boxes that give no thought of 
 anything but blank space. The whole life of the theater 
 is in the people. Without them there is nothing upon 
 which to fix the mind. Nellie felt, as she stood beside 
 the old musician, that she could endure the sight of the 
 audience that she dreaded better than this gloomy 
 barren vacuity of walls and roof. 
 
 She did not, in truth fear the audience as much as 
 most beginners do. There was that in her temperament 
 which nerved her to face almost anything that did not 
 suggest personal contact with disreputable things, and 
 she was brave and earnest in her desire to live honestly. 
 She would do her best, and that was all that anybody 
 could ask of her. 
 
 The old musician greeted her very kindly and seemed 
 glad to see her. His apathy of the day before had left 
 him, and there was a brightness in his eye and a spright- 
 liness in his movements that showed he was interested. 
 Worn out and indifferent as he was, he yet had that 
 musical sensitiveness which always marks the natural
 
 304 PERDIDA. 
 
 artist, and it was a pleasure to him to find a new voice 
 that promised something better than he was accustomed 
 to. Most of the singers at the Columbia were of the 
 class whose best efforts consisted in shrill screeching at 
 the top of the scale and whose performances are rather 
 in the nature of gymnastical than musical feats, and it 
 was therefore pleasant to think that at least one of his 
 pupils could really sing. 
 
 "Goot-morning," said he in his deep tones. "You 
 come on time. Dat is goot. Ve can get through soon. 
 Haf you hat a goot sleep?" 
 
 Nellie thanked him and said she had passed the night 
 comfortably. It was not strictly true, but she thought 
 it would please him to think so. 
 
 "Den ve vill try dis," said he, selecting the music. 
 "Now listen. Ven J T OU pegin you moost make a fery 
 low bow; dis way, see; und den you schmile at der 
 peoples, schust a leedle like you was glad to see dem. 
 Den I blay de intro like dis and den ve go off togedder 
 un don d care vat ve do nexd. If dey shoud ferry 
 hard, you make anodder low bow, and if dey shoud 
 a Hod more ve gif dem anodder song. Den berhabs 
 Herr Bosco offer you more pay not to go avay to some 
 odder show Now den." 
 
 In this way for about an hour, he trained her care 
 fully in her songs, giving her words of encouragement 
 meanwhile, until he felt she could safely go upon the 
 stage that night. She began to feel a friendly liking 
 for the old man ; and when they had finished, and were 
 walking from the theater, she thanked him for his 
 patience. 
 
 "Oh, dat is nodding," said he kindly. "Ve helb 
 vun anodder dat is all. I like you ferry mooch, mine 
 frient, und vant to helb you. Some uf dem is not so 
 gooder as you. It s a tough blace for a young voman,
 
 PERDIDA. 305 
 
 bat vun moost lif, my dear. Permit me to ask you uf 
 you vill blease gall me by my righd name ven ve haf 
 not to perform. lam Mr. Simmons indershow; but 
 mine name is Anton Schneidermann ven I leaf der blace. 
 Vunce I vas sebr proud of it, but now ah, but dat is 
 long ago." 
 
 Nellie replied that she would be glad to thus address 
 him as a friend and he seemed pleased. She added, as 
 she assured him of her gratitude, that she wished she 
 might reciprocate by telling him her name, but that 
 she really could not do it, and would have to ask him 
 to pardon her for thus treating him. 
 
 "Dat is all righd," he replied, beaming tenderly 
 upon her with his mild blue eyes. "I do not vish to 
 know it. It is petter so. But vat shall I call you?" 
 
 "You may call me Perdida, " she said. "It is the 
 name I shall always go by now." 
 
 "Ah!" said he very sadly. "I see, yes, I under- 
 staudt dear. Perdida" the name, spoken in his broad 
 German style with the long softened vowels, sounded 
 very sad and beautiful "poor leedle voman. It is a 
 goot name to vear, ven vun is lost and has not lost 
 vunself. I dank you, dear. I shall remember." 
 
 At the corner he left her and again entered the beer 
 saloon. Clearly it was his daily habitation. She 
 wondered what his history might be, and what it could 
 have been that had brought him so low, for plainly he 
 was a man who might have done better with his 
 talents. 
 
 That night the Columbia Garden was crowded with 
 all that is bad, and all that is not wholly bad, and 
 much that is neither bad nor wholly bad, nor yet pre 
 cisely good, and Nellie, dressed in a gorgeous robe of 
 blue, with plenty of spangles on her skirt that exposed 
 her stockings and her slippers to advantage, stood, for
 
 306 PEEDIDA. 
 
 the first time in her life, before the public. It was 
 with a sense of offended modesty that she donned the 
 attire Mary Ann McGuire, (whose stage name was 
 Mademoiselle Zelie), had loaned her, with the best of 
 good humor; but she knew it must be done, and bore 
 the shock with fortitude. Public shame was the one 
 thing from which she always shrank, and it seemed 
 almost like a shameful deed to dress in this way. And 
 yet it was nothing more than stage people are accustomed 
 to every day, and there are many ladies of pronounced 
 supposititious modesty who, I am told, often wish they 
 might emulate the example with a good excuse. Dress, 
 after all, is a matter of custom and environment. 
 What is correct in one place will not pass in another. 
 Nellie was not, therefore, violating any rule of pro 
 priety in appearing on the stage in the dress that Miss 
 McGuire had chosen for her. She knew it, yet it made 
 her feel ashamed. 
 
 What she had witnessed . in the dressing room also 
 disturbed her mind. The side rooms of a variety show 
 are scarcely the haunts of virtue and Puritanic de 
 corum. She had expected to meet coarse people and 
 was not surprised; but still it was painful to her to 
 have to do it. Bravely and cordially she joined the 
 company of "talent" that was there assembled, and 
 there was nothing in her manner that made them think 
 her shy of them. They simply considered her new to 
 the place and strange, and, with that kindliness that is 
 one of the redeeming traits of the people of the vaude 
 ville, they at once made her at home in their own way. 
 She was become one of them, and they were interested 
 in her and in her work; for these minor actors often 
 take note of the performances of their fellows and judge 
 them according to their worth as critically as the 
 greater artists judge the worth of those with whom
 
 PERDIDA. 307 
 
 they vie. It may be a low standard that they have, 
 but it is a standard just the same, for by it each must 
 rise or fall before the public which is the final judge. 
 It had got about that Manager Bosco had secured 
 the services of a new singer who was billed as "Madam 
 Perdida," and naturally the interest was strong to see 
 her and hear her sing. Manager Bosco was not behind 
 the times. After a talk with Simmons, he began to 
 believe that he had secured an attraction worth pushing; 
 so he issued new advertisements and made it a point to 
 let the world know of his "find." Nellie therefore 
 suddenly found herself the central figure on the pro 
 gramme, for it was her name that stood out in the big 
 gest type and outshone all the rest. She did not like it, 
 but it had to be borne, so she faced the audience coura 
 geously, when the crucial moment came, and secretly 
 relied on Herr Sohneidermann to pull her through in 
 case she wavered in her efforts. 
 
 He gave her a word of encouragement just before her 
 turn came, and then hastened back to his piano ready 
 for her entrance. At the call she hesitated an instant, 
 then walked firmly out and faced the audience, made 
 her bow and was ready. There was a clapping of 
 hands and stamping of feet and many of the men sit 
 ting at the tables that filled the room clinked their beer- 
 glasses together as a welcome to the new attraction. 
 She felt a sense of faintness steal upon her. Glancing 
 at her friend she perceived that his eyes were seeking 
 her with a look of earnest interest, and it did her good, 
 He was playing the introduction now, and there wt.s 
 little noise in the auditorium. Then she began to sing 
 and the spell was broken. 
 
 She sang not for the audience but for him. Forget 
 ting everything but the fact that he was near her and 
 would help her through, she let her thought remain
 
 308 PERDIDA. 
 
 with him and sent her melody to him alone. He was 
 a shrewd old musician. Perceiving the quality of her 
 voice and the character of her feelings, he had chosen 
 for a first selection an old German ballad that breathed 
 of love and loss and sorrow, and in this song had 
 trained her thoroughly until she sang it as her own. 
 Music of this kind was not generally given at the 
 Columbia, but the professor knew that on this occasion 
 it would be a hit. It certainly was. The girl, lean 
 ing upon the sympathy of the kind old man, utterly 
 forgot her timidity and sang as naturally and smoothly 
 as if none but herself and he were present, and there 
 was a charm in the melody thus rendered and in the 
 unconscious ardor of the singer that inspired the audi 
 ence with genuine enthusiasm very different from its 
 ordinary feeling. 
 
 The applause that followed was sincere and continu 
 ous ; and when she sang again the encore was received 
 with cheers. Manager Bosco was delighted, and rush 
 ing into the dressing room at the close of the song, he 
 grasped her by the hands and congratulated her with 
 much ardor. It was very fortunate all through. Even 
 the other vocalists did not feel envious ; for they per 
 ceived that this was not a singer of their kind and that 
 rivalry was not a feature of their association with her. 
 They gathered about her and freely gave their praise. 
 She had never experienced anything like this before and 
 it bewildered and frightened her, and made her cr}-. 
 Mademoiselle Zelie, now fully dressed for her appear 
 ance as "The Yankee Swell" in full tights and short 
 coat, saw the girl s embarrassment and drew her aside 
 away from the others, saying as she did so: 
 
 "Say you. Can t you see she s tired and nervous. 
 Let her have a rest. She ain t tough to the business 
 like us, and wants to be let alone."
 
 PEEDIDA. 309 
 
 "Oh, that s all right," said one of the other women, 
 a plump little blonde-haired thing, who was known as 
 "Mademoiselle De Lacy," and who was really plain 
 Jenny Schwartz. "We ain t going to eat her. Bi^.t 
 you can sing though," she continued, turning to Nellie. 
 "If I had a voice like yours I know what I d do." 
 
 "And what ud you do?" said Signer Zeccotti, the 
 World Renowned Prestidigitateur and Former Juggler 
 to His Majesty the King of Italy, "if you had a voice 
 like that?" 
 
 "I ll tell you what I d do, Jim Judkins," replied 
 Miss Schwartz, dropping into familiarity. "I d kick 
 my man clean out and make a strike for grand opera 
 and big money. That s what I d do." 
 
 At this they all laughed. Meantime the show was 
 going on, and various confused sounds were wafted 
 from the auditorium, among them occasional shouts by 
 the actors on the stage.and frequent calls for the waiters 
 by the men in the seats. The other selections that 
 Nellie had to sing were well received. She had fin 
 ished her work, dressed herself hastily and was about 
 to go away, when a man from the audience who had 
 entered the room accosted her. She had never seen 
 him. He came up to her and was about to put his arm 
 about her, when, perceiving his purpose, she drew away 
 and asked him to desist. He had no intention of doing 
 so, however, and, following her toward the door, again 
 tried to embrace her, whereupon she turned upon him 
 and struck him with all her might upon the face. It 
 was the first blow she had ever given in her life. Miss 
 McGuire entered just in time to see what had happened. 
 She at once addressed the fellow. 
 
 "Now see here, Mike Mullen," she said. "It s all 
 right to do about as you please here. This ain t no 
 fancy palace and it s not what you d call a downright
 
 310 PERDIDA. 
 
 decent place, and the men and women you meet ain t 
 always very particular how they act. But it s going 
 too far to force a woman, even here, and you know it. 
 We have got some rights, if we are low-down and not 
 all we should be. You don t know that girl and she 
 don t want to know you. Let her alone, or I ll call the 
 bouncer and have you put out. This is a respectable* 
 show. It s put that way on the bills anyhow, what 
 ever it is inside. Let the girl alone, I say, or you ll 
 wish you hadn t." 
 
 He left the room, and Nellie, who stood trembling 
 while the woman talked to him, now turned to her de 
 fender and said : 
 
 "Do let me thank you for that. I was afraid of 
 him." 
 
 "Ob, he s harmless," said Miss McQuire. "You 
 did just right. I d hit him myself if I wanted to, any 
 time. Look here," she added, eying the girl. "Did 
 you know what kind of a place this was before you 
 came here?" 
 
 "No; I did not," said Nellie. 
 
 "Well, then, let me tell you. It s a hell. A woman 
 can make a living out of it, and the talent are not so 
 very bad and are friendly. But the men that come 
 here are the worst in town, and don t you forget it. 
 I m telling you for your own good, for I can see you re 
 innocent and might be taken in. Take my advice; 
 don t trust anybody that comes here. I don t, and I m 
 twice as deep in the mud and ten times as wise as you. 
 Now you go home. Get there before the show is out. 
 Good-by," she added hurriedly, "I ve got to go on 
 again now." 
 
 Nellie hastened to her lodging, bewildered and sad, 
 and thought it over. Although she understood that 
 she had made a successful effort that would lead to a
 
 PERDIDA. 
 
 living and redeem her .from the further degradation she 
 dreaded, she did not like the prospect of a stage life 
 such as lay before her. Ignorant though she was of 
 matters pertaining to public entertainments, she yet 
 realized that she was already in a position to demand 
 good wages, at least as long as she proved a drawing card, 
 and knew that Mr. Bosco would raise her salary rather 
 than have her leave him. But the associations of the 
 place, the character of the men in the audience, the 
 performances of some of the actors, all the surroundings 
 in fact, were plainly sinful and disgraceful. It was 
 indeed a living that was promised her, and it was pos 
 sible for her to keep clear of evil-doing, but what a liv 
 ing it was! Every instinct of her better nature re 
 belled. Yet what could she do? She thought it over a 
 long time, seeing no escape, and it troubled her. Her 
 only course appeared to be this, or something worse 
 that she would not willingly accept. What the kind- 
 hearted wretch who defended her had told her was only 
 the truth, bluntly spoken for her good. She had her 
 eyes open and could do as she chose. Yet where was 
 the choice? 
 
 After long meditation, she resolved to try it awhile. 
 If it became no worse than it now was, she could en 
 dure it until she found something better; and in the 
 meantime she would try to save money. If her voice 
 was really as fine as Professor Schneidermann had 
 said, perhaps it could be cultivated, and then she would 
 try for a higher place in the world. It was worth 
 working for. 
 
 After coming to this conclusion, she dismissed the 
 subject from her mind, and wrote for several hours in 
 her diary, completing the record to date. This diary 
 had grown to be a sort of companion that soothed and 
 comforted her and eased her mind when nothing else
 
 312 PERDIDA. 
 
 would do it. Had she been a happy woman, it is 
 probable she would have dropped it long ago, for the 
 happy seldom care for things of this kind. But she 
 was not; and again, her life was now become a solitude 
 in which the diary was her only confidant, and she was 
 one of those mortals who need association with some 
 thing in which they can confide. Unfortunate girl. 
 She was defeated ; yet she still refused to surrender her 
 better self to the fate that pressed her down.
 
 PERDIDA. 313 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 IN THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW. 
 
 IT was as she expected. Mr. Bosco willingly con 
 sented to pay her twenty dollars a week as long as she 
 continued to draw, with the understanding that she 
 would sing every afternoon and evening. He was 
 shrewd enough to perceive that she knew her value and 
 might leave him, so he secured her at once, thus keep 
 ing her from other managers. She felt a touch of hope 
 at the prospect of future security and resolved to try 
 her best, no matter how disagreeable it might be. 
 And it certainly was disgustingly disagreeable; for it 
 was soon impossible for her to wholly avoid the visitors 
 at the theater. Neither the manager nor his patrons 
 would consent to have her always refuse to be enter 
 taining off the stage. 
 
 "You needn t care a plunk," said Manager Bosco, 
 when he explained his position toward his regular 
 patrons. "You don t have to do anything but be pleas 
 ant with them and let them waste their money as much 
 as they like. The care of your voice will be a good ex 
 cuse for not drinking much. Some of you girls are so 
 deucedly good," he added, "that I wonder how you 
 make a living at all. Now there is Miss McQuire. 
 She has a worthless husband, who don t give her a 
 cent, and two children to care for, and I can swear that 
 she never makes a dollar but what she gets from me. 
 She has her own ideas, but I think she s a fool. She s 
 good at character sketch though, so it s none of my
 
 314 PERDIDA. 
 
 business, and she makes herself agreeable. You won t 
 find it so very bad, when you get used to it." 
 
 So she tried to get used to it, for the sake of getting 
 out of it some day. Her only real pleasure was in the 
 occasional chat that she had with the old musician, who 
 took a fatherly interest in her and sought her company 
 whenever he could. Sometimes, when it was possible, 
 he would walk home with her, and these little mid 
 night trips were a welcome tonic to her weary heart. 
 It gave her a sense of protection to feel that even this 
 weak and lowly old man carried her in his mind and 
 cared for her safety, and often she would take his hand 
 and go beside him like a child that wanted to be led. 
 
 It pleased him to have her do this, and when he was 
 to go with her he would let his beer drinking wait until 
 they had parted, for he perceived that she did not like 
 to see him in liquor. Thus between the friendless girl 
 and the friendless man a friendship developed that was 
 tender and genuine and did them both good. Each 
 understood that the other was fitted for a better life and 
 that neither of them was willfully courting ill-repute. 
 Their mutual fondness for good music also bound them 
 together, and Nellie found in the old man a valuable 
 helper and hope-giver, for he assured her that she could 
 rise, if the opportunity would come and she would give 
 her voice the right training. 
 
 At parting he would stand upon the walk before her 
 door and take her hand in his and pause a minute be 
 fore he said "good-night," as if he lingered lovingly 
 and could not bear to see her go from him even for a 
 few hours, and sometimes he would fall into a habit of 
 his earlier days and would speak to her tenderly in Ger 
 man that she could not understand, but the tones were 
 gentle and they always did her good. 
 
 He was always attentive to her at the theater too,
 
 PERDIDA. 315 
 
 and, while playing for her, often showed his fondness 
 in bis manner and by the kindly words he spoke to her 
 as she passed him going on or off the stage; and when 
 it was impossible for him to be near her, owing to her 
 associations with the people he shunned as she did when 
 she could, it was with a nervous anxiety that he 
 watched her, as if he feared some harm might come to 
 her unless he were at hand to ward it off. She grew in 
 time to be a child in his affections whom he yearned to 
 take away somewhere to a better place, yet could not, 
 and his thoughts, that long had been concentrated on 
 nothing, were now continually of her. Thus they lived 
 their separate lives yet were bound together by the tie 
 of common suffering that made them fond of each 
 other; thus they plodded on, she still hoping for a bet 
 ter life while he hoped only that she might succeed. 
 
 Manager Bosco was developing nis place. He had 
 now got to a point where he was "solid with the police" 
 and had little fear of venturing ; so he added to the at 
 tractions of the Columbia Garden tables for "ladies," 
 that being in East Side parlance the correct designation 
 of women who cannot be ladies, as it often is of others 
 who ought to be but will not. Like the hiring of the 
 new singer, this too, was a "hit, "[and the place became 
 a center of more interest than before, and, of course, 
 paid larger revenues. It made no difference to Nellie 
 or the other "talent, " in truth it somewhat relieved them 
 of unpleasant duties in the way of extra entertainment 
 that they had been constrained to furnish, so they did 
 not care; but it was often with a saddened heart that 
 she gased upon the audience from the stage and saw 
 among the people women who she felt were not so 
 wicked as they seemed ; for she had learned much by 
 experience now, and knew the truth about the life that 
 lies beneath the surface of "the mad and merry world."
 
 316 PERDIDA. 
 
 One night, just as she was finishing her last song, 
 she chanced to cast her eyes upon the audience, and 
 perceived that there was a young woman sitting at one 
 of the tables who was looking at her with interest. 
 The glance of the woman was so fixedly intent upon 
 herself that she felt it. She finished her song, and, as 
 she made her bow, sought the woman s face again. 
 One look was enough. With a palpitating heart she 
 hastily left the stage, and, going around by a small 
 door that led to the main room, walked quickly along 
 the side passage and came out near the table at which 
 the woman sat. She was not seen by the woman, for 
 she approached from behind, and it was not until she 
 touched her upon the arm that she was aware of Nellie s 
 presence. As she touched the woman she spoke. 
 
 "Cora," said she softly, as if she did not wish others 
 to overhear. "Dear Cora, where have you been so 
 long?" 
 
 She seated herself beside the friend of her first sorrow 
 and looked lovingly into her face; and, as she did so, 
 felt the contrast between their appearance; for, while 
 she was gowned in richest silks, she saw that Cora s 
 garb was that of poverty and distress. Cora had not 
 spoken yet, but the tears that began to run down her 
 cheeks told more than words. At last she found her 
 voice. 
 
 "Oh, Nell," she said. "How good it is to find you, 
 and to know that you are still as true and kind as ever. 
 When I saw you up there, it seemed that you might 
 never look at me again." 
 
 "How could you feel like that?" said Nellie. "I 
 have hunted for you everywhere. I have even adver 
 tised for you. But I never could learn an} T thing about 
 you. This is a sad place for us to meet, dear, but it 
 is net a good time for an exchange of confidences.
 
 PERDIDA. 317 
 
 Won t you come home with me to-night when the show 
 is over, and then we can tell each other all." 
 
 Cora looked at the dress of her friend and then at her 
 own shabby garments. Nellie understood. 
 
 "Don t do that, dear," she said. "These clothes are 
 not what I would prefer to wear; but I have to wear 
 them or go without a living. Honestly, dear, even in 
 this wicked place where I sing for money that I must 
 have or starve, I try to be as decent as I can." 
 
 "I believe you, Nell," the girl replied. "You were 
 always anxious to do right. I wish I had been as true 
 to myself as you. But I never was strong like you." 
 
 "Well," said Nellie. "We won t discuss that now. 
 I must go and get my other dress and [remain a few 
 minutes to please the manager, and then we can go 
 home. Of course you ll come with me." 
 
 She hastened away, and Cora, ^left to herself, sat 
 wondering what it could all mean and how it happened 
 that her friend was singing in a variety show, when 
 she had long supposed her far away. A man came in 
 and took a seat at the same table with her and tried to 
 engage her attention, but she scarcely noticed him, and 
 after a few attempts at conversation, he came to the 
 conclusion that she was very dull company and moved 
 to another table. It was not very long before Nellie 
 returned, dressed simply and neatly and with no trace 
 of her previous attire about her. She seemed more like 
 the old Nell now. Taking her friend lovingly by the 
 arm she led her out by a private door and together they 
 walked to the lodging-place. 
 
 The "story that Nellie told Cora was brief and not 
 fully an account of her life. She said nothing of Mr. 
 Sipperly and merely went over the ground from the 
 time of their last meeting, telling of her engagement at 
 the theater and of her hope to some day rise into a
 
 318 PERDIDA, 
 
 higher and purer musical life. Then she asked Cora 
 to explain her troubles and offered to help her all she 
 could. 
 
 The story that Cora had to tell was simple. It was 
 merely the tale of a weak and helpless girl out of work 
 and without recommendation. Once in her desperation 
 she had gone to Mr. Jadman, she said, begging him to 
 either take her back or help her, but he had sent her 
 away with the announcement that, if he found her at 
 work anywhere he would make it his business to let 
 her employers now of her thievery and of his generos 
 ity in not sending her to jail. After that it was a story 
 of hunger and despair, and final acceptance of the com 
 mon fate of girls who have no honest means of liveli 
 hood. Nellie grieved, as the words that told of this 
 struggle fell from her friend s lips, and she felt a new 
 bitterness toward the man who had been so cruel to 
 them both. 
 
 "Oh, Nellie," said Cora. "You don t know how I 
 hate him. I m not naturally vindictive, I m easy 
 going and tender-hearted, but often I feel that I could 
 kill him and enjoy the deed. I think Sue Dodge would 
 almost like to kill him too. I don t know what it was 
 he did to offend her, but I have met her once or twice, 
 and there was a look in her face when we spoke of you 
 and of some other things that was positively murderous. 
 I know I d be pleased to see him dead. It may be 
 wicked, but I can t help it." 
 
 "Yes," said Nellie, "It is wicked, and yet I suppose 
 it s human. Don t talk about it any more Do you 
 know I have an idea that Mr. Sappleigh would help 
 you to get work if you went to him." 
 
 "Yes, I know he would," said Cora. "But I can t 
 tell him the truth." 
 
 "You can tell him what Mr. Jadman did to you, and 
 that will be sufficient."
 
 PERDIDA. 319 
 
 "Would you go with me, Nell?" 
 
 "No," said Nellie promptly. "That I cannot do. 
 Mr. Sappleigh thinks me dead, and must continue to 
 think so. It is kinder to him. You understand, dear. " 
 
 "Yes," said Cora. "I think I do. And yet, he 
 loves you, Nell ; I know he does. 
 
 "That is the reason," replied Nellie gently. 
 "Now," she continued, "you must remain with me 
 until you really wish to go. You must let me help 
 you. You can soon get your things here." 
 
 "Yes; I can do that, but I can t pay my way if I do 
 as you say." 
 
 "Of course you can t; but what of that. You will 
 repay some day ; and then, I shall have you with me, 
 dear, and you are the only friend I have in the world. 
 Oh, Cora, just think. I am utterly alone and so are 
 you. Abandon that life and we will live together 
 somehow. Let me help you." 
 
 She clasped her arms about the girl, as she spoke, 
 and laid her head upon her shoulder. Cora felt the 
 tenderness of this friend who could forgive and love so 
 freel3 r , and it moved her deeply. She threw her own 
 arms about the neck of her companion, and together 
 they drank in the sense of comradeship that came to 
 them in their wretchedness and isolation. 
 
 It was late, but Nellie insisted on going with her to 
 get her things, which Cora said were all in a valise. 
 Everything else that she had owned was long ago 
 pawned. It made Nellie s heart ache to think how 
 poor and unhappy this bright, weak girl had been. 
 She understood that no girl of her temperament could 
 cope with the world alone, and felt no sense of con 
 demnation against her. And then the old question 
 came and she said to herself. "What am I, that I 
 should blame her? We will fight it out together."
 
 320 PERDIDA. 
 
 Cora had a room in a miserable place where none but 
 the lowest ever dwell. It was a house kept by an old 
 Frenchwoman who was half a Jew, and few knew much 
 about its character. There are many such, and if their 
 proprietors pay well and keep quiet, no one makes it 
 his business to look them up, for the task is not pleas 
 ant and brings no glory to him who undertakes it. 
 
 Thither the two young women went, passing through 
 the streets, as thousands pass every night, unnoticed 
 and unmolested, for New York is a safe city and peo 
 ple may go about almost any where at night without 
 harm. As they walked along, Nellie spoke frequently 
 of the future and the hope that lay there, and Cora felt 
 that perhaps things would really get better after a time. 
 It strengthened her to have her friend back and to take 
 some of her courage to herself. They reached the place 
 in half an hour, and Cora knocked at the door. It was 
 opened by the woman, who glanced at Nellie but 
 seemed to take no special notice of her, Cora merely 
 saying she was a friend. The woman seemed uneasy 
 about something. 
 
 "Could you come upstairs a minute?" she said to 
 Cora. "There is something I want to tell you. Your 
 friend can come too. I ve got a sick child there that I 
 don t know what to do with." 
 
 They followed her up the rickety stairs to the top 
 floor, and entered a back room. A lamp was burning 
 on a table, and in the farther corner stood a bed upon 
 which lay a child. 
 
 "She s quiet just now," said the woman, "but it 
 won t last. I m afraid she s going, and I don t know 
 what to do about it. You see, I m trying to keep a 
 quiet house, and don t want no trouble. The child 
 don t belong to me nor to anj T body that I know. I was 
 a fool to let her come here, and now I see it plain. But
 
 PERDIDA. 321 
 
 you know how it is in this business when people offer 
 you big money. You just shut your eyes and take the 
 chances. I never let anybody bring a child here before, 
 but the man gave me good pay, and promised to take 
 her away soon, so I let him bring her. Now I m 
 afraid she s going to die, and I don t know what to do. 
 I m scared to send for a doctor. What would you do?" 
 
 "Let rne see the child," said Nellie, "perhaps she is 
 not so sick as you think." 
 
 "She s very sick," said the woman dully, "I can see 
 that, if I can t see what to do. What I m afraid of is 
 they ll arrest me and make me trouble, if I can t ex 
 plain who she is and how she came here. Take a look 
 at her and see for yourself. She s a pretty little thing. 
 I say it s shame to bring a child like that here. It 
 ain t right." 
 
 She took the lamp and set it on the mantel so it s 
 light would fall upon the bed. The child moved rest 
 lessly and moaned. Nellie and Cora went softly to the 
 bedside. In another instant Nellie was bending over 
 the child with a look of horror on her face. 
 
 "Oh," she murmured with a sob, "what does this 
 mean?" 
 
 Cora caught the words and quickly touched her hand 
 saying : 
 
 "What is it Nell? Do you know her?" 
 
 "Yes," said Nellie. "She is the daughter of one of 
 my old neighbors. Poor little Mary!" she continued, 
 kissing the pallid brow of the little girl. Then turn 
 ing to the woman she said : 
 
 "I know this child. May I take her away?" 
 
 "Indeed you can, and the quicker the better. But I 
 fear she can t be moved. God knows I d get her out 
 of the house if I could." 
 
 "Well," said Cora, who was more calm than the
 
 322 PERDIDA. 
 
 others. "Let us remain with her till morning and 
 then try. Meantime what would you advise, Nell?" 
 
 Nellie had been thinking painfully, with that inten 
 sity of thought that comes to noble natures when the 
 question before them is literally one of life and death 
 and they are called upon to act with promptness for the 
 good of some one else. She made her decision quickly. 
 
 "Get me a piece of paper and a pencil," she said. 
 "I will try to save her." 
 
 The woman brought them to her, and, standing be 
 side the mantel, she hastily wrote a letter, folded it and 
 addressed it. 
 
 "Cora," said she, "you can do me a service now. 
 You did not think the time would come so soon, did 
 you? Take this; go out and get the first messenger 
 you can secure. You will find the district telegraph 
 offices open on Broadway. Here is the money for the 
 charge. Then return and I will tell you what I have 
 done. Only go quickly. It will be all right," she 
 said to the wondering woman, as Cora left the room. 
 "No trouble will come to you. Perhaps you can help 
 me. I know this little girl and will take her. Who 
 brought her here?" 
 
 The tone of her voice was a command, and there was 
 something in it and in the manner of the young woman 
 that made the other afraid, hardened though she was. 
 
 "Honest, miss, I do not know. He was a midde- 
 aged man, good looking and stout, but he gave me no 
 name. He paid me well and I said nothing. I was 
 hoping he d soon take her away for I don t approve of 
 using children that way. Then she fell sick and he 
 hasn t come since. I wish I hadn t let him bring her." 
 
 Nellie saw that the woman was not lying. Clearly 
 she had no information to give. 
 
 "Has the child said anything to you? *
 
 PERDIDA. 323 
 
 "No; nothing that s of any use. I once heard her 
 crying and begging him to let her go away, and I think 
 she was afraid of him and did not dare talk. Then she 
 got sick, and only spoke like she was crazy. She calls 
 for some one all the time." 
 
 Nellie sat upon the bed and watched. The child was 
 restless now, and would soon arouse. She opened her 
 eyes and looked wildly about the room. 
 
 "Who s there?" she said. "Is the man gone? Oh, 
 where s my mamma? Why can t she never come any 
 more? But she s dead; I remember now; and my dear 
 big aunty s gone away too, and I don t know where 
 she is." 
 
 Nellie felt something tug at her heart as she listened. 
 She moved a little closer, and bent above the face of 
 the girl, looking into her eyes with all the yearning 
 that lay in her soul, and spoke very quietly. 
 
 "Never mind, dear," she said. "It was only a bad 
 dream. Aunty is here." 
 
 As she spoke she laid her hand upon the burning 
 brow of the child, whose fever had now returned, and 
 smoothed her hair. 
 
 "Look, dearie; don t you see me? Nellie is here. 
 You haven t forgotten the Nellie that you always loved 
 so much?" 
 
 The wondering eyes of the child were now fixed upon 
 her countenance, and as she recognized the young 
 woman, a welcoming smile illumined her face. She 
 raised her weak, thin arms and clasped them about 
 Nellie s neck, drawing her head down beside her own 
 upon the pillow, and for a long time was silent. At 
 length she spoke. 
 
 "Oh," she said, "how long it was. Tell me, dear 
 aunty, have I been asleep long?" 
 
 "Yes, Mary. A very long time. But you can sleep
 
 324 PERDIDA. 
 
 again now if you want to, because I am going to stay 
 with you." 
 
 "I don t want to sleep any more," said the child. 
 "I just want to look at you and love you all the time. 
 Sometimes I think I must have been a very bad girl to 
 be treated so, and then I think it was only because 
 mamma is dead and you were gone and there was no 
 body to protect me. The city is a very bad place for 
 little girls. But you won t leave me any more." 
 
 "Never again. With God s help I ll keep you near 
 me always," said Nellie fervently. "What a fearful 
 thing this is," she muttered. "What devil could it be 
 that would thus abuse a child and abandon her to die 
 in a place like this?" 
 
 There are moments in the experiences of some of us 
 mortals when we feel toward certain others of our 
 fellow-men, that, if we had it in our power to control 
 the lightnings of the heavens, we would hurl them 
 without mercy at their heads, destroying them utterly 
 and wiping every suggestion of their existence from 
 the earth. We feel as though there must be something, 
 even in the wisdom of God, that is wanting that He 
 should permit the wrongs that are done before our eyes, 
 and that vengeance, the prerogative of Himself alone, 
 is a right we would gladly exercise if we could. It is 
 a dangerous feeling that comes upon the human soul 
 when it is thus aroused by the sight of another s evil 
 works, and fortunate indeed is he who has the will to 
 control it ere it is too late. There was something of 
 that feeling in Nellie s soul, as she gazed upon this 
 miserable child and thought of what had happened. 
 But her more tender sentiments were soon aroused 
 again, as she knelt beside the sufferer and let her feel 
 the comfort of her presence. 
 
 "You are not afraid now, are you?" she said.
 
 PBRDIDA. 325 
 
 "No; I m not afraid now," replied the girl; "but 
 you won t let him come any more will you?" 
 
 "No, indeed, dear; he is not coming again." 
 
 "That is good," said the girl. "Because he is cruel 
 to me and says he will have me put where there are 
 dreadful things, if I tell." 
 
 "Do not be afraid," said Nellie, stroking the thin 
 hands that clasped her neck. "He would not dare to 
 return." 
 
 "That is very good. I feel better. It is pleasant to 
 feel that I shall never see him any more. I think he 
 must be a very bad man." 
 
 Nellie felt a strong desire to know who it was of 
 whom the child spoke. She must know. She put the 
 question very kindly, fearing to wound. 
 
 "Would you please tell me who it is that you never 
 want to see again?" 
 
 "Oh," said Mary, "don t you know? I thought you 
 did. It s the man where I worked as cashgirl after 
 mamma died, Mr. Jadman. I think he s a very bad 
 man." 
 
 "Yes," replied Nellie with forced calmness, "a very 
 bad man I must get up a minute," she continued, 
 "but I will come right back." 
 
 The woman sat apart in the farther corner of the 
 room, while the sick girl and Nellie were talking, and 
 seemed not to know what to do. Nellie went to her 
 and, standing so that the child should not hear what 
 she said, spoke to her, saying : 
 
 "I, of course, know nothing about your arrangement 
 with the man who brought that child here, but I know 
 the man. She has told me his name. If any trouble 
 comes of this matter, call on me. You do not need to 
 stay here unless you want to, and the person I have 
 sent for will come with my friend. I think we can 
 arrange it all safely."
 
 326 PERDIDA. 
 
 The woman thanked her with a word of sordid grati 
 tude for helping to "get a poor widow out of difficulty," 
 and said she would wait below. Nellie was now alone 
 with the sick child. 
 
 Returning to the bedside, she bathed the little girl s 
 face with some cool water that was in a pitcher on the 
 washstand, smoothed the coverings and made her more 
 comfortable. Then she knelt beside her as before and 
 took her hand, critically studying her face as she did 
 so. The girl was lying very still and was not in pain. 
 The fever, that had returned at the moment of her ex 
 citement on recognizing her friend was gone again, and 
 she was pale. This was not the first sick child Nellie 
 had cared for; she was no stranger to illness and 
 death ; and the more she watched the little patient the 
 more she realized that her chance of life was slender. 
 She had burned her vitality out long ago, alone in this 
 wretched chamber without help beyond what the old 
 woman may have given her, and there was not much 
 to build on, even with the best of nursing. She was 
 trying to speak again, but it was plain that her effort 
 was feeble. Nellie moistened her lips with a wet hand 
 kerchief. She smiled a grateful smile and opened her 
 eyes an instant. There was that in them which told of 
 coming death. With her disengaged hand Nellie softly 
 smoothed the hair that clung about her brow, then 
 wiped the dampness from its marble surface. Thus it 
 was that Cora and the old musician found her, like 
 some ministering angel at the gate of death, soothing 
 the last moments of a dj T ing child. 
 
 Cora had made it a point to go with the messenger, 
 so anxious was she that he should not loiter on the way. 
 That was the reason she and Herr Schneidermann came 
 together. He made no delay when the message reached
 
 PERDIDA. 327 
 
 him, but joined her in the street, and hailing the first 
 cab that he saw put her into it and followed her, after 
 giving directions to the driver. 
 
 The message he received read as follows : 
 
 "DEAR FRIEND: Please come to me at once. I in 
 close address. I will tell you all to-morrow. I need 
 your help to save a dying child, and know you will re 
 spond. Help me to save this child and God will bless 
 you. Bring a doctor whom you can trust. 
 
 "Faithfully, 
 "PERDIDA." 
 
 As they entered the room, Nellie motioned them to 
 be quiet, and Cora and the musician paused near the 
 door. An elderly man was with them. He was a 
 German physician with whom Herr Schneidermann 
 was acquainted, having known him many years ago 
 when in better circumstances. He stepped quickly to 
 the bed, with that alert yet silent movement which is 
 characteristic of people familiar with the sick room, 
 and took the hand of the dying girl in his without 
 speaking. Nellie made way for him and watched him 
 as he silently studied the symptoms of the patient and 
 timed her heartbeats by the pulse-waves in the slender 
 wrist. Cora and the musician drew nearer, while this 
 was going on, and stood at the foot of the bed. There 
 were tears in the eyes of the kind old man, as he gazed 
 upon the child and saw how ill she was, and perceived 
 the wretchedness of her condition. 
 
 "Ach Gott!" he said in a whisper. "Das ist herz- 
 brechend. Vill she lif, Herr Mohl?" 
 
 The physician sadly shook his head. 
 
 "No;" he replied slowly. "Dere is not hope. It is 
 alretty as goot as ofer now. So sad, so sad," he con-
 
 328 PERDIDA. 
 
 tinued, looking at Nellie. "It is too lade. She vill 
 soon be mit der angels. Perhabs it vas petter so." 
 
 "I feared as much," said Nellie, laying her hand 
 again upon the brow of the child. 
 
 "Yes," said he. "It is so. Dere is nodding I can 
 do for her. Die madchen is not for der physician now; 
 she belongs mit Gott. She may refife but it vill be only 
 der ending. I cannot help her. It is not for man to 
 do it. In der morning I return and gif der certificate. 
 It is all I can do." 
 
 He then left them, going quietly down the stairs, 
 and Nellie returned to her place beside the child, hold 
 ing her hand in hers and wiping the death-dew from 
 her face at frequent intervals, as the time passed, while 
 Cora and the professor watched her from their stations 
 at the foot of the bed. 
 
 "Dear friends," said Nellie turning to them fora 
 minute, "stay with me until the end. Let me tell you 
 briefly why. This little p irl is dear to me. Long ago 
 in happier days I learned to love her. Her mother is 
 dead. I did not know that until to-night. She was 
 brought here to perish, by a villain you and I both 
 know, Cora. I need say no more about that. But she 
 must not be buried in a nameless grave. When all is 
 over I want you to help me lay her away as I would a 
 child that was my own." 
 
 They nodded an assent and she turned to the sick 
 girl. The child was moving now. It was the coming 
 of the last rally and would precede the end. Her 
 breathing became stronger and a thrill of life stirred in 
 her veins. Then she opened her eyes and turned them 
 toward her friend, and her little hand closed upon the 
 fingers that held it. 
 
 "Aunty," she said: "I love you very much; you are 
 so good to me. You will stay with me now until I go 
 to sleep again, won t you?"
 
 PERDIDA. 329 
 
 "Yes, dear; always, even nnto the end. " 
 
 She closed her eyes, but it was only for an instant. 
 Once more they opened and sought the face they loved, 
 but there was a strange look in them and an expression 
 of fear. The child began to talk again in a manner 
 that showed she was partially delirious. It was so 
 pitiful to hear her that the old man could not bear it. 
 He covered his ears with his hands, and turned away 
 while it lasted. 
 
 "Are you there, aunty?" she called feebly. "Don t 
 let him come ! Please keep him away. Tell him you 
 will not let him get me Oh, please let me go, Mr. 
 Jadman! I ll be a good girl and won t make any 
 trouble, if you ll only let me go; indeed I will! My 
 mamma is dead, and I want to find my Nellie. Don t 
 let him get me, aunty!" Thiis she rambled on for a 
 time, while Nellie stroked her hair and tried with gen 
 tle speech to win her back to consciousness and peace, 
 and Cora clinched her hands until the finger nails cut 
 her flesh. 
 
 "This is too terrible!" she said, "I cannot endure it! 
 Why did not some one kill that man long before it 
 came to this? I wish he was dead." 
 
 A milk wagon rattled over the pavement. It was 
 the first announcement of the coming dawn. Far off 
 the calling of a newsboy could be heard cheerily pro 
 claiming to the world the advent of another busy day. 
 The shrill piping of a roundsman s whistle cut the si 
 lence as it fell upon the ear and told of vigilance that 
 guards the people while they sleep. Sparrows that 
 dwelt upon the roofs of the houses awoke and their 
 querulous chatterings added to the proof that night 
 was passing and the morning near at hand. But the 
 child did not hear these sounds; nor did the others heed 
 them.
 
 330 PERDIDA. 
 
 Suddenly the spell was broken. With a sigh she 
 ceased her troubling, and the light of intelligence again 
 showed in her eyes. 
 
 "Aunty," she said; "I m so tired. Put your arms 
 around me and let me go to sleep.
 
 PERDIDA. 331 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE MYSTERY OF THE PRIVATE OFFICE. 
 
 " It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God." 
 
 Hebrews X, 31. 
 
 OLD Mr. Sappleigh was right. He had often said 
 that Samuel Jadman would some day be found dead 
 and it was so. 
 
 Lying upon the floor of his private office, not far from 
 the chair in which he had been sitting when he was 
 shot, the porter Stivers found him, one morning, when 
 he went to openlfoe store. The little side- door that let 
 upon the street was closed, but the bolt of its lock had 
 not been thrown and the key was still on the inside, 
 and it was evident that the murderer had passed out 
 that way. An old gray cat, that had long been an in 
 habitant of the place and was fond of sleeping in the 
 office, was also there with the dead man, and was lap 
 ping the blood that yet flowed slowly from his temple 
 as she kept her horrid vigil at his side. A pistol of 
 elegant design and finish lay near upon the rug, and 
 had probably been dropped there after the shot was 
 fired, and with it was a glove that once had been the 
 covering of a woman s hand. That was all the porter 
 saw. 
 
 Hastily noting these things, he opened the side door 
 and, rushing into the street called for the police. An 
 officer, who was just turning the corner heard his voice, 
 and at once retracing his steps came toward him at a 
 reasonable pace but without undue acceleration of his
 
 332 PERDIDA. 
 
 professional gait. He was accustomed to sudden calls 
 and had learned by long experience that it seldom pays 
 to hurry, unless you see a man running. Barring this, 
 it is wise to maintain one s dignity and not give way 
 to overexcitement, if a member of the force would 
 command respect ; so the officer did not hurry, but ap 
 proached the agitated porter with calmness and with 
 out apparent interest beyond a willingness to listen to 
 what he might wish to say. 
 
 Leading the way, Stivers re-entered the private office 
 with the policeman and pointed to the murdered man. 
 The cat was still licking his face and seemed loth to 
 leave, but a kick from the porter s boot sent her scurry 
 ing into the gloom of the still unopened store. She 
 was of no consequence and could give no information, 
 so the officer scarcely noticed her. But he was more 
 attentive to other details. He examined the dead man 
 without moving him from his position, took in every 
 item of the surroundings, marked the places where the 
 weapon and the glove lay, after which he took posses 
 sion of them, asked the porter a few questions, and 
 then turned to the telephone and sent a message to his 
 chief. 
 
 "It s plain murder," he said. "They ll be here in a 
 minute. Of course I ll have to take you with me as a 
 witness; but you needn t mind that. It s only a form. " 
 
 " I know that," said Stivers. "But I don t like 
 being mixed up in it. All I know is what you know. 
 If the cat could speak she might say something worth 
 telling." 
 
 The policeman nodded his head, and again scanned 
 the items of the office equipment. He took the pistol 
 from his pocket and examined it critically. 
 
 "Foreign," he said, "I d swear to that, and fine. 
 Common folks don t buy guns like this. It s a high-
 
 PERDIDA. 333 
 
 up case sure. Kind of thing dudes and fancy fellows 
 sometimes carry." 
 
 Putting it safely back again, he drew the glove from 
 another pocket and examined it. 
 
 "Woman s glove," he said, "good quality; foreign 
 too, like the gun. Number six ; ordinary size for lots of 
 em. Wish it was small or large. Not very old, and 
 not very new. Rip in the first finger that s been 
 mended. I d give good money to get the mate of this. 
 It would tell something." 
 
 "Yes," said Stivers, "it would; but the cat could 
 tell more if she could speak." 
 
 The officer nodded again, but said nothing. By this 
 time others had arrived and they were preparing to re 
 move the body. 
 
 "You can stay here and take charge of the store until 
 called," said the superior, after he had taken down the 
 officer s statement. "Of course you will be wanted," 
 he added turning to Stivers, "but I will leave you here 
 awhile to help the officer watch the store. Don t open 
 to-day. Keep everybody out until orders." 
 
 They went away then, carrying the dead man with 
 them; and in a few seconds the rattling of the wagon 
 that bore him to the station could be heard upon the 
 pavement, and Stivers and the policeman were alone. 
 
 If the cat could speak. Yes ; Stivers was right about 
 that, for the cat had seen the deed done and might have 
 been a valuable witness up to a certain point. It is 
 difficult to fancy just what a cat would have to say 
 about a matter of this kind, for we humans are not 
 sufficiently in touch with the lower animals to know 
 precisely how they look upon our affairs, or with what 
 feelings they contemplate our actions. But, if the cat 
 could have been used as a witness, it is possible that 
 her testimony might have been something like this,
 
 334 PERDIDA. 
 
 even if she was not able to "understand the nature of 
 an oath, and could only make a statement. 
 
 "I was dozing in a big chair that I like. The man 
 was sitting at bis desk, doing something that I have 
 often seen him do. He had papers and a small stick in 
 his hand. He was quiet. I was not asleep; I don t 
 sleep much at night; I was just comfortable and some 
 times my eyes were open and sometimes they were not. 
 There had been a woman in the room, but she was 
 gone. I was glad, for her talking disturbed me. I 
 don t know whether she was a tall or a short woman. 
 She had clothes but I don t remember what they were 
 like; I never do notice clothes. All I know is that the 
 clothes were woman s clothes, not man s. Did she 
 drop a glove? I do not know. I am too old to notice 
 such things. When I was a kitten I would have seen 
 it and would have wanted to get it to play with, but I 
 have got past such frivolities. The woman was talk 
 ing with the man. They made a good deal of noise 
 and it disturbed me. That is all I remember about 
 that. Then she went away. How did she go ? Oh, 
 yes! She went out through the store. I remember 
 that, because the small door was not opened. It al 
 ways annoys me when it is opened, because it lets in 
 the noises from the street. Then I dozed again. How 
 long? I don t know. How can I tell how long I sleep. 
 I must have gone off that time, for the next thing 1 
 remember is feeling the little door open. 1 always 
 feel it because of the noise and the air coming in. I 
 opened by eyes. There was a woman just entering. 
 How was she dressed? I don t know, but she had 
 clothes. Was she the same woman as before? I can t 
 remember. Really I did not notice. The man 
 did not seem to hear her. He was intent upon his 
 papers. She shut the door, for which I was glad.
 
 PERDIDA. 335 
 
 Then she moved her arm and I saw something bright, 
 and then there was fire and a dreadful noise, and I fled 
 and hid for a long time under one of the counters. I 
 was wide awake now. By and by I crept back to the 
 place. There was no woman there % The man lay on 
 the floor. He was dead. I knew that, for I can al 
 ways tell when anything is dead. There was blood on 
 his face. There was nobody else there. I lapped the 
 blood. It was good. That is all I know about it." 
 
 Had it been possible to secure the evidence of the cat, 
 several things would have been made clear; among 
 them the fact that Mr. Jadman had two calls from 
 women, late in the day, one before the closing of the 
 store and the other after. It would also have been 
 shown that it was a person in female attire who shot 
 him; but whether it was the woman who first called or 
 some other would not have been proven, for there would 
 have been nothing in the cat s statement to show 
 whether there had been two different women callers or 
 only one who called twice. Still, even this meager in 
 formation would have been valuable to the police. 
 
 Viewed from the standpoint of the porter and 
 other men, however, there was nothing at all upon 
 which to base a clew but the pistol and the glove. 
 Death had been immediate, the surgeon testified to that; 
 the man had been shot either while still sitting at his 
 desk or just as he was rising from his chair. The pis 
 tol that lay upon the rug was not in such a position 
 that suicide could be a possibility, and the glove proved 
 at least one thing, namely that there had been a woman 
 in the room. Probably she had removed her glove 
 before entering and had carried it in her left hand while 
 using the pistol with the right, for it was the right- 
 hand glove that lay upon the rug near the weapon. 
 The theory of the police was that she had dropped both
 
 336 PERDIDA. 
 
 after firing the shot and had then quickly departed by 
 the side door, closing it after her. That was the best 
 explanation they could find. The problem before them, 
 then, was to trace some woman who would have a 
 motive for killing Jadman, using the glove and the 
 pistol as clews. The first was of little value, for 
 women s number sixes are common, and of course the 
 murderess would detroy the mate; but the second prom 
 ised something, for it was a pistol of unusual style and 
 might be connected with its owner. A careful investi 
 gation of the life of the murdered man might also help, 
 for it was plain that he had an enemy somewhere, and 
 that the enemy was probably a woman. 
 
 Following these theories, the detectives went at the 
 case and spent many a day upon it, but without much 
 luck. They found that the reputation of the dead man 
 was not what it should be, and that his secret doings 
 were often far from those of a reputable gentleman. 
 But there was no evidence discovered which could 
 identify the murderer or fasten the crime on any par 
 ticular person. Of the dead man s four greatest crimes 
 they learned nothing at all. 
 
 Stivers, who was an important witness at the inves 
 tigation and the coroner s inquest, had little informa 
 tion to give. He repeated what he had told the police 
 man, on the morning of the discovery of the body, and 
 stated that, late in the afternoon of the previous day, 
 he overheard Mr. Jadman and a woman talking in 
 what seemed to be angry words, but he did not hear what 
 was said nor see the woman. This was some time be 
 fore he closed the store. Later, just before leaving, he 
 noticed that Mr. Jadman was still in his room, and, 
 glancing in as he passed the door, perceived that his 
 employer was alone. Secretly the man had a theory of 
 his own, but he had no intention of mixing in the affair
 
 PERDIDA. 337 
 
 more than was necessary, and found, upon close self- 
 examination, that he would rather not help anybody to 
 the gallows for having killed his employer. He had 
 seen so much of Jadman s brutalities and his unkind- 
 ness to helpless people, and knew so much more by in 
 ference, that from his point of view, it was just as well 
 to let the police do their own investigating without his 
 aid ; and, coarse and rough though he was, he was not 
 anxious to help hang a woman for killing the man who 
 had wronged her. Who it was that had done the deed, 
 he did not attempt to discover. There were several of 
 whom he thought who might have felt like it, two in 
 particular, and it was upon one of these that his sus 
 picions fastened. He remembered the trick that had 
 been played upon Cora Wasson, and recollected her 
 anger at its injustice; and he also recalled the time 
 when she had called on Jadman asking him to help her 
 and had been repulsed, for he had overheard their inter 
 view and despised the man for his cruelty ; but he was 
 not saying anything about that. He had a faint recol 
 lection also of the gloves she generally wore, and re 
 membered that they were brown like the one the police 
 had. In fine Stivers thought he knew, but did not 
 wish to think so. He was not eager to use his knowl 
 edge to the destruction of a friendless girl who had 
 done a crime that carried its own justification, so far as 
 he could see; and he bad no desire at all to avenge the 
 death of Jadman. So the testimony of Stivers was not 
 worth much to the detectives. 
 
 Many people attended the inquest. Mr. Jadman had 
 a large acquaintance, and it was natural that there 
 should be people in the audience who do not attend the 
 sittings of the coroner s inquest on ordinary occasions 
 when it is only some nobody who has departed this life 
 contrary to the rules and regulations of good society.
 
 338 PERDIDA. 
 
 Old business friends and representatives of his church 
 were there, mingled with the motley crowd that always 
 hangs about the scenes of crime and misery, and some 
 of them were called on to give testimony to his life and 
 character; but it was little they knew beyond the sur 
 face indications and these were fairly presentable. 
 
 Old Mr. Sappleigh and his son attended, but they 
 were not among the witnesses and sat with others un 
 noticed. When the officer was giving his testimony, 
 and describing the weapon and the glove, as he identi 
 fied them for the coroner, the younger Sappleigh be 
 came deeply interested and fixed his eyes intently on 
 the pistol that the officer held in his hand. He arose, 
 and quietly moving nearer, looked again. A flush of 
 interest came into his face, but he said nothing, and 
 was thinking earnestly. At one moment he seemed 
 about to speak, but at the next he settled back in his 
 seat and assumed his former composure. His father 
 noticed his actions, but did not show that he had done 
 so. Mr. Stein had been telegraphed for, but had not 
 come when the inquest adjourned. He sent word that 
 he was on the way, but could give no information of 
 value. He would arrive next day. So the coroner 
 continued without him. 
 
 There was nothing new, however, and the matter 
 stood just where it was when Stivers opened the door 
 and called the policeman on the morning of the murder. 
 The Jadman case was evidently destined to remain a 
 mystery for some time. 
 
 Stivers was released and went back to his work. 
 Jadman had willed his business to his sister, and her 
 representatives retained him in service. The store 
 would be closed until after the funeral. 
 
 The Sappleighs walked homeward together, after the
 
 PERDIDA. 339 
 
 inquest. Both were deep in thought and it was some 
 time before they began to talk. At last the old man 
 spoke. 
 
 "Lispenard," said he, "Isn t it strange that I have 
 often said he would be killed some day." 
 
 "Yes," replied the son. "Your words were almost 
 like a prophecy. He was literally found dead, as you 
 predicted. Who could have done it?" 
 
 "Let us not seek to inquire, my boy," said the old 
 man. "Murder is horrible, even when it removes a 
 man like that, and it is a fearful thing to become the 
 instrument of vengeance, even where the cause is great. 
 It was, perhaps some woman s work. Poor thing! 
 Without doubt she was mad with her wrongs and 
 sorrows." 
 
 "I can readily believe that, Pater," said Mr. Sap- 
 pleigh. "And perhaps with the wrongs and sorrows 
 of others too." 
 
 "It is very likely," said the old man. "By the 
 way," he added, "what made you so nervous at the 
 inquest?" 
 
 "I was about to tell you," replied Mr. Sappleigh. 
 "Something occurred that gave me an awful start. 
 That pistol is mine." 
 
 The old man stood still with astonishment. He 
 fairly trembled with excitement. 
 
 "Don t be alarmed, Pater," continued Mr. Sappleigh. 
 "I didn t kill Jadman." 
 
 "Of course you didn t, my boy," said the old man. 
 "That s not it. But how did it come to be there?" 
 
 "I do not know," replied Mr. Sappleigh. "That s 
 where the mystery comes in. I owned that pistol long 
 ago. I kept it in my table drawer at the house, and 
 seldom carried it. The last time I looked for it it was 
 gone. Some thief may have taken it; but whether I
 
 340 PERDIDA. 
 
 lost it from the drawer or in the street, I have never 
 been able to remember. Nothing else was gone from 
 the room, so I finally decided that I must have dropped 
 it somewhere." 
 
 "How long ago was it that you missed it?" 
 
 "I cannot precisely remember that either. But it 
 was several months ago. It is a pretty weapon and 
 one that the ordinary burglar would never have on his 
 person. Anybody could identify it. I picked it up in 
 Paris, when I was abroad, because it took my fancy." 
 
 "Ougtt you not to have claimed it?" 
 
 "That s just what was on my mind," replied Mr. 
 Sappleigh. "But something held me back, I scarcely 
 know what. It was not fear, for it would never con 
 nect me with the crime, but something told me to think 
 it over. Do you know, Pater, I am not positive that I 
 care to bring the murderer of Jadman to justice, if it 
 be justice to hang a woman under such circumstances." 
 
 "Well," said the old man, "you may be right. It 
 is a fearful thing to contemplate. Perhaps you are 
 wise to think it over, and await developments. I will 
 say nothing, until you permit it. Circumstances do 
 occasionally alter cases. I would not like to do it my 
 self, knowing what I know. The woman who did it is 
 not a dangerous person who would commit other crimes. 
 Probably the poor wretch is already dead. They often 
 drown themselves after such things." 
 
 "That is just the way I looked at it," said Mr. Sap- 
 peigh. "Of course I am taking some chances, but I m 
 ready for that." 
 
 "Well," replied the old man, "I am glad you told 
 me. It is better to have me in your confidence. 
 
 "To be sure it is," said Mr. Sappleigh. "We can 
 now let things develop. For myself, I hope they will 
 never find her."
 
 PERDIDA. 341 
 
 "Amen to that," said the old man "We ll wait, 
 and see what happens. It certainly is a mystery." 
 
 "Yes, Pater, a very big mystery. I d like to know 
 how that pistol got away from me, and who took it. 
 It would take a load off my mind." 
 
 "Oh, well," said Sappleigh senior, "after all, it may 
 be a case of common thievery and the murderer may 
 have got it from the thief." 
 
 "Yes, that is very probable," replied young Sap 
 pleigh, as they parted for the night. 
 
 Sue Dodge was sitting in the parlor as Mr. Sappleigh 
 entered the house. She was reading a newspaper ac 
 count of the murder, and there was anxiety in her eyes 
 and an expression of pain in her face as she looked up at 
 him. He paused a minute on the threshold to speak to 
 her, and noticed her agitation. 
 
 "There is nothing new," he said. "The inquest has 
 developed nothing." 
 
 "I thought not," she replied, and there seemed to be 
 a touch of relief in her tones as she spoke. "It s dread 
 ful to think of; and yet he was a man who deserved to 
 die." 
 
 "Yes, that is undoubtedly true," said Mr. Sappleigh, 
 again noticing her agitation. "My personal hope is 
 that the murderer may not be found." 
 
 "I feel as you do about that," she said. "It would 
 be unjust to punish her. She has suffered more than 
 he already." 
 
 She did not seem to encourage him to remain, so he 
 went to his room, and therefor many hours, he thought 
 it over, wondering how his pistol came to be the weapon 
 used, and how it could have been taken. His recollec 
 tion of the loss was not very distinct, and he could not 
 fix dates that would help him. All that was clear was 
 that it was, beyond doubt, the pistol he had given up
 
 342 PERDIDA. 
 
 as gone forever, and that it was the weapon that 
 some woman had used to kill Jadman. The fact that, 
 at the time of its disappearance, nothing else had been 
 taken, inclined him to believe he had lost it in the 
 street; and yet he could not remember having taken it 
 with him anywhere for a long time. If he had not 
 carried it, it must have been stolen from the table 
 drawer. He never locked it, and the thing would be 
 easy. But why should a thief take that and noth 
 ing else, not even his jewelry and an extra watch that 
 lay in the same place? It certainly was perplexing. 
 Then he began to think of Sue and her singular agita 
 tion over the murder, and to recollect certain things she 
 had said about Jadman, and a remark of his father s 
 that "Miss Dodge had good cause to hate the man," 
 and to ponder over her words at the time of Nellie s 
 disappearance and realize the bitterness of her feeling 
 toward the scoundrel who had injured so many of her 
 friends, until he found himself almost believing it was 
 she who had committed the crime. The thought was 
 so painful that he began to pace the floor and to fight it 
 down; but it would not depart. The more he dwelt 
 upon it and thought of the ardent friendship of the 
 woman for all who were dear to her and of the inten 
 sity of her feeling when aroused and realized how much 
 she always kept to herself, he began to perceive that 
 she was the kind of woman who might, if the motive 
 were sufficient, do a deed like that and do it relent 
 lessly. She had been with Jadman a long time, and 
 knew more of him than almost any one else, and cer 
 tainly hated him, with good reason. But she was so 
 dear to Mr. Sappleigh that he could not bear the 
 thought of connecting her with the affair, even while he 
 did not find it in his heart to condemn. Yet it was 
 possible he admitted that for, easy-going and gentle
 
 PEEDIDA. 343 
 
 as he was himself, he understood that there are natures 
 so constituted that they can be wrought up to violent 
 deeds by continued cruelty, and saw that a woman of 
 Sue s character might even take to murder were the 
 provocation sufficient. 
 
 He finally decided that he would say nothing of this 
 suspicion to his father. There were few secrets be 
 tween them, but on this point Mr. Sappleigh felt it 
 would be unkind to speak. His father could do no 
 good here, and it would not help matters to have him 
 suspect the woman he most admired. And then, it was 
 absurd anyhow And yet how easily she could have 
 got that pistol. How simple it would have been. It 
 could have happened any time, under the overwhelm 
 ing impulse of an insane desire to kill. He was not 
 sure now that it had been so very long since the pistol 
 disappeared. It was not a thing that was ever on his 
 mind. He decided to say nothing, least of all to Sue 
 herself. It was an unfair suspicion, and he would dismiss 
 it from his thoughts. But it lingered there in spite of 
 his efforts, and with it came a new interest in his friend 
 and an eagerness to shield her from peril. "Of course," 
 he said, "she did not do it; but I ll say nothing about 
 the pistol. Let them do their own hunting; and may 
 they never succeed." 
 
 The next day brought some news. The pistol had 
 been traced. A pawnbroker on the East Side turned 
 up and claimed it, saying he had lost it some time be 
 fore. His story was that he had taken it in pawn from 
 a woman who brought it with her, saying it was her 
 brother s, and that not long after this it was stolen. 
 He was sure it was a woman who stole it, because he 
 missed it just after a woman who had pawned a ring 
 left his shop, and there was no one else there at the 
 time. But he could not swear that the woman who
 
 344 PERDIDA. 
 
 pawned the pistol and the woman who stole it were the 
 same. He had taken little notice of either and would 
 not recognize them, unless, perhaps, they were brought 
 face to face with him. Neither of them was old, he 
 said ; and both seemed anxious to get away quickly, 
 but that was an everyday experience. Fearing the pis 
 tol might be traced to him, he surrendered himself to 
 the police with his story, that he might not be impli 
 cated in the murder. His testimony was of some value, 
 but failed to run down the criminal. The ownership 
 of the pistol and the identity of the murderer remained 
 unknown. 
 
 Something was also done to identify the glove, but 
 here the detectives utterly failed. With nothing to go 
 by but the glove itself, it was of small use. Some of 
 the officers held that it probably belonged to the first 
 caller, and not to the murderer, believing there were 
 two women. Others rejected this theory and insisted 
 that the two callers were one, and that the murder had 
 followed upon a quarrel between Mr. Jadman and his 
 visitor, who had returned later to punish him. It was 
 a very difficult case, and even the most sanguine of the 
 experts admitted a doubt of tracing the mystery to a 
 solution. In the meantime Stivers and Mr. Sappleigh 
 each kept his secret and refused to entertain his own 
 suspicions. 
 
 Some of Mr. Jadman s old business acquaintances 
 made up a purse and advertised a reward for the appre 
 hension of the murderer. They went to old Mr. Sap 
 pleigh with their plan, but, much to their surprise, he 
 refused to join them. 
 
 "What is the good," he said. "If the officers of the 
 law cannot find her, (or him) for it may be a man after 
 all, we surely can t. It s their duty to do it. That s 
 what they re paid for."
 
 PERDIDA. 345 
 
 "Yes, we know that," said the spokesman, "but it 
 stimulates these fellows to see money ahead and they 
 work better and try harder." 
 
 "Then they aren t fit for their places," replied old Mr. 
 Sappleigh. 
 
 "I admit that," said the spokesman. "But think 
 what it means to us business men. If a man cannot be 
 safe in his own office, but is liable to be murdered at 
 his very desk, something should be done to make an 
 example." 
 
 "That s a good idea," replied old Mr. Sappleigh. 
 "Do you know, my friends, I m inclined to think that 
 if our departed neighbor had himself set the right kind 
 of an example, he would have been as safe in his office as 
 I am in mine. He certainly would not have been 
 killed by a woman if it was a woman. Of course we 
 all have to take our chances with burglars and cranks 
 and that kind of thing, but that s different. Jadman 
 was really his own executioner, and you know it as well 
 as I do." 
 
 They smiled grimly at his remarks, and some of 
 them were plainly a little nervous at his suggestions. 
 It was useless to argue with him, that was clear; so 
 they left him. Sue Dodge had been sitting at her desk 
 in the corner throughout the interview, and, as the last 
 man left, Mr. Sappleigh turned to her and said : 
 
 "Is that all right, Miss Dodge? Or did I do wrong 
 to refuse to join them?" 
 
 Her face was pale and emotion shook her as she tried 
 to answer him. 
 
 "Oh, do not ask me to decide such a question as that, 
 Mr. Sappleigh," she said. "I am so affected by it all 
 that I cannot think connectedly." 
 
 "Very well," he replied. "Then I ll decide for my 
 self. If I were in the position of that woman, if it bo
 
 346 PERDIDA. 
 
 a woman, remember, I think I d feel that an exception 
 ought to be made in my case, in return for the service I 
 had done the community. Of course the law will gc 
 its own gait. It has no other. But I ll tell you one 
 thing,- if that person is ever found and I am on the jury, 
 it will take a mountain of testimony to make me bring in 
 a verdict for a full conviction. That s all. Go back 
 to your work now," he continued. "I won t annoy 
 you with my thoughts again." 
 
 She gave him a grateful look and resumed her occu 
 pation. Soon after that he left her alone. 
 
 "How kind he is," she murmured. "So different 
 from that other. Would I had been so fortunate as to 
 come here first of all. Oh, Nellie, dear! poor girl, you 
 certainly have been avenged at last, as well as I. How 
 dreadful it is." 
 
 After reading the story of the pawnbroker, as it ap 
 peared in the newspapers, Mr. Sappleigh made up his 
 mind that his pistol had been lost in the street, had 
 been picked up by somebody and had then been sold. 
 It did not matter who had afterward pawned it, or how 
 it came to be lost again. Sue had not taken it, and 
 that was all he cared to know. She certainly did not 
 steal it from the pawnbroker s counter. It was with 
 a lighter heart that he dwelt upon the subject now. 
 
 Still, as he mused upon the death of Jadman, painful 
 memories filled his mind, for he could not contemplate 
 it without a recollection of the awful wrong that had 
 been done the girl he loved, and the thought that proba 
 bly there had been other wrongs of which he would 
 never hear; and as he dwelt upon these things and 
 upon the fate of the man he so despised, it was with a 
 sense of justice that he viewed the crime; and, like his 
 father he found himself realizing how terrible was the
 
 PERDIDA. 347 
 
 vengeance that had fallen upon the scoundrel whose 
 life had been so full of cruelty to the weak. "It is an 
 avengement. any way you look at it," he said, "a 
 swift and fearful retribution. God pity his soul ! And 
 may He have mercy on the poor creature whom he 
 drove to do the deed." 
 
 The detectives continued their investigations but 
 without success, and the weeks passed on and brought 
 no solution of the mystery. The newspapers, after 
 making all the "copy" they could out of the case, 
 gradually dropped it as stale news, and referred to it 
 only occasionally in small type and brief paragraphs 
 as a thmg of passed importance. It seemed destined to 
 become one of the lost crimes of police history, and all 
 were tired of it, for there was a new murder to tell 
 about that promised better interest. Unless something 
 really startling turned up now to revive it, it would 
 soon be among the forgotten sensations of the times, 
 never to appear again. Even those most interested 
 began to think of other matters. 
 
 Mr. Jadman was buried with proper honors from the 
 church he had attended in life. His sister and a few 
 business friends were the only immediate mourners at 
 the funeral. He had been a generous contributor and 
 the preacher did not forget the fact, and his dignified 
 behavior and rigid bearing had won him much respect 
 among the congregation ; so it was not strange that his 
 departure from the earth, even under doubtful circum 
 stances should be in conformity with the usages of 
 society; "for, after all," said society, "the murderer 
 may have been some person who sought revenge with 
 out justice, even one who had received no injury. It 
 was well to think of him thus, because it fitted in better 
 with his "previous association with society and was 
 charitable. Nil nisi bonum. Mrs. Hiram Simmons,
 
 348 PERDIDA. 
 
 his sister, as well as others of the mourners, thought 
 so, for she had a strong personal reason for wishing to 
 pay respect to her brother s ashes. She had had an un 
 pleasant encounter with him the day before his death, 
 one of those little tilts of ill-will which sometimes 
 occur even between the best of brothers and sisters, 
 and their parting had not been cordial; and now that 
 he was dead she felt it would ease her mind to make 
 any atonement that would show her regard for his 
 memory. She made no mention of this matter to her 
 friends, and had not thought it of importance during 
 the investigation but personally at least she felt it was 
 of sufficient interest to warrant any efforts she could 
 make toward a respectful disposition of her brother s 
 last remains. 
 
 So he was laid to rest with befitting ceremonies, and 
 his sister placed a monument of excellent design and 
 suitable cost above the pulseless heart that could no 
 longer throb with wicked passion and unholy thought. 
 It was best that it should be that way.
 
 PERDIDA. 349 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 MERELY EXISTING. 
 
 MEANWHILE the two unhappy young women, who 
 had suffered at the hand of the dead man until both felt 
 that his death would be something they could welcome 
 with a sense of relief, having laid his last victim in the 
 grave, resumed their daily occupations. Nellie re 
 turned to her singing at the Columbia, and Cora, for 
 the time being, was to keep the room they called their 
 home and spend her spare hours in trying to get work. 
 She was not in the best of health, her recent misfor 
 tunes and exposure to bad weather when insufficiently 
 clad having impaired her natural robustness, and 
 Nellie insisted that she must take the best care of her 
 self until she should recover. To share with her friend 
 the money that she was now earning gave Nellie great 
 pleasure, and seemed to consecrate what often appeared 
 to her like wages dishonorably won. And yet she was 
 taking only the price of her music. The associations 
 were disreputable to be sure, but what she was doing 
 was not. Still she felt at times as though she were 
 a partner in some unholy alliance. It was therefore a 
 relief to her sensitiveness to feel that she could do good 
 with the money. Poor logic, perhaps, but who is there 
 of us better-circumstanced mortals that has not some 
 times reasoned himself into a similar position? 
 
 They buried the child the following day. It does 
 not take long to dispose of the last remains of the 
 lowly. Few preliminaries are necessary, provided the
 
 350 PERDIDA. 
 
 certificate of the attending physician is clear. With 
 the help of Herr Schneidermann, Nellie secured the 
 services of an undertaker and bought a grave, and laid 
 the little girl away, giving her what even the poorest 
 crave and have a right to a decent burial. It seems 
 a singular thing that, among the so-called enlightened 
 peoples of the word, the Swiss alone recognize the jus 
 tice of the demand humanity makes for true equality 
 in the grave. In Switzerland the pauper and the pluto 
 crat are buried in common ground; there is no "Pot 
 ter s Field" there, neither is it in the power of any man 
 to buy himself a tomb. Absolute equity prevails be 
 tween the dead, and rich and poor alike repose in earth 
 that has no varied values and is not privileged for any 
 one. Elsewhere the right of the dead to position in 
 "God s Acre" depends upon their ability to pay a 
 price for the sod that is to cover them ; and, if there be 
 no price at all, their resting-place must be that spot 
 most dreaded by the poor, the "County Plot." So 
 deeply seated is this dread in the hearts of the ignorant 
 and lowly that often it happens that one who had not 
 power to keep starvation from his door is found, after 
 death, to have saved to the last the money that would 
 at least prevent the degradation of his helpless clay and 
 buy a grave untainted by the touch of public charity. 
 It is a natural, almost I had said divine, inspiration 
 that thus impels the pauper to protect his body from 
 insult and demand equality with his fellows after 
 death. Were it otherwise he would not be a man. It 
 is the brutes alone who care not where they lie. 
 
 They followed her tenderly to her final sleep, and 
 placed upon the little mound of earth, that was the 
 measure of her mortal form, fresh flowers that Cora 
 had secured, and let their tears fall gently like the 
 summer rains upon the sacred spot. And ere they
 
 PERDIDA. 351 
 
 turned away, Herr Schneidermann paused, and, in his 
 meager English, spoke some words of blessing, con 
 secrating the child to God and thanking Him for hav 
 ing found true friends for her when friends were needed 
 most. It was all very simple, and people strolling 
 about the cemetery scarcely noticed the group, for there 
 was nothing that smacked of pageantry in their visit 
 and suggested interesting things. And yet behind it 
 lay a tragedy that ramifies into every recess of a na 
 tion s homes and touches every citizen s heart at the 
 core. But the people did not know that. They never 
 do until it is too late. "Am I my brother s keeper?" 
 
 Yes, neighbor, you are. In every city of this land 
 there is a Mary Neal and many like her; in every city 
 of this land there is a Samuel Jadman and many like 
 him.* Evidence more than sufficient to convince the 
 dullest intellect has been found by earnest investigators 
 to prove the ever-present perils that surround the chil 
 dren of the crowded towns. Your newspapers often 
 publish the facts, your policemen know them, you are 
 3 T ourselves possessed of information. And yet you shun 
 the methods that would stay the evil and hesitate to prose- 
 cute until compelled to do it in some flagrant case that 
 you cannot shut your eyes to. Your laws are weak, 
 their penalties are incommensurate with the crimes that 
 they forbid, convictions are obstructed by the obstacles 
 you throw in the way, execution of sentence is often 
 interfered with. Meantime you continue to recognize 
 the Jadmans and to associate with them on friendly 
 terms, so long as they do not parade their affairs be 
 fore your eyes and compel you to see them ; and even 
 when you perceive the coming of calamity you turn 
 away and let the deed be done. There is work here for 
 your societies to do, hard, disagreeable work, the 
 effort to prevent, but you do not do it. If there were 
 
 * See Foot-note, p. 36V.
 
 352 PERDIDA. 
 
 in every city of the land a society that made it its busi 
 ness to see to it that no friendless child is unguarded 
 and that those with whom the child must deal are 
 strictly honorable in their dealings with it much good 
 might be done. Nor does this work lie wholly among 
 the lowly and the poor. There are bitter facts that 
 support this statement. 
 
 Since the death of the child, both Nellie and Cora had 
 grown nervous and restless. Something in the after 
 shock that followed the night of her decease made it 
 difficult for them to be just as they were before. They 
 did not talk much about the subject, but each knew that 
 the other often thought of it, and that it added a new 
 feeling to the attitude in which they stood with regard 
 to Jadman. Each felt that something should be done 
 to punish him, and Cora in particular sometimes spoke 
 of him with hatred as if she could not bear that he 
 should be alive. She was a frivolous woman, light- 
 hearted naturally, and weak where she should have been 
 strong ; but her sympathies were deep and she was not 
 incapable of great passion and intense emotion. Nellie 
 understood this, ani it helped her to control herself, so 
 that while she felt all that Cora felt she did not show it so 
 plainly. But it wore upon her nerves. She carried it 
 with her to the theater; and could not dismiss it from 
 her thoughts even when she was singing. Each day s 
 work seemed harder than the previous one, and it was 
 often that she felt her engagement would sooner or later 
 have to come to an end because of the burden that she 
 carried on her heart. She kept up, however, and did not 
 fail to please her audiences. And then it was a living ; 
 she did not forget that. 
 
 On the day of the discovery of the Jadman murder 
 she came home to her evening meal in a state of great 
 excitement, carrying a newspaper in her hand. She 
 was breathless, and could not speak.
 
 PERDIDA. 353 
 
 Handing the paper to Cora, she pointed to the head 
 ings, and fleeing to her bed, threw herself upon it and 
 buried her head in the pillows but made no sound. 
 Cora took the paper and saw at a glance what it con 
 tained. She gave a start and cried out something that was 
 incoherent, but made no attempt to read, merely staring 
 at the headings with frightened eyes and a face from 
 which all color had departed. Thus in silence the two 
 received the news, and each seemed overcome beyond 
 the power of speech. It was a full half-hour before 
 either spoke a word. Then Cora found her voice. 
 
 "It is awful!" she said. "Awful! And yet I be 
 lieve it is right." 
 
 "Do you?" replied Nellie lifting her face from the 
 pillows. It was as white as that of her friend. "I 
 wanted to say that, too, but dared not do it. I was 
 thinking of poor little Mary all the time, as I came 
 along. Yes ; it was right. " 
 
 "Yes," said Cora very slowly and calmly. "It was 
 right. There was nothing else that could have stopped 
 him. I have always felt that way. " 
 
 She was stronger now, and began to read the story as 
 it appeared in the paper, going over it very carefully, as 
 Nellie had before she arrived, and saying nothing until 
 she had finished it. Then she gave a great sigh as if 
 some relief had come to her, laid the paper down, and, 
 crossing the room to the bed, laid her head beside that 
 of her friend and said : 
 
 "He can do no more wrong, Nell. God has stopped 
 him. Let us be thankful." 
 
 "I am thankful, dear," said Nellie. "A great peril 
 is removed. A very wicked man is where he can do no 
 more harm to the innocent. Yes; it was right," she 
 continued. "Did you notice, Cora? Nobody knows 
 who did it."
 
 354 PERDIDA. 
 
 "Yes," replied Cora, "nobody knows; and nobody 
 ever will. I feel certain of that." 
 
 "That is the way I feel too. It wouldn t be right tc 
 punish any one for killing him." 
 
 "No, it wouldn t," said Cora. "Think what he has 
 done to others, Nell?" 
 
 "I do; that s why I justify the person who killed 
 him. Somebody had to do it. I wonder who it was. " 
 
 "So do I." 
 
 They returned to their daily rounds soon after, and 
 ate their supper. Both were untalkative, and neither 
 cared to encourage the other to conversation. Nellie 
 had her evening performances to attend, so she soon 
 left. As they were about to part she bent over the girl 
 who still sat at the table, and kissed her tenderly. 
 Cora threw her arms about her friend s neck and re 
 turned the kiss, saying : 
 
 "You are always my dear comforter. I will not be 
 so lonely while you are gone, now. I want you to al 
 ways love me, Nell, no matter what I do." 
 
 "I will, I will," replied Nellie fervently. "Always. 
 Good-by." 
 
 As the days passed on, and nothing occurred to ex 
 plain the mystery of Jadman s death, the two young 
 women felt easier in mind, but they did not say much 
 about the case. Nellie had always avoided the men 
 tion of his name, and Cora, knowing this, and realiz 
 ing how painful it was to her, seldom talked about the 
 murder. They read the newspapers with care, but 
 each read for herself and seemed not anxious to com 
 pare notes. There was a positive reticence between 
 them on the subject, although it lay close to their 
 hearts. What they most desired was that the murderer 
 should not be traced, for they agreed that it would be 
 cruel to have that happen, and whenever that possibil-
 
 PERDIDA. 355 
 
 ity was mentioned Cora would turn pale and Nellie 
 would become greatly agitated at the thought. Cora 
 was now in better health, and, thanks to her friend, 
 had some decent clothing, and was again looking for 
 employment. Nellie continued her singing at the 
 show, and it kept her busy until late at night. It was 
 wearing work and told on her heavily, especially when 
 her mind was full of other things, as it often was, and but 
 for the comradeship of her friend, it is possible she 
 might have broken down under the strain. But she 
 had Cora, and sometimes Herr Schneidermann, for 
 company, and this kept her up, although she was often 
 despondent and very nervous and at times even irritable, 
 which was a new thing in her. Cora, being the lighter- 
 hearted of the two, bore the burdens of their miserable 
 life better; but she too, was at times despondent and 
 restless and often when alone spent hours in weeping 
 and pacing the floor. It was a wretched existence, at 
 best, for anybody, least of all for two girls who be 
 longed in homes of peace and comfort and needed some 
 one to guard them. 
 
 Association in a common trouble will often bring 
 two people into a kind of harmony, especially if they 
 happen to be devoid of other close alliances. As the 
 days passed on and things settled down to something 
 like regularity, Nellie and Cora grew to have each 
 others ways and to think and act alike. Both had 
 changed since the death of the child and the murder of 
 Jadman, and neither was now much given to laughing 
 or indulging in pleasantry, as they used to, and it was 
 seldom that either of them smiled save in a sad way 
 that was more indicative of woe than happiness. But 
 they moved about in a calm, deliberate fashion like 
 staid old maids, conversed little and then generally of 
 trifles, excepting when they spoke of little Mary, about
 
 356 PERDIDA. 
 
 whom they could talk with tenderness and a sense of 
 happiness, now that she was safe from harm and the 
 worst was over. Of the Jadman case they ceased to 
 speak after a time. There was a sort of tacit agree 
 ment not to mention it, for it never brought anything 
 but horror and unrest. Nellie seemed to shun it with 
 pain and Cora always came upon it like a person in 
 terror. Each felt that it was best to let it die out of 
 their recollection. Even Herr Schneidermann, who at 
 first had found it very interesting and was certain to 
 refer to it, soon discerned the wish of the girls to avoid 
 the topic, and left it out of his list of subjects. Mean 
 while Nellie continued her singing and detested her 
 occupation more and more the longer it lasted. But she 
 had to be agreeable at the theater or lose her living. 
 Sometimes she felt that she did not greatly care. Life 
 held nothing anyhow ; and even the prospect of rising 
 was vague. She felt the influences of her low associa 
 tions, too, and knew there was a subtle something 
 about them that might sooner or later drag her down. 
 Happiness was never to be hers now. She had put it 
 aside. And yet she loved all lovable things, and was 
 ardently fond of her friends. 
 
 Sometimes she found herself wondering how long she 
 would live, and whether death were not the best thing 
 after all. She had contemplated suicide long before, 
 but had never been able to face it ; but now it seemed 
 strange she had not taken her life when everything 
 urged her to do so. It was true she had escaped, thanks 
 to Mr. Sipperly, but what good had it done, since it 
 brought no happiness that could last. Did happiness 
 ever last? Yes; it certainly did, for those who had 
 opportunity and the good sense to be content with God s 
 blessings when they came. But such things were not 
 for her. She could only live on until something took 
 her off and then. She did not care to follow that.
 
 PERDIDA. 357 
 
 Cora was really wiser than she. Cora had been will 
 ing to take happiness where she could get it. Of course 
 it ended, but she had kept it while she could and had 
 not fretted about th niceties. Could it be possible that 
 her philosophy was the best? She was unhappy now, 
 of course, but that did not alter the philosophy. Life 
 was indeed a mixed-up mess and mostly a cruelty. How 
 she hated that theater. Even there she was a fraud, 
 for she was not as others nor as they thought her to be. 
 She was deceiving them while they were not cheating 
 her, for they were just what they seemed to be, while 
 she was a pretense of virtue that covered a reality of 
 sin. Everything was upside down with her. 
 
 Was it her conscience that made the trouble, or sim 
 ply her bringing up that interfered with her chances of 
 making the best of a bad bargain? Had she a con 
 science? She did not know. Things which set heavily 
 upon other people did not cause her any distress of mind, 
 while things that worried her did not appear to trouble 
 others. Perhaps her mind had been weakened by he 
 trials; such things did happen. She certainly had fell 
 unlike herself since the death of Mary Neal. Cora 
 too had changed ; in fact she was more changed than 
 herself. But for Herr Schneidermann s kindly words 
 and gentle attentions she believed she would go crazy 
 at times, for Cora was often not her like herself and 
 seldom comforted her now. In truth it was more often 
 she who comforted Cora. How would it all end? 
 
 What horrible people they were. And yet they all 
 liked her and were good-hearted and carelessly generous. 
 Even Manager Bosco was not unkind. But they were 
 degraded, coarse and steeped in vileness. They were 
 not even ashamed of it; that was what she had never 
 been able to understand. Still, familiarity with things 
 might account for that. Ah, but was not she familiar
 
 358 PERDIDA. 
 
 with them too? They did care : if they said they didn t 
 it was only a falsehood spoken to cover up their feel 
 ings. Nobody took to such a life from choice. It was 
 absurd. There was Miss McGuire; she would get out 
 of it if she could. So would Jenny Schwartz, who 
 wasn t half so bad as she pretended to be, and had 
 nursed Miss McGuire s sick baby night after night, 
 losing money by it too, so that the mother might earn 
 all she could. Yes, horrible as they were, they had 
 hearts. And she was the star among them all, the 
 favorite, the one they admired and honored. Well; it 
 was something to be honored, even by them, since the 
 respect was sincere. Why could she not have remained 
 with Mr. Sipperly. What good had those old sisters of 
 his done to anyl>ody. It wasn t much she had, while 
 they had everything. Thus she communed with her 
 self in a dull apathetic way as she rode to her place of 
 work each day. 
 
 It was pitiful. An outcast from her kind, alone 
 with her trials, defeated, yet not surrendering, willing 
 to be honest, helpful to all who needed her, kind to her 
 unfortunate friend, mother-like to the little girl she 
 would have saved if she could, abandoned it seemed by 
 God, she still struggled on, carrying her load of shame 
 and sorrow, and now uncertain even as to what was 
 right and what was wrong. Her mind really was not 
 what it had been. That clear, strong perception, once 
 so much a part of her best self, was lacking now, and 
 in its place there was a confusion of ideas that left 
 no definite point upon which to place conclusions. Yet 
 she was not insane. It was rather a rational uncer 
 tainty that troubled her than an irrational condition of 
 the intellect. She always knew what she was doing, 
 but was not always capable of controlling her actions. 
 Formerly this was not so. The cable had not parted,
 
 PERDIDA. 359 
 
 but the anchor was afoul and the ship dragged, and 
 there was no other anchor to let go, nor had she 
 strength to lift and clear the tangled line. So the ship 
 continued to drift. It is often so with our ships of life. 
 If there is no helping hand and the storm does not abate, 
 God pity us, for there is no bottom in the open sea that 
 we can reach with our limited facilities, once we clear 
 the coast. 
 
 Nellie returned from the theater one night to find 
 Cora in a state of great excitement. It was plain that 
 something had happened while she was away, for the 
 girl was agitated and her face showed evidence of it. 
 Her color had heightened and there was a new light in 
 her eyes that spoke of interest and even suggested hope. 
 
 "What is it, dear?" said Nellie as she removed her 
 hat and threw her wrap on the bed and seated herself 
 beside it, leaning against the footboard to rest herself, 
 for she was tired. "Has anything out of the ordinary 
 occurred?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Cora, coming to her and laying her 
 hand upon her shoulder. "Mr. Stein has found me. 
 He met me in the street, this morning, and would not 
 let me go until I had granted him an interview. I did 
 not tell him I was with you, and kept him in ignorance 
 of your existence. You see, I remembered my prom 
 ise." 
 
 "That was kind," said Nellie. "Nobody must think 
 of me, excepting you, in any way but as of one who is 
 dead. I insist upon it. It is all that I have ever asked 
 of you, dear." 
 
 "I know it," replied Cora, her eyes filling as she 
 spoke. "And yet I sometimes think you are fanatical 
 to live this way, when you might do better." 
 
 "I can get along somehow," said Nellie, smiling 
 sadly.
 
 360 PERDIDA. 
 
 "Perhaps you can," said Cora, "but it seems so hard. 
 You have always been so good to others. I don t see 
 how you stand it." 
 
 "Neither do I, dear. But still I do. Tell me what 
 
 Mr. Stein had to say. Was it anything about that?" 
 
 Cora s face paled a little as she replied, saying : 
 
 "No, Nell, it wasn t. Except he said he was not 
 
 very sorry to learn of it, and that he was not surprised. 
 
 That was all. What he wanted to see me for was 
 
 something very different. He has parted from that 
 
 widow they are divorced and wants me to go back 
 
 with him. He promises to marry me if I will. Isn t 
 
 it strange?" 
 
 Nellie looked at her a minute in silence, studying her 
 face with care. It was a very pretty face, even with 
 the expression of doubt and anxiety that it wore. 
 "And what did you tell him?" she said. 
 "Oh, Nellie, dear, what could I tell him but one 
 thing? I have always loved him." 
 
 Nellie drew her down to her side without speaking, 
 and held her hand in a strong, tender clasp. She could 
 not help it, little as she cared for Stein and poorly as 
 she thought of him. 
 
 "And what difference does it make anyhow,-" con 
 tinued Cora. "I can t be any worse than I have been, 
 even if he changes his mind about marrying me. 
 There is only one life for a girl like me." 
 
 Something in the suggestion of her remark struck 
 Nellie with a sense of novelty. She had never thought 
 of that before. How true it was. Was it a weakening 
 of her own character that made her accept it as fact, or 
 was it really so. She did not know and could not an 
 swer the question. 
 
 "Perhaps you are right, dear," she said. "Espe 
 cially as you love him and he seems to love you. I sup-
 
 PERDIDA. 361 
 
 pose it is possible for a man to reform, even if a woman 
 can t. He will not be cruel to you, I am sure of that." 
 
 "No, Nell, he is never cruel, although he is some 
 times harsh in business. And then he was never really 
 unkind to me. Of course, I was unhappy when he 
 wanted to marry, but I forgave him." 
 
 "Well, you are more forgiving than I could be," 
 said Nellie, thinking of what that renunciation had cost 
 her friend. "But, of course, you know your own heart 
 best." 
 
 "Yes, Nell, I do. I cannot be so happy any other 
 way, not even here with you; and then I will now be 
 able to repay all your kindness too." 
 
 "There is nothing to repay." 
 
 "Oh, yes there is, everything. You will have to let 
 me do it. Of course I will guard your secret, but you 
 must promise me faithfully that you will always keep 
 me posted and let me help you. If you won t do that, 
 I ll throw him aside and remain here." 
 
 "Very well," said Nellie. "I will promise. I will 
 write to you, always remember, as Perdida, and if I 
 need help will tell you. I do hope you will be happy." 
 
 " I mean to try," said Cora. "That is, I will try to be 
 as happy as I can, even though I can t forget." Her face 
 grew very sad and grave. She continued: "Nellie 
 dear, do you know, I have been wishing I could get 
 away from New York for a long time. I want to leave 
 the city. I am timid and afraid here." 
 
 "Is that so? I never suspected it." 
 
 " Yes, Nell. I would rather be anywhere else. Now 
 you can see why I cling to Mr. Stein so. I feel un 
 happy at leaving you, but shall be glad to get away 
 from New York. You won t think harshly of me, 
 dear?" 
 
 "Of course not. Why should I? I shall miss you;
 
 362 PERDIDA. 
 
 but I still have my dear old Herr Schneidermann, who 
 loves me like a father. He has been very kind to me. 
 I shall get along. If you can be happy it will make 
 me happier. So do not worry about leaving me. I 
 would like to shake hands with Mr. Stein, if I could, 
 for I think he has always been friendly to me; but that 
 is out of the question. Only keep your promise to me, 
 and I shall be satisfied." 
 
 So it was settled that Cora should leave, and Nellie 
 was again to dwell apart from all that linked her to the 
 past. She would miss Cora, but she did not very much 
 care about her leaving. She did not much care about 
 anything. It would be the same old round of singing 
 and living and an occasional hour with the musician, 
 who was her friend. There would be the same associa 
 tions at the theater and the same disgust at her connec 
 tion with the place, that was all there was in it any 
 where. It was as well that way as any other. She 
 had long ago abandoned hope, and when hope goes, 
 there is little left to interest one. Her condition of 
 mind was one of apathy. If there were anything that 
 could arouse her, it was not now apparent. So she 
 drifted on. It might last a long time, if the cable did 
 not part, for the shoaling of the bottom was gradual, 
 and the open sea was still far out. 
 
 Foot-note. In support of this statement, I refer the sincere reader to " Traffic 
 in Girls," by Charlton Edholm, a book that should be in the hands of every 
 father in the land. Published, 1893, at Chicago, by the W. C. T. U.
 
 PERDIDA. 363 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 FOUND. 
 
 ONE morning Mr. Sappleigh picked up his newspaper 
 and was startled by the discovery that a new sensation 
 had been added to the mystery of the Jadman murder. 
 The case had now passed out of the immediate memory 
 of the public, as such things always do in a short time, 
 but it had never been wholly out of Mr. Sappleigh s 
 thoughts, for he could not forget that it was his pistol 
 that had been used to send the dead man to a final ac 
 count, and that its singular disappearance from his 
 table drawer could not be explained in any manner that 
 satisfied him. The unworthy suspicion with which he 
 had viewed the subject in connection with Miss Dodge, 
 was a thing he had manfully conquered, and yet he 
 would have been happier if he could have found proof 
 positive to convince him of his error. It was therefore 
 with much delight that he read his morning paper on 
 this occasion. Under the headings : 
 
 "WHO KILLED JADMAN? 
 "A POSSIBLE CLEW TO THE MURDERER. 
 
 "Discovery of a woman who says it was she who pawned 
 the weapon that did the work, but denies all knowl 
 edge of the crime A boy s story What the police 
 think etc." 
 
 He read the account of a new development in the 
 case that threw some light on the mystery, even though
 
 364 PER DID A. 
 
 it did not suffice to fasten the crime on anybody. But 
 although the story added no evidence that could satisfy 
 the officers of the law or lead them to the person they 
 wanted, it satisfied Mr. Sappleigh, for it showed him 
 beyond a doubt that the parties in the crime were 
 strangers to him, and relieved him at once of a great 
 anxiety. 
 
 The day before, it seems, a certain woman accom 
 panied by her husband, her mother, and a young 
 brother, surrendered herself to the police, saying she 
 was the person who had pawned the pistol. Her story 
 was that it had come into her possession from her brother, 
 as the pawnbroker said when testifying, and that she 
 had taken it from him, fearing he might do himself 
 some harm with it. It. was a costly weapon and 
 "worth money," they were "hard-up and needed every 
 cent they could raise," her husband was at that time 
 sick and unable to work. The boy told her be got it 
 from a woman in the street. It was useless to them, 
 so she pawned it. That was her story, and her mother 
 and husband and several other witnesses added their 
 testimony in support of what she said. That she could 
 have committed the murder was proved to be impossi 
 ble, for she furnished a perfect alibi and showed that 
 she could not have been at Jadman s store when the 
 crime was done. She had, in fact, never even heard of 
 him before his death. She had delayed telling of this 
 matter, because she feared to be mixed up in the affair, 
 and had hoped the law would discover the criminal 
 without her help. What she said was so plainly the 
 truth that there was no excuse for accusing her. So 
 she was put under bonds to appear as a witness, if 
 wanted, her landlord willingly becoming her surety. 
 
 Then the boy was questioned. His testimony was 
 characteristic of his age and training.
 
 PERDIDA. 365 
 
 "Do you know the nature of an oath?" said the 
 magistrate. 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "How old are you?" 
 
 " Leven, sir." 
 
 "Do you know what will become of you if you tell a 
 lie after swearing to tell the truth?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; I ll go to hell, sir." 
 
 "Very well," smiling gravely. "Now tell me. 
 where did you get that pistol?" 
 
 "A lydy gave it to me, sir." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "In de street; it was a-Chuesday, in Fort Avenoo." 
 
 "What did she say to you, when she gave you the 
 pistol?" 
 
 "She said she didn t want it, an I could hev it fer 
 nottin , if I d take it." 
 
 "What did she do then." 
 
 "She went away, sir." 
 
 "Did she give you other information?" 
 
 "No sir; she just walked off an left me de pistol. 
 It was a dinkey one." 
 
 "Never said a word?" 
 
 "No sir; on y just dat." 
 
 "What did she look like?" 
 
 "Like a lydy, sir. Her clo s was like what de lyd ys 
 wears. 
 
 "Were they very elegant?" 
 
 "No, sir. Just nice lookin . Dey was good, dough. " 
 
 "What was the color of her dress?" 
 
 "I do know, sir. Maybe it was black, but I ain t 
 sure it wasn t brown." 
 
 "Then it was not gray?" 
 
 "I ain t sure, sir. I didn t look. I was lookin at 
 de pistol most, an didn t take no notice."
 
 366 PERDIDA. 
 
 "Did you notice the color of her eyes and hair? 
 
 "No sir." 
 
 " Were her eyes brown?" 
 
 "I ain t sure, sir. Maybe dey was brown. I didn t 
 notice." 
 
 "You are sure they weren t blue?" 
 
 "I ain t sure, sir." 
 
 "Or gray?" 
 
 "I do know." 
 
 " Was she tall or short?" 
 
 "I don t know. She wasn t fat. She was just like 
 lots o lydies." 
 
 "Was her hair light or dark? 
 
 "I didn t look." 
 
 "What time was it when she gave you the pistol?" 
 
 " Bout seven, sir; it was after supper, when I was 
 play in in de street." 
 
 This was all the boy knew; so the police had to con 
 tent themselves with trying to look for a woman who 
 was like thousands of others, and concerning whose 
 personality they could assume nothing beyond the fact 
 that she was well dressed and was not "fat." It was 
 not much of a clew. The fact that the woman who 
 pawned the pistol was not the woman who shot Jad- 
 man was, however, clear ; but who were the other two? 
 Who gave the pistol to the boy? Who stole it from 
 the pawnbroker? Could it be possible that they were 
 one and the same person? It seemed an absurd idea, . 
 and yet it might be so. The mystery was no clearer 
 than before. The newspapers made what they could of 
 it and advanced various theories, spreading the sub 
 ject over much space, with pictures of Jadman, the 
 woman and the boy, as illustrations done in the most 
 approved style of meat-ax art, and people talked of it 
 at dinner with interest. Then it dropped out of mind
 
 PERDIDA. 367 
 
 again, as such things always do. Mr. Sappleigh felt 
 better, and when he met Sue at meal-time it was with 
 a sense of pleasure that he had not known for a long 
 time. He was glad he had not mentioned the subject 
 to his father. 
 
 There is this peculiarity about what is known in law 
 as "direct evidence," that it often tells the truth yet 
 tells nothing. The testimony of the woman and her 
 brother was as direct and truthful as the most captious 
 could desire, but it served no purpose whatever. Mr. 
 Sappleigh thought of this, as he read the story, and 
 noted how hard the police had tried to fasten the crime 
 upon the plainly innocent woman; for they had even 
 gone so far as to get her to try on the glove. Of course 
 it did not fit the hand, as any one could see without this 
 test, for it would require a cover at least two sizes 
 larger than that which lay beside the pistol on the 
 morning after the murder. He could not help think 
 ing how stupid it was to suppose a guilty woman would 
 voluntarily offer herself as a witness, with the certainty 
 of being caught if she attempted to lie. It was evident 
 that the Jadman mystery would never be solved save 
 by one of two agencies either the confession ot the 
 criminal, or the force of conclusive circumstantial evi 
 dence. Confession, he felt, would never be made; of 
 the other agency three elements were in evidence the 
 unlocked door, the glove and the pistol. He hoped 
 there would be no others. 
 
 Herr Schneidermann brought Nellie a newspaper, 
 containing the account of the identification of the pistol 
 and the statement made by the woman and the boy, 
 during one of her periods of release from duty, and she 
 sat apart in the dressing room and read it carefully. It 
 interested her, but she made no comments when she
 
 368 PERDIDA. 
 
 returned the paper to the professor, beyond remarking 
 that it seemed to be truthful and that she was glad the 
 woman had relieved herself of an unpleasant burden. 
 
 "Yes;" said Herr Schneidermann, "Id vas petter 
 she do dat. Oddervice der bolice might some dime 
 py ant pye, zuspect, und make her droubles. Uf she 
 keeb dat too long, und den it pe discovert, der difficulty 
 be increaset, I tink." 
 
 "Yes," she replied. "I suppose that is so." 
 She now spoke apathetically, and without any real 
 interest. In truth she was generally in an apathetic 
 state of mind, excepting when she was on duty and 
 sang for the people, and it often troubled Herr Schnei 
 dermann to witness her absent-mindedness and think 
 how sad she always was. When she was singing to 
 his accompaniments, she would brighten up and be 
 come as vivacious as the liveliest of them, and would 
 throw her best efforts into the work, until she seemed to 
 love it and to revel in an abandonment of herself to the 
 music that she made. She sang delightfully now, for 
 he had improved her method wonderfully, and often 
 the audiences, generally noisy and at best only half- 
 appreciative, would become very attentive held by the 
 spell of her charming personality and the thrilling 
 quality of her song. Manager Bosco knew he had a 
 good thing and did not fail to say so. She made money 
 for him and he was not unwilling she should make 
 some for herself; for he had again advanced her salary, 
 and offered to do more by and by, if she would stay with 
 him. The fact that he had with him a singer who was 
 something exceptional had drawn to his audiences cer 
 tain classes of men who would not ordinarily visit the 
 Columbia, and he felt that possibly, in time, he might 
 be able to advance himself to a point where he could 
 become manager of a greater establishment and open a
 
 PERDIDA. 369 
 
 "legitimate place," whatever that is, and leave the low- 
 class business to others. Even dive-keepers have am 
 bitions to rise. So Nellie continued her singing, and 
 the fame of "Madam Perdida," spread beyond the 
 usual limits of the variety show world and drew new 
 people to hear her. 
 
 Many of these fine fellows were old habitues of green 
 rooms and. similar places. And of course they must 
 meet the charming woman who could sing so much 
 better than most of her kind and who was also so beau 
 tiful to look upon ; for she had kept her beauty throughout 
 her trials, and was even handsomer in her ripened 
 womanhood than she had been before she left her coun 
 try home. Experience, too, had added its charm, and 
 when she chose to be agreeable she could be very win 
 some and entertaining, for she had native wit and a 
 lovable character and there was nothing in the glance 
 of her brave blue eye that told of the contamination 
 that had so long been forced upon her. In spirit, at 
 least, she was still the pure and honest girl whom Sap- 
 pleigh always loved and whom Had ley had so shame 
 lessly condemned unheard, and the soul that looked 
 from its windows in her face was guiltless of all guile. 
 
 She made herself agreeable to these gentlemen, and 
 it pleased her manager. It was nothing new to her, and 
 sometimes even it served to kill off tedious moments 
 and rouse her from the dull condition into which she 
 was rapidly drifting ; for, whenever she was alone, she 
 would sit in silence with folded hands and gaze at 
 nothing, neither speaking nor moving, often for hours 
 at a time. But she kept these moods to herself, and it 
 was only Herr Schneidermann who suspected her con 
 dition. It worried him, and he made it a point, on 
 Sundays to try to coax her to walk with him, cheering 
 her with his kindly presence and encouraging her with
 
 370 PEEDIDA. 
 
 gentle words. She felt the sympathy of the old man, 
 and showed it in her face, and it pleased him to think 
 how glad she was to have him near her. He never 
 permitted liquor to pass his lips when he was to be 
 with her, for he saw she had a pride in him that for 
 bade his being degraded in her presence. It was some- 
 thiLg of a sacrifice he made to accomplish this, but he 
 did not grudge the sacrifice, because it was made for 
 her. The old man and the friendless girl were becom 
 ing fast friends, and a tie was forming between them 
 that was tender and ennobling to both, especially to 
 him. He now had something to love, and something 
 to live for. 
 
 She wrote to Cora, and received pleasing letters in 
 reply. Clearly the girl was happy in the renewal of 
 her old alliance. And yet there was a tone in her mes 
 sages that did not ring true to Nellie s idea of what 
 Cora hoped to find. Something in the letters appeared 
 to be forced and strained, as if she were trying to 
 imagine herself happy, yet was not. But there was 
 nothing to suggest a cause. They had not yet married, 
 but Cora said they would do so soon, when Mr. Stein 
 had settled certain preliminaries, "and then," she 
 wrote, "I do not much care anyhow. It is the only life 
 I can lead. There is no other for a girl like me." 
 The same words she had spoken before ; they fell upon 
 Nellie s heart with a singular effect, and she could not 
 get them from her thoughts. Perhap s Cora was right. 
 Facts certainly did bear her out in her conclusions. It 
 was a result ot the transplanting of the Lily into the 
 Garden of Poisons, but Nellie did not know it. She 
 had never even heard the story. For many a day she 
 had been growing in the Valley among the noisome 
 things that there defile the soil and pollute the air and 
 taint the very sunlight, and still she had not taken on
 
 PERDIDA. 371 
 
 their hue. But she was conscious of the influences of 
 the place, and a weakness, that was not natural to her, 
 was growing upon her better self. 
 
 With her associates at the theater she got on even 
 better than at first. Her position as a star performer 
 set her above them and commanded respect, while her 
 ready kindness at all times and her sincerity in dealing 
 with them won their admiration. The result was that 
 she had no enemies, save among those who visited the 
 place and they were all enemies; she knew that well 
 now, and, knowing, had no fear of them. She could 
 amuse them to please Mr. Bosco, but they could not in 
 jure her against her will ; for, at last, she had the ex 
 perience that is a knowledge of things to be avoided 
 and was mistress of herself. It had cost her all that 
 life contains, but it was now her possession and she 
 used it wisely. And yet, the words of Cora weighed 
 upon her like a burden she could not refuse to carry. 
 
 There was one who sent her flowers and jewels and 
 other trinkets, and who seemed a manly sort of fellow 
 and a person one could trust. He was not like Mr. 
 Sipperly, yeb he resembled him in many ways, and she 
 liked him. Would she leave the stage and go with 
 him to foreign lands? Yes, she might no she would 
 not; and again it was yes and no but it never came to 
 anything. Something held her back. Yet Cora was 
 perhaps right. But, it was different with Mr. Sip 
 perly, for then she was utterly lost and he had saved 
 her. Now she could do as she chose. Other tempta 
 tions of like character came and passed her by, and still 
 she continued her singing as before, and Manager 
 Bosco rejoiced at her fidelity and praised her often for 
 her work. She had no pride in her success, because it 
 seemed always to be linked with evil; yet she was 
 capable of ambition, and once relieved of this incutn-
 
 372 PERDIDA. 
 
 brance, would doubtless have taken her triumphs to 
 heart with a sense of elation. She simply did her duty 
 as well as she could, loved the old professor for his 
 kindness, and when not engaged in any active occupa 
 tion, sat alone, with folded hands, gazing listlessly 
 at nothing, and grew more silent every day. Possibly 
 she would die, like a blighted flower, before the change 
 could come. If so, it would be better. 
 
 She wrote in her diary and there entered faithfully 
 all the story of her life, omitting only trifles and one 
 important thing that she left to be the last. It was for 
 no one but Sue, and she did not wish it to go to others, 
 in case anything should happen to make it impossible 
 for Sue to ever read the pages of the book. Sue might 
 die first ; then it should remain untold. So she left it 
 out and would enter it by and by as the ending. 
 Nothing that was for Sue alone could be mentioned 
 while that possibility remained. Sue had always kept 
 her confidences and she would do the same. 
 
 Something of her old faith in God and His watchful 
 ness over His creatures had returned to her, and she was 
 not, as at one time, utterly in doubt and simply fearful 
 of her Creator as a personality who was to be dreaded 
 and had no care for His people. She had not regained the 
 old position in which she once stood, but her attitude 
 toward the Supreme Being was less timorous, and she 
 began to feel again that God was, after all, the only final 
 refuge, and that somehow He would not wholly desert 
 her, no matter how low she might sink. The death of 
 the child had turned her thoughts backward toward her 
 old faith, and with this was another influence that 
 tended to increase it, a belief that she was one mys 
 teriously set aside for some unknown destiny which 
 was a part of God s plan. The feeling did not 
 strengthen her, but it helped her to live on, and, though
 
 PERDIDA. 373 
 
 she still drifted, it was without that sense of abandon 
 ment she had had when in Chicago. She was going 
 somewhere, it did not matter very much where, but the 
 tide that was carrying her on was controlled by God, 
 and was not accidental. She did not reason out these 
 things. She merely felt them. Many of the subjects 
 that once had seemed clear to her were now matters of 
 uncertainty, that she ceased to dwell upon or to attempt 
 to consider. She even grew to view the lives of those 
 about her without harshness, for they seemed unavoida 
 ble and were apparently not to be changed. The sug 
 gestion that Cora had given her also became, each day, 
 less offensive. "Surely," she said, "if God had in 
 tended it otherwise, He would have made it possible." 
 Personally she took no thought of the morrow, but sim 
 ply left it to care for itself. She would leave every 
 thing to God. If she was to be an instrument in His 
 hands, He certainly would not judge bar actions with 
 severity so long as she did not willfully injure others. 
 It was a miserable kind of faith that she had, but it was 
 faith and it upheld her. 
 
 It was sure to happen. Strange as it may seem, she 
 had never thought of it; and yet what was more likely 
 to occur than that Mr. Sappleigh, learning of the fame 
 of "Madam Perdida," should wish to hear her sing? 
 After it was over, she realized all this, but it had never 
 entered her mind that he might accidentally find her 
 when she least expected such a thing. It was one 
 Saturday night, and the theater was crowded. She 
 had just began her first song, when he saw her; but 
 she had not noticed him. She seldom looked at the 
 faces in the audience, so this was not strange. But a 
 person on the stage is not in a position to escape even 
 casual recognition, so he saw and knew her at the first
 
 374 PERDIDA. 
 
 glance. What the shock was that made him start, 
 what were his precise feelings, he never remembered ; 
 but he knew. Dead though he bad long believed her 
 to be, the evidence of his senses and the love that he 
 always carried in his heart told him it was she and no 
 other who stood there, attired as he had never wished 
 to see her and singing to an audience that he was 
 ashamed to associate with,, though it were but for a 
 night. No counterfeit of his lost love stood before him 
 deceiving him by a fancied resemblance; it was Nellie 
 herself; and, as he listened to her singing, bethought 
 he recognized the once familiar quality of her voice, al 
 though it was many a day since he had heard her sing. 
 She sang on and still had not perceived his presence, 
 and he felt it was best that way, for it gave him time 
 to think and spared her what might be an embarrass 
 ment. That he should depart, leaving her in ignorance 
 of his discovery, never occurred to him. He was not 
 the man to surrender to a sudden agitation or a doubt, 
 nor was he one who feared to learn the worst. When 
 she was at leisure, he said, he would seek her; the 
 rest could be left to circumstances. What her history 
 might be; where she had been so long, why she was 
 leading this life all, in short, that appertained to her 
 existence since she fled from him was of no especial 
 consequence just now. The main point was to see her. 
 So he waited, patiently, enduring the suspense until the 
 end. And then he sought her. 
 
 She was alone in a corner of the little room that she 
 used as a resting-place between her performances. The 
 door was not closed, and he entered. As he approached, 
 she saw him, and sprang to her feet with a cry of 
 alarm. Without pausing, he advanced to her, and 
 seizing both her hands, as he had seized them once be 
 fore on another sad occasion, raised them to his lips 
 and kissed them but this time he did not turn away.
 
 PERDIDA. 375 
 
 "Dear," he said; "don t try to tell me anything 
 now. It will make you unhappy to talk. Let me 
 speak instead, but not to ask questions. All I ask is 
 this. Meet me after the entertainment, and leave the 
 rest with me. Promise that." 
 
 She could not speak in reply. Her excitement made 
 it impossible. She moved her head slowly in assent, 
 and looked him beseechingly in the face with those eyes 
 of azure that he loved so well, then motioned him to 
 leave her. He smiled, saying: "Thank you; at the 
 side door, whenever you are ready;" and left the 
 room. 
 
 The following Monday, as Mr. Sappleigh and his 
 father sat at dinner, the former said : 
 
 "Pater, do you think you can stand it to lose me from 
 sight for a time? I m thinking of taking a run in for 
 eign countries." 
 
 "To be sure, Lispenard," replied the old man "why 
 not? I like to see you every day, when I can, but it 
 would be a stupidly selfish man who could refuse an 
 outing to so good a son as you. It ll do you good. 
 You haven t been quite like yourself for over a year. 
 I would not willingly touch upon painful memories, my 
 boy, hut perhaps a trip of that kind may help to lighten 
 the loss that has so long been on your mind. It was 
 too bad, Lispenard; she was a lovely girl; I never 
 have blamed you for wearing her memory in your 
 heart; it is manly. What a scoundrel he was!" 
 
 Mr. Sappleigh sighed, but said nothing in reference 
 to the matter of which his father had spoken. 
 
 "Yes," he said after a minute s reflection, "I would 
 very much like to go. You will not have any trouble 
 taking care of my affairs. Everything is in good 
 shape."
 
 376 PERDIDA. 
 
 "Oh, that is nothing, * replied the father. "I some 
 times wonder how such an easy-going fellow as you 
 are, Lispenard, manages to attend to his business so 
 well. 
 
 "Perhaps it is a hereditary trait," said Mr. Sap- 
 pleigh smiling." 
 
 "Thanks," replied the old man with an answering 
 smile. "By the bye, why don t you draw on me 
 oftener? I really don t know what to do with half my 
 ready cash. Sometimes I believe it is a nuisance to be old 
 and rich and without family. Of course, I take a hand 
 in all the charity acts and that kind of thing and man 
 age to get rid of a good deal in various ways, but, after 
 all, I require little myself and need some near and dear 
 ones to help me out. Why don t you take more?" 
 
 "To tell the truth, father," said Mr. Sappleigh, "the 
 fortune my dear mother left me is more than ample for 
 any young man who is decent and reasonable. I often 
 wonder what I shall do when the time comes to take 
 hold of your vast interests too. It looks like assuming 
 a burden." 
 
 "You aren t like most of them," replied the old man. 
 "Why, do you know, my boy. I could name a dozen 
 young fellows of your acquaintance who are anxiously 
 awaiting the opportunity to decently bury their parents, 
 both of them too, and dream of nothing else." 
 
 "I suppose so," said Sappleigh. "Isn t it horrible?" 
 
 "It s disagreeable anyhow," replied the old gentle 
 man. "But tell me, when will you start?" 
 
 "Probably this week," said Mr. Sappleigh. "I have 
 a few preparations to make and then I m off. I m 
 going to take ship for France and then travel just any 
 where, and return when I feel like it." 
 
 "That s the way," replied the old man. "If you
 
 PERDIDA. 377 
 
 want a good time, there is no better. God bless you 
 and keep you well. I will expect to hear from you 
 frequently. You needn t fret about me. I ll be all 
 right. Of course, you ll dine with me before you 
 leave."
 
 378 PERDIDA. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 BUT YET A WOMAN. 
 
 APRIL 15th, 18 . At sea. He has gone to the 
 smoking room to chat with those other fine men, and 
 leaves me for a time to myself, so I take you again, 
 dear, silent friend, to whom I pour out my confidences 
 without stint, knowing you cannot reply to anything I 
 say even though it should pain you to hear it. Dear 
 diary, what sad things I have had to tell you, during 
 the past two years, and how it has comforted me to 
 think you would faithfully keep my story and perhaps 
 some day, become my defender when I am gone forever 
 and cannot aid myself. I will continue to keep you 
 posted, even though I now have a dearer friend to whom I 
 can tell my thoughts. Let me tell you of him, that, in 
 the time to come, when others may censure me, they 
 will not find it in their hearts to think of him unkindly ; 
 for that would not be right. 
 
 I can almost answer the old question that has so long 
 perplexed me. I can almost tell what I am. Not with 
 that clearness which would satisfy my enemies, if I 
 have any, but still with sufficient accuracy to satisfy 
 myself. I am a weak, loving, trustful young woman, 
 whom God, in some mysterious way, has seen fit to 
 set apart from her kind to suffer great wrongs (for I 
 have been wronged, there can be no doubt of that) and 
 who does not now question His purpose. I am not what 
 I said, in my early girlhood, I hoped to become; I can 
 never be what I would be. It is impossible, for, no
 
 PERDIDA. 379 
 
 matter what I am in His sight, in the sight of men I 
 am an outcast unworthy to know their daughters and 
 unfit to be seen with their wives. And yet I have done 
 them no wrong and would do them only good. In the 
 eye of the public I am a sinful creature deserving great 
 punishment, a pariah to be shunned, a thing to be spit 
 upon. I know it well; and yet I do not feel that I am 
 anything of the kind, nor will he whom I love most 
 dearly permit the thought of it; for he says I admit 
 with some degree of truth that he can find no willful 
 evil in me anywhere. How good and generous he is. 
 And yet there was a time when I looked upon him as 
 a commonplace man, a mere butterfly of society with 
 out much character. How we misjudge our fellows 
 when we do not know them well. 
 
 I did wrong, I know it ; wrong in the sight of men, 
 perhaps even in my own sight, although I am not very 
 clear on that point. But what could I do that was 
 different? He is really stronger than I am, and has a 
 more shrewd perception of the balance of things. And 
 then I love him yes, God knows it, I love him with 
 every fiber of my poor worthless being, love him as 
 women seldom love, when so young as I, and never, I 
 sometimes think, until after they have suffered as I have. 
 If this be wrong in the sight of God, I will face it and 
 plead nothing in extenuation. I will take the conse 
 quences, no matter what they ar3, and still be thankful 
 for the gift that now is mine. In all things but the 
 name I am his wife, his true, devoted wife, ready to 
 live for him and die for him and go with him to the 
 end of time and through all eternity. What more can 
 I be, shackled as I am by my destiny and the conven 
 tionalities of the world? 
 
 I refused at first to accept his protection, and insisted 
 that he should hear everything I must tell him. He
 
 380 PERDIDA. 
 
 did not want to listen, but I made him do it, and, step 
 by step, with shame and agony of soul, I unfolded 
 every leaf of the story that you know, dear diary, and 
 even told him more. He heard it all patiently; but 
 sometimes while I was telling it, his hands would 
 grasp his chair and his eyes would become terrible to 
 look upon, and once or twice he grew faint and pale 
 but I made him hear it all. There is nothing that he 
 does not know. My confession and my story are all in 
 hia keeping now. They are safe. He knows just how 
 low I have fallen and understands the very worst and 
 yet he puts it aside as if it were only a trifle, saying 
 that it must now be a sealed book and something not 
 to be mentioned again. Was ever man so noble before? 
 
 Tenderly he lifted me from the floor, where I had 
 sunk down after telling him all, and took me in his 
 arms. I wanted to resist him, but I was too \veak. 
 Gently he placed my arms about his neck and drew me 
 to his heart. 
 
 "It is all over now," he said. "You have passed 
 through the ordeal like an angel. There must be noth 
 ing more of suffering in your life. Don t you under 
 stand, dear," he added, "that I said long ago that I 
 would devote my life to you, if I could; that there was 
 no other woman for me. If you had come to me 
 at the very first, I would have taken you. Oh, why 
 did you not think to do it?" 
 
 And then he made me promise to give up everything 
 for him, and I had to do it ; for, Sue, dear Sue, I was 
 but yet a woman, after all, and I wanted to be loved, 
 just once, like this. 
 
 He insists that we ought to marry, but upon that 
 point we will never agree. I am firm there, and know 
 that I am right. We owe a duty to his kind old father 
 that is plainer to me than to him. There is no stain
 
 PERDIDA. 381 
 
 upon their family, and it would be a deed of base in 
 gratitude were I to place one there ; for, no matter 
 what he thinks, I am a woman with a past. It is pos 
 sible, I might consent, if old Mr. Sappleigh were dead, 
 but it cannot be while he is living. Something might 
 occur. It is the one thing I dread as a remote possibil 
 ity. 
 
 The strangest thing about all this is that I am happy. 
 Yes; I am really happy. What a power true love and 
 mutual affection are when bound in mutual confidence. 
 Almost is my dream of youth come true. We shall 
 travel everywhere and I anticipate our pleasuring with 
 the feelings of a child that is free and joyous. He is 
 happy too ; I can see it every hour in his glances and 
 his walk and by the manner in which he bears himself. 
 Oh, if it will only last a little while, a few short years 
 at most! I am so young and have borne so much. As 
 I sit here in my little room and feel the soothing motion 
 of the ship that bears us on as I pen these words, the 
 past rolls backward like a dream that is gone, and a 
 suggestion of warm sunshine and days that are bright 
 comes to me, and I long to lay all care aside and look 
 only at the present, trusting the future with God. 
 Once I prayed for death ; now my petition is that I 
 may live but just a little while. 
 
 MAY 1st, 18. How happy lam. Every day brings 
 some new interest, every evening something to draw 
 my heart closer to the man I love. It is sot the pleas 
 ant things we see or the interesting visits we make to 
 places that charm the eye and gratify the passion of 
 the traveler, although I find them very good, but it is 
 the love that lies so deep in our hearts, the sense of
 
 382 PERDIDA. 
 
 oneness that binds us each to each. It will last, 1 can 
 see that plainly; nothing will change it though we are 
 blessed with many years of life. So long as we are not 
 separated our happiness will continue. And yet I 
 understand there are many husbands and wives who 
 dwell apart and seldom meet. I have seen a number 
 of them here in Paris. I suppose they would think 
 themselves more worthy than we and better fitted for 
 their condition. I do not envy them. I envy nobody, 
 no, not even the woman who is not kept from recogni 
 tion as I am ; I am too happy for that. 
 
 I shall write to Cora to-night explaining why I left 
 New York. She will keep my secret. Poor Cora! 
 what can be the reason she is not at ease. Something 
 in her letters has impressed me with an idea that she 
 carries a painful secret in her heart, a burden that she 
 dares not unload even upon me. I cannot understand 
 why she was so nervous and so anxious to leave the 
 city. It plainly had no connection with Mr. Stein s 
 offer. But perhaps I have been oversensitive myself 
 and have given the matter more importance than it 
 deserves. Poor Cora; she may be happy, but she is 
 not so happy as I. That is impossible, for my love is 
 noble and ever true to me, while hers is at the best 
 only a selfish man. 
 
 We go to Italy next. How much I shall enjoy that. 
 Lispenard says that we can then dream away the hours 
 as long as we choose, under the blue skies and by the 
 quiet waters. He is a lover of nature and something 
 of an artist and paints very well. How delightful it 
 will be. Yes, dear, I hear you coming, and laj T the 
 pen aside for better things. 
 
 JUNE 3d : A singular thing has happened to me. I
 
 PERDIDA. 383 
 
 have lost my voice, at least for a time. I do not mean 
 that I cannot talk, but simply that I cannot sing as I 
 did. I can still sing, it is true, and in the parlor could 
 do well, but my stage voice seems to have left me, and 
 whenever I try to force it it fails. A physician whom 
 I visited says he thinks it is due to an overexertion of 
 the vocal cords, and expresses a hope that it will cure 
 itself. I have no pain and there appears to be nothing 
 the matter with my throat; but I cannot fill a large 
 room as I once did, and am only fit for small audiences. 
 If I keep within the limits of a home singer s range I 
 sing as smoothly as ever, but the minute I try to put 
 power into the music I fail. It is annoying, but Lis- 
 penard says it makes no difference, because I will never 
 wish to sing in public anyhow; and he also says that 
 my notes are as sweet and true as ever, so I can sing 
 for him just the same. Well, after all, what differ 
 ence does it make. It may be annoying, as I said, but 
 it loses me nothing, and so long as it does not prevent 
 me from singing well enough to please him, why 
 should I care. Probably it is one of the penalties that 
 I am to pay for the past. My blessings are certainly 
 sufficient without the possession of a great voice. And 
 then the trouble may wear off in time. 
 
 Lispenard had a letter from his father, this morning. 
 Of course he knows nothing of me. It was a lovely 
 letter, full of tender solicitude and kindness and it 
 made me cry to read it. It would make me very happy 
 to be able to know Mr. Sappleigh and have him love me 
 as he would a daughter, and I know I could love him 
 dearly. I have never known what it is to have a 
 mother s or a father s love, and life does not seem com 
 plete without these things. But it may not be. He 
 writes that Sue is doing well and is in good health, and 
 speaks of her with great respect and gentleness, as if he
 
 384 PERDIDA. 
 
 almost knew she had a sad story in her life ; yet it is 
 impossible he should know. I am the only one who 
 shares that secret, and I have not even told it to Lis- 
 penard, because it is not mine. I explained it to him 
 when I told him of my life, and he said I was right not 
 to betray another even to him, unless it should become 
 necessary to save her. So no one knows but I. 
 
 How strange it is that it should have been Lispen- 
 ard s pistol that was used, and that he should have sus 
 pected Sue. It was almost ridiculous to think of her in 
 that way. The loss of the pistol is, of course mysteri 
 ous but I do not care to write anj T more of this. It is 
 too painful and can do no good. 
 
 We are going into Germany next, and I expect to 
 enjoy the trip. Thinking of Germany makes me think 
 of my dear old Herr Schneidermann. It was painful 
 to part from him, and nothing but my love for Lis- 
 penard would have enabled me to do it. I told him 
 I was going abroad where I hoped to be happy, and his 
 eyes filled with tears as he took me in his arms and 
 kissed me good-by, as if I were a beloved child that he 
 must surrender against his will. Dear old man, how 
 much I think of his kindness and his interest in the 
 nameless girl he loved because she was trying to do her 
 best under hard conditions. I shall write him a 
 letter, and hope it may reach him. He may not know 
 who I am, but he cannot fail to appreciate a remem 
 brance. I do not think it will offend him if I send a 
 little money with the letter, some of the German money 
 that it will please his old eyes to see once more. Lis- 
 penard will fix that for me, and I will sign the letter 
 "Perdida," so he will know whose heart it is that does 
 not forget. How pleasant it is to make others happy. 
 
 AUGUST 4th, 18 . I have had a terrible fright. Even
 
 PEBDIDA. 385 
 
 yet I cannot get over the effects of it. At first I 
 thought I would have to go back at once to New York 
 to save my friend ; but as I read on to the end I saw 
 this would not be necessary. Mr. Sappleigh sent a 
 letter, that we received yesterday, in which he in 
 closed clippings from the newspapers, telling of a new 
 development in the murder case. How I wish I might 
 never hear of it again. It seems to be my fate to be 
 always reminded of the man who ruined my life. 
 
 It appears, from the newspaper accounts, that Stivers, 
 the man who was porter at the store when the murder 
 was done (I never liked hjm) hoping to get the reward 
 that was offered, went to the officials and said he had a 
 suspicion that Cora Wasson might be the guilty person. 
 He then told of the treatment she had received at the 
 hands of her employer it seems he overheard their 
 interview and said he believed the glove would fit 
 her. Of course after that the detectives began to trace 
 poor Cora and soon found her. Mr. Stein behaved 
 decently, for he came with her to New York, and gave 
 her the best of recommendations as to character. She 
 was brought before the officials and examined. The 
 glove fitted her hand, and they tried to make something 
 out of that, but failed, for a lawyer engaged by Mr. 
 Stein brought several other women in who also put it 
 on and proved that a number six is a very common 
 size. I wish I could have been there, too, for I would 
 have sworn she was at home when the deed was done; 
 but it seems I was not needed, for good old Herr 
 Schneidermann appeared and testified to her habits and 
 told where she was at the time. So they had to let her 
 go. Mr. Sappleigh was present and he writes that he 
 never saw so sad a sight as the poor accused woman. 
 Why will they do such cruel things without good 
 cause? I almost hate the law, it is so stupidly vindictive
 
 386 PERDIDA. 
 
 and merciless to suspected persons, and takes so little 
 note of really wicked men and does so little to protect 
 the innocent. 
 
 Mr. Sappleigh writes also that he had a call from 
 Mr. Stein not long after this, and that he told him Cora 
 had suddenly disappeared, and he could not find her 
 anywhere. He writes tha* Mr. Stein seemed worried 
 about it, and was sincerely anxious to have her return 
 to Chicago and resume her work. They are evidently 
 still unmarried. Poor Cora, I suppose the shock has 
 driven her to hide somewhere. I must try to find her, 
 when we return, if she does not turn up. How could 
 they suspect her? It is worse than the suspicion of 
 dear, noble Sue. Stivers must be the vilest of men to 
 wish to sell a woman s life for money. 
 
 I am so upset over this that I can scarcely collect my 
 thoughts. Happiness has its worries, I find. Still I 
 hope there will be nothing more. 
 
 Nov. 2d: Nothing has occurred since August to 
 mar the peace of my life. I am supremely happy be 
 cause I love and am loved and no peril hangs over 
 any one who is near to me. My darling grows dearer 
 every day, and a new strength is coming to my body 
 and a new vitality to my soul. I feel that life is giv 
 ing me some compensation for the losses I have had 
 and that it is almost possible for me to forget the past 
 and live only in the present. Of the future I refuse to 
 think. Once I did that, but it was useless, as I know 
 now. In the love of my dearest I intend to repose just 
 as long as God will let me, content if only I may grasp 
 what is fairly mine and be a source of happiness to 
 him. My sorrows have been heavy, ah, so heavy ! but 
 my joys are deep and pure. I am the best that I can be,
 
 PERDIDA. 387 
 
 though I cannot be what I ought to be. I have dili 
 gently tried to submit to my fate without murmuring. 
 Why may I not bask in the sunshine just a little while? 
 We will spend the winter in mild climates and be 
 neath unclouded skies. There will we roam and dwell 
 at peace together, dear, and there will I ever be to thee, 
 oh, my love, the best that I can hope to be.
 
 368 PERDIDA. 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 THE SURRENDER. 
 
 CHAPTER 1. 
 
 A NEW RESPONSIBILITY. 
 "They live too long who happiness outlive." Dryden. 
 
 THEY were happy days that passed for Nellie and 
 her lover during the rest of their sojourn abroad. 
 Often they would stay a long time in one place, mak 
 ing it their point of rest while enjoying the charm of 
 the neighboring country and caring not when they took 
 their departure; and again for a short season they 
 would travel from one point to another rapidly, gener 
 ally including as many trips by water as it was possi 
 ble to make, for she loved the sea with that passion that 
 is born in some people and was never tired of it. And 
 Sappleigh, not less happy than his dear companion, let 
 the time pass as it would and took no thought of other 
 things and felt that he was indeed most blessed of men. 
 Thus the ensuing months went by and found them still 
 abroad when another year had far advanced. They 
 spent much time in Mediterranean waters and among 
 the isles of Greece and in Egyptian travel, and saw 
 many things of interest to both, especially to the young 
 woman, whose early country life had been so small a 
 world for one whose love of knowledge was so strong. 
 And every day that passed added something to her
 
 PEHDTDA. 389 
 
 strength and something to her happiness, for the ten 
 derness of her lover never flagged, and was become a 
 great affection that placed its all upon the object it 
 adored. 
 
 She seemed to him at times a something mere than 
 woman, and he would often say to her, as he held her 
 hand and looked deep into her yearning eyes : 
 
 "What is it, Nellie that I cannot seem to understand 
 about you? Is it that I fail to meet your fullest expec 
 tations?" 
 
 And she would smile upon his face, as she replied, 
 tightening her clasp upon the hand she loved to hold : 
 "Ah, no, dear. It is not that; God knows it is not 
 that. It is because I fear we are too happy. You can 
 not understand just what that means to me. Some 
 times I feel that we are selfish in our enjoyment of our 
 happiness, and with that feeling comes a doubt, and I 
 dread the future. And yet I have resolved to leave the 
 future with God." 
 
 "That is the best way," he would say. "We surely 
 cannot make it. We are harming no one. Let us be 
 happy. You are entitled to what you have even if I 
 am not." 
 
 And thus they would often talk, when the graver 
 mood was upon them and their happiness seemed too 
 great to last. 
 
 As the seasons changed they journeyed farther norlh, 
 spent pleasant days in Switzerland and among the Ger 
 man cities, and visited the British Isles, where they 
 toured about to their hearts content and hastened over 
 nothing. It was like a long delicious dream to both, 
 this journeying whither they chose together, with no 
 thought of anything but their mutual enjoyment, and 
 they lingered even longer than Mr. Sappleigh had in 
 tended. But, of course, he must return someday; so
 
 390 PERDIDA. 
 
 at last they found themselves homeward bound and ex 
 pecting to arrive in due time at the city that had been 
 so much a place of sorrow to the woman, who was still 
 hardly more than a girl in years and so long the home 
 of the man who loved her and hoped to wed her yet, 
 despite her conscientious opposition to his plans. 
 
 When Mr. Sappleigh said, long before, that he would 
 give his life to Ler, he had spoken not with an admirer s 
 enthusiasm, but from the depth of a manly heart. He 
 felt that she was, no matter what others might think, 
 the sweetest, noblest girl he would ever know, and 
 there was nothing of a desire to humiliate or make her 
 feel he was a benefactor in his wish to give her his 
 name. She would make the best wife he could have. 
 He did not want her dependent on him always as she 
 was now. He wanted her to have her rights. But she 
 would not consent. It was the only thing about which 
 they could not agree. But Sappeigh hoped. He 
 understood her opposition clearly, but that did not alter 
 his view. What he gave he gave entirely, and his 
 heart and life were given to her. "Why not, then," he 
 would say, "my name?" Her reply would always be; 
 
 "I know, dear and I appreciate ; but we have a duty to 
 perform. You might be doing right, but I would not. 
 Let me have my conscience clear on that point. I do 
 not feel it would be right to others. And really, dear, 
 the sacrifice is not so very great for me. It is nothing 
 compared with what I receive in return. All that I 
 ask is just you. The rest I dare not dwell upon." 
 
 Of course it was necessary for Mr. Sappleigh to 
 arrive without announcement. Had his father known 
 of his coming he would have been certain to meet the 
 ship, and, pleasant as that might be under ordinary 
 circumstances, it would not do here. The only secret he 
 had from his father was this strange love affair, and he
 
 PERDIDA. 39 
 
 kept it because it was the condition imposed by Nellie 
 under which she had consented to leave the theater and 
 go with him. Her desire that old Mr. Sappleigh should 
 never know of his son s alliance with herself was al 
 most morbid. She felt that she had no right to inflict 
 upon the kind old gentleman so much as a suggestion 
 of unhappiness. Though she had not the strength to 
 resist her lover s appeals, she could, she said, insist 
 that her conduct must not harm one whom neither of 
 them had a right to injure. It was an illogical and 
 absurd position, but it had its reason in right-minded 
 ness; and, after all, she was but a weak, much-tried 
 girl and not precisely a philosopher of rigid intellect 
 who could split hairs to a nicety on every occasion ; and 
 last of all she loved. So thej T reached New York un 
 noticed, traveling under different names as friends, 
 and were quickly lost among the multitudes that throng 
 the city and care for nothing and for nobody in the 
 general hurly-burly of the crowd. 
 
 Had Nellie been a base adventuress, it is probable 
 she would long ago have made use of Mr. Sappleigh to 
 her own advantage. Armed as she was with wit and 
 beauty and gifted with intellectual capacity beyond the 
 average, all that was lacking to render her a dangerous 
 woman was the possession of a cold conscience and a 
 bad heart. But she had in her temperament nothing 
 of the qualities that tend to make a professional de 
 stroyer of men, so she still remained what she had al 
 ways been, a gentle, sincere, and loving woman, who had 
 no taste for wickedness and no desire to take unfair ad 
 vantage of others. Whether she was wise or not I 
 shall not attempt to decide. From some points of view 
 she certainly was not, since she did nothing to protect 
 herself against betrayal and made no attempts to 
 obtain anything for herself. She simply trusted, with
 
 392 PERDIDA. 
 
 a reservation that she would harm no one, and left the 
 rest to the man she loved. A bad woman would have 
 done the opposite, and would probably have made it a 
 point to bind the man by legal ties, thus establishing 
 herself in a secure position ; for the temptation to mar 
 riage with the son of a millionaire would certainly 
 have been very strong; nor would it have been wholly 
 inexcusable. 
 
 It is perhaps a fortunate thing that the majority of 
 our unprotected women are not gifted with the talents 
 of the professional adventuress; for man is an easy 
 prey to woman s wiles, and, bad as he often is, he is 
 not generally a match for a bad and beautiful woman 
 in the game of hearts. The adventuress is in a small 
 minority among those of her sex, and the results of her 
 schemings are therefore among the exceptional things 
 and cannot greatly injure the community. Most often, 
 too, her victims are persons upon whom it is not worth 
 while to waste any sympathy. Compared with the 
 number of unfortunates who are the victims of men, 
 the victims of the siren become so few that they scarcely 
 count in the problems of national life, and have almost 
 no influence on the destinies of a republic. It is possi 
 ble there may be a suggestion of retributive justice in 
 their works, but of that I shall say nothing. Retribu 
 tive justice is a difficult thing to analyze anyhow, since 
 it often strikes the innocent with the guilty, never 
 seems to right the wrongs it claims to avenge and fur- 
 ishes no protection to injured parties. The indirect 
 punishment that evil men sometimes receive at the 
 hands of adventuresses is, therefore, too infrequent and 
 too uncertain to have any practical value as an avenge- 
 ment of the wrongs inflicted upon innocent and warm 
 hearted girls. That the cold, calculating woman has 
 the advantage in the battle is perhaps true; but this
 
 PERDIDA. 393 
 
 fact, if it be a fact, does not help her more lovable sis 
 ter. What she needs is not the vengeance of evil 
 women, but the protection of honorable men. 
 
 Mr. Sappleigh was an honorable man. He was not 
 perfect and set up no pretense of special goodness, but 
 he certainly had the qualities that make the man of 
 honor. He was truthful, clean-minded, courageous 
 and self sacrificing. If was not in his nature to do a 
 willful wrong. Unconventional and violative of estab 
 lished laws though his present conduct was, it yet had 
 in it nothing of the essence of evil, and his motives 
 were the very best. If he erred, the error was certainly 
 one of the most consistent and just errors that a man 
 can commit. He sincerely believed that Nellie was 
 the only woman he could ever wholly love, and that 
 she was beyond a doubt, most lovable and true of 
 heart. She had given herself absolutely to him, at his 
 solicitation, and the blame, if there were any, was his, 
 not hers. There was nothing in her past, from his 
 point of view, that stood between them, for her life had 
 not been of her own choosing and she had always tried 
 to escape, standing firm where others would have 
 yielded and never willingly accepting any line of con 
 duct that did not seem to her to carry with it its own 
 justification. And again, she had suffered terribly, 
 and he felt that if he could brighten the rest of her life, 
 his own would not be utterly useless. It was in the 
 nature of the man to want to make others happy, and 
 his yearning was always for something that he could 
 protect. It was an inspiration to him to think that he 
 had found in her not only a woman with whom he could 
 be supremely happy, but one for whom he could do 
 something. It surely was not an ignoble love that 
 he had for this girl who was willing to sacrifice every 
 thing but one point of difference for him and that he
 
 394 PERDIDA. 
 
 hoped to overcome, at some future day, when she would 
 be able to see it from his point of view. 
 
 He secured a furnished flat in a house where no one 
 knew him, and there they dwelt, mutually happy in 
 each other s affection. Of course he could not take her 
 with him everywhere, much as he longed to, but they 
 had opportunity to enjoy many outings. Nellie had 
 always loved a domestic life, and this little housekeep 
 ing filled her with delight. It was really the first 
 happy home she had ever known, and with a woman s 
 natural love of home protection and comfort, she en 
 tered upon it contentedly. There were, of course, hours 
 when she had her spells of sadness and would sit alone 
 and grieve ; but he never knew of this. What right 
 had she to cast a shadow on his heart, the heart that 
 was dearer to her than all the rest? So she kept her 
 memories to herself and strove to view them as things 
 that were forever past, as he wished her to, and was as 
 happy as she could hope to be. When he \vas with 
 her, love and comradeship obliterated even these things, 
 and she simply lived in the present. She would have 
 liked to marry him, to stand by his side openly before 
 the world and let him show the pride he had in her 
 beauty, for she, too, was proud of her beauty now; but 
 that seemed wrong, so she contented herself with realiz 
 ing how much she had that was good, and did not per 
 mit regrets to mar her happiness. Soon after her re 
 turn, she made efforts to trace Cora, for she felt this 
 should be done in justice to the old friendship. Mr. 
 Sappleigh helped her all he could without exposing her 
 identity, but they could discover nothing. Letters sent 
 to Chicago came back unopened and an investigation in 
 New York revealed no clew. The young woman seemed 
 to have dropped out of existence. Once she wrote to 
 Mr. Stein, signing herself by her stage name and ask-
 
 PERDIDA. 395 
 
 ing information. He replied briefly, saying he had no 
 news to send, that he had himself made some inquiries 
 without results and could discover nothing that told 
 where Cora had gone. Probably, he said, she had de 
 cided to abandon all her old friends and was off with 
 new ones. The tone of his letter was not unfriendly, 
 but it seemed to indicate that he did not care much if 
 she never turned up. 
 
 "It is too bad," she said to Mr. Sappleigh. "I feel 
 that I must find her. Suppose she is in distress and 
 alone. It is my duty to trace her." 
 
 "Yes," said he, "it is. You owe her something, 
 dear. We will find her if we can." 
 
 But they did not find her. It seemed strange she 
 should thus hide herself, when there was nothing to 
 fear, and surely that affair of the glove could not be 
 sufficient to frighten her away, for it had turned out to 
 her credit. Mr. Sappleigh was right about this; the 
 affair of the glove could not harm her now. And yet 
 she remained a mystery that they could not solve. It 
 troubled Nellie greatly, and was seldom off her mind. 
 
 There was another person whom she longed to meet, 
 but could not. Herr Schneidermann, the old musician 
 who had been so kind. She sent him a letter when in 
 Germany, but, of course, did not know whether he had 
 it or not. But him she might not seek. Mr. Sappleigh 
 did, however, and found him in his old place still 
 pounding the piano at the Columbia and playing, not 
 as he had played for Nellie, but with a mechanical 
 touch that plainly showed his heart was not in the 
 work. Mr. Sappleigh sought him after the show, anc 
 introduced himself as a friend of one of his favorites, 
 mentioning her name. The old man s eyes grew 
 brighter as he heard, and he grasped the visitor warmly 
 by the hand, asking dozens of questions in broken Eng-
 
 396 PERDIDA. 
 
 lish in his eagerness to learn of the girl he loved. Mr. 
 Sappleigh told him he knew her well, and had seen her 
 when in Germany, and that she had mentioned her old 
 friend with kindness, saying she had written him. Did 
 he get the letter? "Oh, yes; und vear it next der heart, 
 id vas zo sveettohaf." That was good. She would 
 be pleased to hear of it. Did he know she had lost her 
 voice? "Ach nein! und vas dat so? So sad, so sad! 
 Vas der young voman in droubles?" Oh, no, Mr. Sap 
 pleigh assured him it was only her stage voice that was 
 gone; she was doing well and expected to marry soon 
 with a gentleman of wealth. At this announcement 
 the old man s eyes filled with tears, and he said : "Das 
 istgoot; she vas too sveet to lif dis vay. I shall be 
 happier now to tink she vas not suffer any more. I 
 lofe her ferry mooch." It was altogether a pleasant 
 interview for Mr. Sappleigh and he was glad he called. 
 When Nellie heard of it she felt better. It was good 
 to think the old man would not worry about her. 
 
 Of course her lover could not always be with her, for 
 he had duties elsewhere, especially toward his father. 
 With him he kept up the old-time intimacy, often 
 visiting him at his club and frequently dining there. 
 Mr. Sappleigh left Mrs. Ferguson s when he went 
 abroad, and upon his return had settled elsewhere, that 
 was all. So, while Mrs. Ferguson would have been 
 pleased to have him back, there was nothing in that 
 change to excite comment. He called occasionally on 
 Miss Dodge, and spent pleasant hours with her. Some 
 times even he would encourage her to talk of the past and 
 of the lost girl they both loved so well, and it was with 
 a strange sensation that he led her on, knowing what he 
 knew. The remembrance was a tender one with Sue, 
 and at times her face would be very sad as she talked 
 of the girl and her cruel fate. Again it would be with
 
 PERDIDA. 397 
 
 an expression of positive hatred that she spoke, think 
 ing of the villain who had destroyed her friend, and 
 Mr. Sappleigh would then remember the incident of the 
 pistol, and feel that, as a mere matter of inference, his 
 suspicions had not been so very unnatural. If she 
 could know all, he said to himself, what would she say. 
 But Sue knew very little. She had never even heard 
 of Cora s treatment nor of the death of poor little Mary. 
 All that she knew was the story of her lost friend, and 
 possibly other things that Mr. Sappleigh did not know. 
 He longed to tell her the truth and to bring this dear 
 friend and the woman he loved together once more, but 
 Nellie forbade it, so nothing could be done at present. 
 But he did not abandon the hope that eventually he 
 would win consent to a marriage, and then it could be 
 done. Meantime Sue loved to talk of the lost girl, and 
 it pleased him to let her do it. 
 
 Thus the days passed on, and Nellie, for the first 
 time in her life, was able to be happy, even with a bur 
 den on her heart and the saddest of memories. The 
 apathy that had threatened to reduce her to a state of 
 dull melancholia when she was singing at the Colum 
 bia, passed off and gave place to a condition that was 
 different and yet not unlike it in some respects. She 
 still had moods of silent meditation and periods when 
 she did not seem to think of anything, and would often 
 sit, as before, for hours, with her hands folded on her 
 lap, gazing vacantly at nothing; but it was not with 
 that feeling of deadness that had once been a part of 
 her condition. When she was with Sappleigh every 
 trace of her moodiness would vanish and she would 
 become a warm, bright-eyed, intelligent young woman, 
 full of life and interest, and very happy in her love; but 
 when he was absent there were times in which the taci 
 turnity and dullness of former days would return, and
 
 398 PERDIDA. 
 
 she would feel that she felt nothing. These moods 
 grew upon her and did not lessen, even with the happi 
 ness that was now so much a part of her daily exist 
 ence. They became a part of herself that linked her 
 indissolubly with the past. They did not pain her now. 
 Long use had accustomed her to them, and contentment 
 disguised the sense of mental weariness that they gave. 
 She was almost a double identity, one person being the 
 girl who was lost, the other the girl who was found. 
 One was a miserable sense-dulled creature, hoping noth 
 ing and caring for nothing, the other a joyous woman 
 wholly given to the man she loved. Something told 
 her there would some day be an end to everything, even 
 to her present peace and bliss, but she did not attempt 
 to look ahead nor did she contemplate the future with 
 interest. It was so much to be what she now was, 
 that she cared for nothing mere. While it lasted she 
 would live in it. It might not be very long, but that 
 could not alter the blessed present. 
 
 How short a time it requires to tell of the happiness 
 of any one. Happiness is the thing we all seek while 
 we live, the one gift over which we yearn to linger 
 longest, the condition we would make endless if we 
 could ; and yet to tell of it is but a moment s labor. 
 With one small drop of ink, the poet, framing his 
 thought concisely, can depict the bliss of years of 
 earthly love and have the story told in full before the 
 ink is dry upon the page. But let his tale be one of 
 sorrow or of sin and wrong and crime, and even the pen 
 that moves upon the book he tills with this recital may 
 need the assistance of another before the task is done, 
 so constant is its wear. Joy is brief, its story but a 
 word ; sorrow a slow and endless-moving thing that 
 reaches no man knows how far perhaps beyond the 
 grave.
 
 PERDIDA. 399 
 
 They had been very happy the night before it hap 
 pened, and the morning dawned with happiness still 
 upon them for the day was fair and with it came no 
 care. Mr. Sappleigh was not to return till late, it 
 being his intention to dine with his father as he often 
 did, and Nellie rejoiced to think how good a thing it was 
 these two could be so congenial with the difference of 
 years that lay between them, and a little of the longing 
 that was often with her came to her, causing her to 
 wish she might be with them in the place that right 
 fully would become her own, but for the past. He left 
 her, as he always did, with tender words, and farewell 
 kiss, telling her not to be lonesome; and she gave him 
 of her tenderness in return and promised she would not 
 worry and would greet him with a smile when night 
 should come. Thus they parted, little dreaming it wap 
 for the last time, never supposing that a separation 
 could come this way, the least anticipated of all the 
 possibilities and yet so natural. Such partings happen 
 every day. 
 
 She did not expect him until long after nightfall, so 
 there was nothing to fret about, and [she busied herself 
 in tidying up their apartments, and was preparing to 
 read a book that she liked, when afternoon should come 
 and find her with time on her hands and nothing to do. 
 She was doing a good deal of reading now, and it 
 seemed to take her thoughts from past troubles and to 
 keep down the apathy that still would come upon her 
 when alone, so she cultivated the fancy and read much. 
 At noon she prepared and ate her simple lunch, spend 
 ing much time at it, though she took little food, and 
 then removed the things and set the room to rights, 
 thinking meantime of her happiness and of him. She 
 imagined she could see him and his father merrily 
 chatting, as he told her they often did, and mutually
 
 400 PERDIDA . 
 
 pleased with each other s companionship, as she knew 
 they always were, and could almost in her fancy hear 
 the old gentleman s hearty laugh and join him in the 
 jokes that he was fond of telling. Sappleigh had told 
 her so much about his father that she felt she knew 
 him well, and it was one of her pastimes to thus sit 
 and think of them together. It seemed lo bring her 
 nearer to her love. Thus the day went by until it was 
 nearing the twilight hour, and the boy who served the 
 people in the flat came down the hall and pushed the 
 evening paper through the letter slot into the room. 
 She went and picked it up, as was her habit, thinking 
 to while away another hour with the daily news; but 
 she did not read very far for standing out with a 
 clearness that seemed unnatural, for the types were not 
 larger than many others on the page, she saw these 
 words : 
 
 "YOUNG MR. SAPPLEIGH KILLED. 
 
 "SAD ACCIDENT TO THE SON OF A WELL-KNOWN 
 FINANCIER. 
 
 "He is thrown down while trying to save a child from a 
 fire engine, and loses his life under the wheels Noble 
 sacrifice of a brave man." 
 
 With pallid face and staring eyes she read the ac 
 count that followed, telling of the heroic act of the man 
 she loved, but although she read it with intelligence, 
 there was but one fact now that fastened itself upon 
 her, the fact that he was dead. It came with telling 
 force and struck deep into her heart and stayed there, 
 beating against her consciousness relentlessly and fill 
 ing her with a woe that was so intense she made no 
 sound in response to the agony she felt.
 
 PERDIDA. 401 
 
 How long it was before she was able to think at all 
 she never knew, but darkness came and .found her sit 
 ting where she had received the blow, and morning 
 dawned again and found her there still. It must have 
 been well on toward noon before she arose from the 
 chair, and, feebly tottering across the room, threw her 
 self upon a lounge and tried to reason it all out. 
 
 In time her mind was clearer. She went to her bed 
 room and bathed her face, weakly wondering if it 
 could be the same face that looked at her from the mir 
 ror the day before, ate something that she picked up 
 from a side table in the dining room as she passed 
 through, and going back to the apartment that had be 
 come the scene of her greatest happiness, sat down 
 again and thought it over. The morning paper lay 
 upon the floor. She took it and soon found the later 
 account of the accident. It contained nothing new, 
 beyond the statement that the young man s father was 
 prostrated with grief, and that the funeral would be 
 held at the old home, which was to be opened for the 
 occasion. 
 
 Could she go there? Could she see him just once 
 more? Could she dare to assume the responsibility of 
 the danger that might threaten his father s peace of 
 mind and his memory as a son, if she should try even 
 for only a minute, to reach his coffin and should at 
 tempt to press her lips just once upon his brow? Was 
 this last, the very last item of her happiness to be 
 denied? Surely it could harm no one, so long as no 
 one knew who she was; and yet it might. She dared 
 not venture. 
 
 Bravely putting aside the temptation, the strongest 
 she had ever had, she decided in favor of the father and 
 the memory of the son and against herself. Then, 
 worn out with her vigil and the pain she had endured
 
 402 PERDIDA. 
 
 so long, she threw herself upon her bed and lay there 
 motionless like a half-dead thing, and let the sense of 
 her loneliness and her grief grow upon her without re 
 straint, until nature, taking pity, made her sleep. 
 
 The tears came plentifully next. day, and being tears 
 that must be shed in secret they were doubly cruel and 
 painful. But they broke the spell of her first condition 
 and left her with power to reason out the future. With 
 this came a realization of the wisdom of him who was 
 now gone, and an understanding of the depth of the 
 affection he had cherished for her; for now she saw 
 with clearness, that it would be impossible to do the 
 thing that should be done, and that the duty which he 
 wanted to assume must be borne alone by herself. 
 
 She wondered why it was she had not seen this be 
 fore, and with this thought came a sense of wrong 
 doing that overwhelmed her and made her afraid. Had 
 she consented to wed with him, putting aside her opin 
 ion and trusting him in this matter as she had in other?, 
 the problem that now was left for her to solve unaided 
 would never have existed, and their child would be in 
 a position to receive the name and protection that 
 should have been its birthright. In her anxiety to 
 spare the father and the son the disgrace that lay upon 
 herself, she had thoughtlessly placed a curse upon the 
 innocent child. She saw it now, and it terrified her. 
 Nothing was left but to devote her life to any atone 
 ment she could make, no matter how hard it might be. 
 Her duty to the dead and the living was at an end ; but 
 her duty to the unborn child was come and she must 
 face it. 
 
 When at first she realized that her lover was dead her 
 thought had been of suicide. But that was now become 
 an impossibility. She must live. With a wretchedness 
 greater than she had yet known, she prepared to do it.
 
 PEBDIDA. 403 
 
 There are many problems that present themselves in 
 life. Each of us mortals thinks that which is set him 
 to solve the hardest that can be devised to fret a decent 
 person ; and some of us are prone to view our tasks, as 
 an unmerciful cruelty of nature or an evidence of God s 
 vindictiveness. With regard to the problems of others 
 we are ever ready with a set of stock solutions and for 
 mula that, while they do not please the beneficiaries, 
 seem to us sufficient for their needs. Our own bur 
 dens, however, are different. Each of us thinks his the 
 heaviest that can be placed upon poor weak human 
 kind. It really does not matter what the problem that 
 confronts us may happen to be. If it be our problem, 
 it is sure tc be the hardest of them all. And yet, what 
 one of us is there who would willingly exchange his 
 burden for that of Nellie Brown, and think it a relief 
 to assume the sad position of a woman who must face 
 the world and solve its problems dutifully as the hus- 
 bandless mother of an unborn, outcast child?
 
 .104- PERDIDA. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 DE PROFUNDIS. 
 
 Nov. 3c!, 18 . Two years ago yesterday; how long 
 it seems, and yet how fast the time flew then. Happi 
 ness is heedless of the passing hours, but misery counts 
 them at their full measure. Then I scarcely knew 
 whether they were hours or days or weeks that made 
 the sum of my existence ; now I know each hour drags 
 along as if it were a year, and that it contains just 
 sixty minutes, every one of them an age. It is only 
 when I am alone with my darling that there seems to 
 be no such thing as time. How dear she is to me! 
 How my soul goes out to her as I press her to my 
 weary, wicked heart, and realize the fullness of a 
 mother s love. Yes; even such a mother as I can feel 
 this way, and lose herself in the contemplation of her 
 child. What a heaven on earth it must be to be an 
 honest mother, sure of everything for one s child and 
 openly proud of it and of one s motherhood. Once I 
 hoped for this, but that is past. And yet I have the 
 blessedness of motherhood to think of, even in my 
 wretched condition of existence. God has not denied 
 me that, though it would be better for her if He had, 
 for I am too weak to protect her as I should, try as I 
 will. If he only had not died, if I had been able to see 
 it as he saw and yet I still fear it would have been a 
 crime to marry him. How hard it is to know what is 
 right. 
 
 I am probably the wickedest woman in the world. I
 
 PERDIDA. 405 
 
 face the fact mercilessly without flinching at the sight 
 of myself. Everything that I once said I would never 
 be I have become; everything that I said I would 
 never willingly do, I have done, and shall continue to 
 do until the end comes. But I still rebel and insist 
 that I am not what I am because I wish to be. It is for 
 her dear sake that I sacrifice myself, because I owe her 
 all that my life can give. I would cheerfully die for 
 her if it were wise, but that must not be until I have 
 made her future secure. She demands my life now, 
 and, when that has been given in full, I will die for 
 her, so she may never know. Sue will see to it that 
 she never knows. With the money that I shall place 
 in Sue s hands when I die, she can care for my darling 
 better than I could. I know Sue will do this for my 
 sake, because she loves and pities me; and, with what 
 I shall supply, she will be able to carry out my plan. 
 How fortunate it is I never wasted the money dear Lis- 
 penard gave me. It is all in the bank, and is a good 
 nest egg for the little fortune that I shall intrust with 
 Sue for my child. But it is still not enough. I must 
 make it greater, or my darling will not be safe, for Sue 
 is poor and could not carry out the plan alone, nor 
 would it be right to ask her to do it. How fearfully 
 wicked I have become and how frightfully mercenary. 
 Motherhood has changed my nature, or seems to have 
 done so. But what other course can I adopt that will 
 save my little one? Ah, Sue, dear Sue, you have had 
 your sorrows, but you have not suffered as I have, nor 
 known what I have known. And yet, strange as it 
 may seem, I would not change places with you, for you 
 have never known the supreme happiness of a perfect 
 love. That blessing at least I have had, just once. I 
 do not ask you to condone my offences, but only pray 
 that you will overlook them, always remembering that
 
 406 PERDIDA. 
 
 I have tried to do right, and bearing in mind the fact 
 that it is the motherhood in me, and not the woman, 
 that impels me onward now. I believe God will pity 
 me, even though he may not forgive, and you, dear 
 Sue, will not do less. 
 
 She is waking, and I must pause. Yes, darling, 
 mother is here. Come to L her heart. You will never 
 know that it was not chaste and guileless like your 
 own. You, at least, will learn to think of me as of one 
 who was pure when on earth, and whose purified spirit 
 watches you always, and Sue will teach you to love me 
 as I would be loved by you. 
 
 She has gone to sleep again, and I have watched her 
 until I begin to fear she may feel my eyes upon her and 
 awake. I wish I could sit as some mothers do beside 
 the cradles of their babes without gazing at them too 
 intently, for close watching often disturbs a sleeper, but 
 I cannot do it. My feelings are so intense when I am 
 with her that they overcome my wisdom, and I have to 
 turn away, lest I arouse her when she ought to sleep. 
 Sometimes I used to wonder whether I would ever be 
 fit for motherhood, I, who never knew a mother s love 
 and care, and to doubt it, but I do not feel so now. I 
 know that were it in my power to make a true home 
 for my child and give her the protection that she needs, 
 there would be no mother on God s earth more tender 
 and more wise. 
 
 Why is it that some of us mortals should be so cir 
 cumstanced that we cannot become what we are best 
 fitted to be? Long ago I felt that I was fit to be the 
 good wife of some good man, and I know that was 
 true, for I was a good wife to Lispenard and would al 
 ways have been ; but I used to fear my capacity for the 
 duties of motherhood. To-day I perceive that, but for 
 my horrible environment, I could be the best of moth-
 
 PEED ID A. 
 
 40? 
 
 ers. How sad it is. The most that I can do is what I 
 am doing, for there is nothing else for me to do. If I 
 cast my child upon the world, as many have, it will 
 receive but scant kindness and only perfunctory benefits 
 such as charity throws to the helpless. She must have 
 means with which to place a safeguard about herself 
 and education sufficient to keep her from harm. I will 
 provide the means and Sue will give the rest. I would 
 not have my child turned loose upon the world as T was, 
 with nothing but her youth and a superficial knowledge 
 of men to stand between her and destruction. I have 
 written elsewhere what I wish her to have and Sue will 
 carry out the plan if she lives. Beyond that I cannot 
 prepare her future. God grant I may live long enough 
 to provide the means. 
 
 What a fearful, wicked, base, abominable life it is 
 that I lead. Every day is full of falsehood and deceit; 
 every night of sin and degradation. What fools they 
 are, to think me pleased with them. If they knew the 
 truth, some of them would never look at me, for they 
 are not all wholly devoid of decency and self-respect. 
 Tbey say I am handsome, and that is true; but what 
 pleasure can that bring me, when I love and care for 
 no one. Once it was not so but of that I will not 
 write; it is too painful. I perceive that most of us 
 women are like myself. It is only the exceptional one 
 who feels differently. Poor things, they would all get 
 out of it if they could ; but what can they do? It is not 
 in the nature of most people to jump off the docks. 
 How reckless they are, and how natural that is. I 
 would be reckless too, were it not for my babe. When 
 I think of her I don t care. Sometimes I feel that my 
 mind is not what it was long ago. It seems like a 
 thing that has been steeped in poison. I saw a rose 
 once that had been treated with poisons until it had
 
 408 PERDIDA. 
 
 actually changed from its natural color to a bright 
 gaudy green. The man who did it seemed to think he 
 had accomplished something useful, but I thought it 
 simply outrageous, and a violation of God s laws and 
 harmfully malicious to nature. He admitted that he 
 was not successful at trying to make roses grow strong 
 and healthy that way, and I believe the rose died soon 
 after. Something like that seems to have happened to 
 me. I am still my natural self inside but externally I 
 seem like the poisoned rose. I am literally dyed in 
 crime, yet the dyes are not congenial to me. But for 
 my baby I would wash them off if it cost me my life 
 to do it; and I am afraid to die too. I am sometimes 
 afraid of everything. Once I slept in the dark, but 
 now I must have the gas burning all night or I see 
 Things. But I am hoarding up the money and in time 
 it will become enough. That, at any rate, will be used 
 for a good purpose. 
 
 Nov. 6TH : What queer things happen. I have heard 
 from Cora. She is in San Francisco, and has hunted 
 me up through advertisements. That stage name of 
 mine is convenient. She now calls herself but that is 
 her secret. She writes that she is doing very well, and 
 does not expect ever again to visit New York. She 
 wants to know if I need any help, and suggests that I 
 join her, but of course I cannot do that, for I must be 
 near Sue in case anything happens. Cora is different 
 from me; she does not seem to suffer much and speaks 
 lightly of her life, as if it were a thing to be borne 
 good-naturedly and without fretting, and again repeats 
 her favorite phrase. She appears to be right, for there 
 certainly is no other life for her or anybody like her. 
 I wonder whose fault it is that this should be so? Is it
 
 PERDIDA. 409 
 
 the fault of the girl herself, or of the government, or of 
 society? Does the blame lie at the door of the Chris 
 tian Church? It s an awful suggestion. Are the 
 church and Christ one and the same, as some of the 
 preachers tell us? I think not. When I dwell upon 
 this subject, I always remember dear old Deacon Pop- 
 grass and what he once said to me, and that sounds 
 more like Christ than the preaching and the talk I used 
 to hear. For myself I do not really believe Cora is 
 wholly to blame. My case is different, for I am now 
 willfully pursuing a bad course, and justify it in no 
 way except on grounds of duty to my child. I am 
 willing to take the consequences for her sake, and do 
 not ask forgiveness. But there are others, who, if they 
 had a fair chance, would lead upright lives with glad 
 ness. Who is to blame there? I once heard a sermon 
 in which the preacher said there was always hope for 
 the Magdalene if she were truly repentant, and it made 
 me think of myself and the time my aunt drove me 
 from home. I was truly repentant nobody could be 
 more so though I scarcely knew what I had done to 
 need repentance, but there does not appear to have been 
 much hope for me. Something is wrong somewhere, I 
 believe, in a system that pardons a man like Mr. Tat- 
 terton and gives him a chance to live, yet refuses a 
 poor girl, such as I was then, a right to earn her bread, 
 excepting on condition that she will uncover her shame 
 to the world. I don t waste much time on such thoughts 
 now, however, for they cannot concern me. Still when 
 I think of others, they come to me. 
 
 Mr. Tatterton is again in New York, and is preach 
 ing in a Universalist Church. He has taken a manly 
 course, thrown up his former allegiance to the laws he 
 could not obey, and is married to an estimable lady of 
 wealth and position. I learned this, not long ago,
 
 410 PEEDIDA. 
 
 from tho newspapers. It made something of a sensa 
 tion at the time and some people censured him severely 
 for making the change; but I did not. I felt that I 
 would like to take his hand and congratulate him. He 
 is not wholly bad ; but then, neither was I. 
 
 She is waking! Ah, sweet, come to me and let me 
 just forget everything but my motherhood for a time. 
 
 Nov. 10TH: Why is it that I must so often be re 
 minded of that dead man? Yesterday I chanced to see 
 the old porter Stivers. What a low-down scoundrel he 
 is. I read his story in the newspapers, at the time. 
 At first he felt that it was not a kind thing to suspect 
 anybody, and then, when he wanted money, he turned 
 the dogs on poor Cora without the slightest mercy. I 
 would not trust him with a five-cent piece. He did not 
 recognize me. although there was a lingering recollec 
 tion in his glance, and he seemed to be trying to place 
 me among his lost acquaintances. I felt like killing 
 him, he is so mean. He is working as general utility 
 man in a dance hall, and I suppose he enjoys the society 
 he finds there. There was a villainous-looking fellow 
 with him and they seemed to be quite thick. I wish I 
 had not met the wretch. Just before that I had seen 
 dear Sue, and this meeting spoiled the pleasure of the 
 other. Sue, of course, did not see me, but I had a fine 
 opportunity to look at her, and it did me lots of good. 
 She was just entering a street car, and I had almost 
 taken the same conveyance. I shall have to be careful, 
 or she may suddenly discover me. 
 
 Those men were talking about the murder, when I 
 saw them, and I caught a few words. One would sup 
 pose, after all this time, that they would drop it. I
 
 PERDIDA. 
 
 heard the words "pistol" and " Jadman" and then I 
 got away as fast as I could. I wonder who could have 
 stolen it from Lispenard. He never felt easy about 
 that, poor boy, and once he actually suspected Sue. 
 My dear, dead love, how sad it is to think that, in any 
 manner whatsoever, you should have had to bear the bur 
 den of that awful crime. And yet you would do it, 
 because you were so brave and true. I often dwell 
 with a sense of happiness on the hour when you were 
 relieved of the cruel suspicion that you felt was so un 
 worthy of you. How good you were, how strong and 
 kind and merciful to every one. Even now, lost as I 
 am in iniquity and hopelessly ruined, I can, at times, 
 forget the present and let my fancy bear me backward 
 to the hours when your affection made me feel that I 
 was almost if not quite, redeemed. Ah, me! 
 
 I see old Mr. Sappleigh sometimes. This is not dan 
 gerous, for he does not remember me well enough to 
 recognize me, never having met me but once, the time 
 he tried to do me good. I did not know then, how 
 earnestly he was trying to save me from what he feared 
 was a great peril that could still be avoided. Later, 
 when my dear one explained it all to me, my heart 
 went to him as to a kind father and I longed to go to 
 him and thank him for his thoughtful tenderness to me, 
 a friendless girl. You will do this for me, Sue, when, 
 in after years, you read these pages and know the very 
 worst and the very best, and, in the goodness of your 
 heart, forget the one and dwell upon the other. Tell 
 him how I always thought of him with reverence and 
 gratitude as among the noblest of men, and let him 
 know that often, when he never suspected it, I have 
 gone to his place of business and waited near just to see 
 him pass and look upon his face, thankful for even this 
 small comfort. Tell him that, next to my Lispenard,
 
 412 PERDIDA. 
 
 I have learned to love him best of all men, enough, 
 dear Sue, to refuse to lay a stain upon the name he 
 bears; and beg him to forgive the girl whose heart was 
 always full of regard for him, because of his goodness 
 to her in her hour of need. 1 met him yesterday, walk 
 ing slowly along Broadway, bearing his sorrow like a 
 brave man, and passing serenely grave among his fel 
 lows. I turned and followed him there was no dan 
 ger and for several squares I kept as close to him as 
 I dared. It was worth something to feel him near and 
 to think how dearly we both love the memor} of one 
 who is gone, and whose greatest happiness was the 
 thought that some day he could bring us together. I 
 could not but contrast the pictures we would have made 
 in the eyes of the world, had the world known the 
 truth; I a shameless thing too vile to touch, he a crea 
 ture noble in the sight of God and man, whom it were 
 an honor to be permitted to speak to. Yet we are both 
 God s children. Something tells me he would not con 
 demn me, if he knew the truth. Were it otherwise, he 
 would not be the father of my Lispenard. 
 
 I wish 1 could sleep without a light as I used to. 
 Not until after I deliberately entered upon my present 
 career have I been afraid of the darkness, no not even 
 when I was most unhappy in Chicago, and when alone 
 while I was singing for nay living. It is only since I be 
 gan to live this way that I have had that trouble. Some 
 thing in the darkness used to soothe me and seemed to 
 suggest that peace which comes with death, and I was 
 never frightened when night came on. Now it is all 
 changed, and I want light all the time. I simply 
 cannot sleep if it is dark. Can it be that I have a 
 guilty conscience that causes it, or is it merely an indi 
 cation of an overwrought sensitiveness that is the re 
 sult of long suffering and worn-out nerves? I am not
 
 PERDIDA. 413 
 
 really afraid of anything, yet I tremble when there is 
 no light in the room. Several of my women acquaint 
 ances have confessed to me that they have the same 
 unexplainable dread of darkness. They say it is the 
 curse of our class. God pity us if it be so. We have 
 enough to bear as it is. 
 
 If I could always have baby with me it would be 
 different I think ; but that is not good for her, because 
 I go to bad very late, and must not disturb her. Dear 
 little darlmg, she must have no hurts from me. If it 
 were not tnat I must have sleep to help me live, I think 
 I would sit all night beside her cradle, and only sleep 
 when there is no night. No night is there indeed a 
 place where there is no night, as the Bible says? If 
 this is so, I shall hope to go there when it is all over 
 and I have no more to do. I wouldn t care much what 
 my fate is to be if I could know it would always be 
 light.
 
 414 PERDIDA. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A QUESTION OF INHERITANCE. 
 
 THERE is this about good intentions; however much 
 they may benefit the character and help to upbuild the 
 structure of the inner life, unless it be possible to carry 
 them out to an execution, almost nothing that is practi 
 cal results from having entertained them. Nellie had 
 begun life with the best of good intentions; she had 
 planned, in her adolescent years, to become an honest, 
 self-sustaining person, to lead a clean, moral life, and 
 to develop the best that was in herself, hoping when 
 the time should come, to some day enter the holy state of 
 matrimony with a good man, and devote her best efforts 
 to the highest mission that a woman can have, as wife 
 and mother. She had not expected to accomplish all 
 this in a day, she did not contemplate it with any de 
 sire to hasten the consummation of her wishes or with 
 any idea of shirking duty in the interest of pleasure; 
 she did not seek to avoid trials and toil, but it was 
 still her intention to live toward her ideal, and, with 
 God s help, she had hoped to reach it; for she believed 
 that woman s rightful place is in the home and had 
 never admitted that a business life is her natural occu 
 pation. Her intentions were, therefore, of the very 
 best, and she certainly had done her best to carry them 
 out. 
 
 Yet what had it all amounted to? Simply nothing 
 that was in line with the plan she had in mind when 
 she rode with Deacon Popgrass to the railway station
 
 PERDWA 415 
 
 and left the scenes of youth behind forever. One cruel 
 blow, struck by a cowardly villain s hand, had, in an 
 instant destroyed the foundation of her opportunities 
 and left her to battle helpless against a fate that it was 
 far beyond her power to cope with. Since that hour 
 she had strenuously contended against her misfortunes, 
 always hoping for something better than the worst, 
 even though she might not have the best, and never 
 willingly accepting evil as a desirable thing nor once 
 consenting to wantonly injure any one. And yet, de 
 spite the struggle made in all sincerity, she was become 
 the very thing she hated most to be, and was compelled 
 by the conditions placed upon her life to mortgage her 
 soul and sell her conscience for the safety of her child. 
 Who, then, was to blame? Was it she or some other? 
 Did the fault lie in herself, or was it society that must 
 some day answer to the Supreme Judge for the destruc 
 tion of an innocent girl and the corruption of a guile 
 less character? I will leave this question unanswered 
 and submit it to the wives and mothers of the land, as 
 a subject worth considering in the leisure hours that lie 
 between tea-time and the opera; merely suggesting 
 that it is my belief that, if anything is ever to be done 
 to help the Nellie Browns in their hours of danger, it 
 will be best accomplished by the earnest efforts of en 
 lightened Christian womanhood. 
 
 Meantime, while Nellie was sacrificing herself with 
 passionate unselfishness for the future of her child, 
 literally courting death and eternal damnation for its 
 sake, there was an opportunity opening for her and the 
 babe of which she did not learn, and Sue, the ever- 
 faithful friend, was trying her best to seize it for them. 
 Here again it was that lack of knowledge and experi 
 ence stood between the young woman and release from
 
 416 PERDIDA. 
 
 peril; for she had absolutely no understanding of the 
 laws and had never learned the first thing concerning 
 her possible rights of inheritance in her dead mother s 
 property. Mrs. Call her aunt, had not perhaps will 
 fully kept her ignorant although it is very possible 
 but no one else had ever cared to inform her, though 
 the village all knew it ; so she never had learned that, 
 under the conditions of her grandfather s will, she 
 would become the sole inheritor of the family interests 
 upon the death of her aunt. It was also a provision of 
 the will that the aunt should provide for the niece dur 
 ing her lifetime, or until she should marry. Therefore, 
 in casting her off, her aunt had really violated the con 
 ditions of her own inheritance. The property de 
 scended, by the will, to the two sisters jointly, the sur 
 vivor to take the whole in trust, with right of enjoy 
 ment, and to care for the child, who was named as the 
 final legatee upon the decease of both sisters. There 
 fore, when Nellie s mother died, it became the duty of 
 her aunt to provide for her until she should marry, and 
 to keep the estate intact for her until the death of the 
 older sister would pass it directly to her control. Mrs. 
 Call had never, in fact, been a benefactor to the girl, 
 for her position was merely that of a trustee with privi 
 leges, and whatever she gave the child was in reality 
 only her right. 
 
 It was, therefore, with much astonishment that Pas 
 tor Van Home, while examining the county records 
 with his lawyer for another purpose, discovered the 
 memorandum of the will, but a week after the death of 
 Mrs. Call. There had been discussion in the village as 
 to the probable disposal of the property, for Mrs. Call 
 left no other heirs and had made no will, and the lawyer 
 was naturally anxious to undertake the discovery of the 
 missing girl. The property consisted of a fine farm
 
 PERDIDA. 41-J 
 
 and about twenty-five thousand dollars in securities, 
 no great fortune it is true, but more than enough to 
 save the mother and protect the child. And yet poor 
 Nellie continued her struggle, not knowing how near she 
 stood to immediate relief. 
 
 After considering the subject with care, Pastor Van 
 Home decided that the only clew worth following for 
 the present might be obtained from Sue Dodge. She 
 had known him years before, when her people attended 
 his church, and would probably remember him. Sue s 
 parents died, not long before she left the village, and it 
 was the breaking up of her family that had caused her 
 to leave the old home which she had never visited since, 
 but Pastor Van Home remembered that she had been 
 fond of Nellie and was the person who had secured her 
 her situation and her board ing- place; so he concluded to 
 begin his search with Sue. His lawyer agreed with 
 him and together they wrote her, asking her to await 
 their coming in a few days. 
 
 Sue at once replied, urging them to come and pledg 
 ing her efforts to their assistance. It was with a very 
 full heart that she thought over the contents of the good 
 pastor s letter, and realized how much it might mean 
 to Nellie if she were yet living. But of that she had 
 little hope. Still it was right to try to discover the 
 truth ; and even if she were dead, Sue felt she would 
 like to know it and to discover her grave and properly 
 care for it. It seemed hard that the poor lost girl 
 should lie somewhere unknown and with no friend to 
 pay respect to her ashes. With the help of a good law 
 yer, something might be disclosed that would at least 
 explain the mystery of her death. That she was living 
 Sue never admitted to herself. 
 
 She felt that Mr. Sappieigh would help her in this 
 matter and that it would pot be encroaching on his
 
 418 PERDIDA. 
 
 good-nature to ask him to. So she explained it to 
 him, telling him what she had learned from the clergy 
 man and of her desire to trace her lost friend. 
 
 "I know it is painful to you," she said, "because 
 your dear son once loved her; but I felt, last night, 
 when I thought it all over, that you would be willing 
 to help me just the same, knowing how dear she was 
 to me and how I have grieved over her fate." 
 
 "Of course I will, Miss Dodge," he replied, "did not 
 I too love the girl from the first day I saw her and rea 
 lized her sweetness. What a scoundrel he was. I 
 sometimes marvel that God permits such men to grow 
 up. Poor Lispenard! He never got over it. I ll help 
 you for his sake as well as for hers. I know he would 
 wish me to. Do you still believe her dead?" 
 
 "Yes," said she, "I have never been able to think 
 of her in any other way. I have always felt that, after 
 she disappeared, she must have taken her life. It is 
 so long ago now that I fear our search will be difficult." 
 
 "That is so," said Mr. Sappleigh. "And yet, Miss 
 Dodge, you know when lawyers begin to hunt for miss 
 ing heirs, they often discover things that nobody else 
 can seem to trace. There is something peculiar about 
 a hunt with money in it. If the men who pursue crim 
 inals worked half as well as the men who chase money, 
 it would be hard lines for the criminals. I believe the 
 lawyer will discover something." 
 
 "Let us hope so," said Sue. "Poor Nellie! little 
 good it will do her, but still it will be a relief to know 
 the truth." 
 
 "Of course it will, Miss Dodge. Let me suggest 
 that you write to the clergyman making an appoint 
 ment here in my office and mentioning the fact that I 
 have offered to assist. Then if anything worth know 
 ing turns up we can pursue our investigations privately
 
 PER DID A. 419 
 
 and with less interruption than you would have at a 
 boarding house." 
 
 Sue thanked him for his helpfulness, and made the 
 appointment as he suggested, and during the next two 
 days, spent the hours in suspense and great anxiety. 
 
 "Now," said Mr. Pepperil the lawyer, when they 
 were closeted in Mr. Sappleigh s private office upon the 
 day of their meeting; "it is this way. The property 
 for which we are seeking a claimant descends from the 
 testator to his two daughters jointly, but not to be 
 divided or sold. In case of death, the survivor takes 
 all, holding it in trust for the child, who is to become 
 the sole inheritor upon the death of both sisters. She 
 is, in the meantime to provide for the child until mar 
 riage or death. After that no inheritors are named in 
 the will. The point then is this we must either find 
 the missing Nellie Brown or prove her death without 
 issue; or we must, finding her deceased leaving issue, 
 prove her child." 
 
 "Why!" said Sue, "I had not thought of that at all. 
 Could it be possible there is a child?" 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Pepperil, "it is the most possible 
 thing in the world." 
 
 "But she certainly never married, Mr. Pepperil." 
 
 "That makes no difference," said he : "as I under 
 stand the case, from what Dr. Van Home has told me, 
 the girl was sent from home after a cruel experience, 
 as many others have been. After that she disappeared. 
 Are you aware of the fact, doctor, that that woman had 
 no right to the property after thus treating the girl? 
 That, had she known it, the poor creature could have 
 refused to go, or, accepting her dismissal, could have 
 hroken the will?" 
 
 "No," said the doctor, "How is that?"
 
 420 PERDIDA. 
 
 "This way," said the lawyer. "A clause in the 
 document, that yon may have passed over carelessly, 
 distinctly provides that, in case either of the sisters fail 
 to carry out the provisions of the will with regard to 
 the child, the property shall pass into the hands of 
 trustees to be appointed by the court who shall manage 
 it until the child is of age, and then turn it over to her 
 entirely. I suspect the old man had a faint suspicion 
 of his elder daughter s feelings toward the child. He 
 certainly could not have intended this for the mother." 
 
 "Well," said Sue, her voice trembling with a sense 
 of the cruelty that her friend had suffered; "it does 
 look as though the aunt had done a very wicked thing. 
 Yet her motive may have been free from mercenary 
 taint." 
 
 "You may think so, madam," replied Mr. Pepperil. 
 "But as a lawyer I prefer to take the other view. We 
 lawyers are liable to take cold-blooded views of other 
 peoples motives, especially when there s money in the 
 case. It makes no difference," he continued. "What 
 we want is to find that girl, or if she is dead, to find any 
 child that she may have left. It is fortunate the laws in 
 New Jersey do not disinherit natural children as they 
 do in many foreign lands. The fact that there are no 
 other claimants helps the matter too, and saves compli 
 cations. Now please tell me Miss Dodge, everything 
 you can recall that will help us." 
 
 Sue then went over the ground as well as she could, 
 describing Nellie s life and habits and character, and 
 explaining the cause of her disappearance to the best of 
 her ability; but it was really very little information 
 she could give beyond dates and the few points she had 
 picked up from Cora. But the story was so pitiful 
 that it brought tears to the eyes of the pastor, and while 
 she Was telling it, Mr. Sappleigh paced the floor with
 
 PEEDIDA. 42i 
 
 indignation at the scoundrel Jadman burning in his 
 heart, and even the lawj er was not unmoved. 
 
 "Then, we realty have nothing to go by," said Mr. 
 Pepperil, when she had finished, "beyond the fact that 
 she disappeared after visiting her aunt, telling nobody 
 whither she was going; unless she confided in Mr. Pop- 
 grass, and he is dead. We will have to begin by ad 
 vertising and by searching records. I will attend to 
 that at once." 
 
 So the next day s papers contained an advertise 
 ment, asking "Nellie Brown, who disappeared from 
 her aunt s home in Spring Valley, N. J. (date given), to 
 please communicate, etc., on a matter of grave import 
 ance, and asking any one who could give information 
 leading to her to also inform the advertiser;" but no 
 replies were received by the anxious people who were 
 diligently seeking to help the missing girl or her child. 
 Nellie was not known in the city by her name, none of 
 her acquaintances would connect her with the advertise 
 ment, and she herself seldom read the newspapers, so 
 the announcement that meant so much to her failed of 
 its mission, and those who sought her sought in vain. 
 They advertised in every prominent city of the land, 
 Mr. Sappleigh insisting on paying the bills, in the hope 
 that they might reach her, but without avail. She did 
 not know it. Alone with her sorrow and her baby she 
 plodded on with weary feet, treading the wine-press un 
 complainingly, asking nothing, expecting nothing, seek 
 ing nothing, and led her life of misery, and loved and 
 sacrificed for her child, unaided. It is like a mockery 
 of woe to think that, during this period, she often 
 sought the neighborhood of Mr. Sappleigh s office that 
 she might see him pass and gaze upon his face, and 
 that once or twice she even ventured to follow behind 
 Sue Dodge, as she walked home from her work with 
 thoughts of the lost one ringing in her heart.
 
 422 PERDIDA. 
 
 The records were searched for traces of any missing 
 girl answering her description who disappeared at the 
 time of her sudden vanishing, but there was nothing to 
 aid them there. Even the list of unknown dead failed 
 to give a hint, and they found no clew for a long time. 
 But one day, word came from Chicago from the matron 
 of a hospital, telling of a Nellie Brown who had there 
 been ill and whose child had died there. She disap 
 peared, the message said, soon after, but the case waf 
 noteworthy because she had previously repaid one of 
 the doctors a loan of five dollars that he advanced her 
 on the day she left. The matron wrote that the girl 
 answered the description given, and was very much 
 liked when with the Sisters. What had become of her 
 since they did not know. Possibly she was the girl 
 wanted. 
 
 This established one point. If the girl of the Chicago 
 hospital were the Nellie Brown whom Sue and her 
 friends sought, she had no living child that could be of the 
 age to correspond with such a child as they would expect 
 to discover. But, on the other hand, if she were the 
 girl they wished to find, it was possible she might still 
 be alive, since it was not likely she would have taken 
 her life after the death of the child. That is what Mr. 
 Pepperil, who claimed to know a good deal about 
 human nature thought, and Mr. Sappleigh agreed with 
 him. Even Sue began to hope Nellie might be living 
 and to dwell upon the possibility of finding her and 
 making her happy. 
 
 They tried to follow this clew, but it led nowhere. 
 Nothing was discovered beyond the fact that a girl who 
 seemed to answer the description had been at the hos 
 pital. Sister Alice wrote describing Nellie Brown and 
 telling of her interviews with her, and Sue felt after 
 this, that the girl whom the kind nurse had found so
 
 PERDIDA. 
 
 423 
 
 interesting must have been her Nellie. It saddened her 
 to think that she might still be living, God only knew 
 how, when friends and property awaited her, and there 
 was yet something to hope for. 
 
 "And then," she said to Mr. Sappleigh, "no matter 
 what she may be doing, it is right that she have her 
 own. How fearful a thing it is to drive a desperate 
 girl away from home as Mrs. Call did, forcing her 
 down, always down, when most she needs uplifting in 
 fluences and tender care. I almost believe the aunt is 
 the blamable person if Nellie has gone wrong, and that 
 it will be she who will have to answer to God for the 
 consequences." 
 
 "Partly, at any rate, Miss Dodge," said he. "She 
 certainly made an excellent assistant to the wretch who 
 struck the first blow at the innocence and goodness of 
 the poor young creature. And yet I have a notion she 
 imagined herself exceedingly virtuous in her conduct 
 and justified her after-act in robbing the child of her 
 support. There are people who work their characters 
 over into queer shapes for personal benefit. We have 
 many such in the business world. I know several men 
 who are ready to do anything that s mean and dishon 
 est so long as it does not conflict with the statute law, 
 and who have trained their consciences to go it blind 
 whenever it happens to be profitable. If the subject of 
 interest is moral or social the same system of reasoning 
 that is used in business to justify evil deeds for per 
 sonal advancement is available with any one who favors 
 its use. Mrs. Call did not like her niece; she wanted 
 to own that property. The niece gave her an excellent 
 opportunity to play the outraged chastity card, and she 
 played it, taking the chances because she knew the 
 niece had no knowledge of the conditions of the will. 
 That is my opinion. I admit it is not complimentary
 
 424 PERDIDA. 
 
 to the deceased aunt ; but it sticks, and I cannot seem 
 to change it. Yet I am sometimes called a charitable 
 man." 
 
 Sue smiled at his quaint way of putting it, and at 
 the suggestion that he might not be charitable. 
 
 "I do not fear that your doubts of yourself will much 
 impair your usefulness as a charitable person, Mr. Sap- 
 pleigh," she said. "Poor Nellie! Will we ever find 
 any trace of her?" 
 
 "God alone can answer that, Miss Dodge," said he, 
 "we will hope for the best."
 
 PERDIDA. 425 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A LIFE FOR A LIFE. 
 
 THE life she was leading would surely kill her; she 
 knew it, but it did not trouble her. All that she wished 
 for was to live until the child should be provided with 
 the safeguard that money alone could place about it. 
 Then she would commit its future to the keeping of the 
 woman she could trust, and who would do for it more 
 than its poor wicked outcast mother could ever hope to do. 
 This was the one burden of her existence, and she cared 
 little for other things. Only let her live until this was 
 accomplished, and she would die without a murmur, 
 feeling she had not been utterly unfaithful to her better 
 self. She was worried at times, now, for she felt she 
 was not as well as formerly and feared that already the 
 hand of a coming dissolution might be upon her. She 
 did not know why she felt this way, but something told 
 her she would never grow stronger, and that each day s 
 passing seemed to leave her less vigorous than before. 
 With this thought came a new anxiety, for her savings 
 were not yet what she felt she must make them, and 
 time was now very valuable. So she plunged into her 
 life with feverish intensity and made of it the most that 
 she could, despising every hour of her sinfuliiess, yet 
 wearing a smiling face and winsome manner wherever 
 she went. It was only when she was alone with the 
 child that her heart softened and a gentler mood would 
 come upon her. Then she would bask in the clouded 
 sunshine of her blighted motherhood and give way to
 
 426 PERDIDA. 
 
 such happiness as fate had left her and lose herself in 
 the contemplation of the babe, letting the warm love of 
 her ripened womanhood pour itself upon the pretty 
 creature without stint, until she almost forgot what she 
 was become for its dear sake. 
 
 She saw its future, as fancy took loose rein and bore 
 her far away from the past and present and into a time 
 of which she was not herself to be a part. She saw 
 Sue, tenderly caring for the babe and watching over its 
 development with earnest, intelligent concern that left 
 no chance for error, guiding its footsteps as it grew to 
 larger girlhood and approached the perilous portals of 
 the woman-life beyond, and even there still lingering 
 ready with a helping hand. She saw the child, that 
 would not know its mother save as Sue portrayed her, 
 growing up in goodness and surrounded by true friends 
 and full of that knowledge which avoideth even the 
 appearance of evil, and some day sitting, as she herself 
 now sat, with a baby in her arms, but not afraid to 
 have it learn the truth, and it pleased her to think how 
 happy she would be. And then she thought of all the 
 faithful Sue would tell the child, and of the picture she 
 would furnish of herself (for Sue would do what was 
 kind) and it made her happy to think that, thanks to 
 Sue, the grown-up girl would learn to love the mother 
 whom she never knew. It surely would not be a 
 wicked falsehood that Sue would have to tell to accom 
 plish this good thing. 
 
 Often, when she had returned after many hours ab 
 sence, she would send away the colored woman who 
 served her, and would have the place to herself alone 
 with the child. It was her chief happiness, and the 
 hours spent in this way were her one real rest. She 
 would play with it on the floor, and lie beside it while 
 it clung about her neek, for it was an affectionate baby,
 
 PERDIDA. 427 
 
 and stroked her long fine hair and fondled her face with 
 its little hands, hours at a time until it went to sleep 
 in her arms ; and then she would sit and rock it gently 
 and sing to it in the voice that was always low and 
 sweet though her stage-singing powers were gone and 
 she could not hope to earn her living before the public 
 ever again and would be supremely contented for a 
 time. 
 
 There was a favorite lullaby she often sang to the 
 babe, a piece of fugitive verse that she had found in a 
 newspaper long ago. Herr Schneidermann had fancied 
 it so much that he gave it a music setting, a low-pitched 
 crooning melody that well became the words and was 
 suited to her voice. She had never sung it on the 
 stage, but it pleased her at the time, and now it was 
 become so suggestive of her feelings that she often used 
 it when she put her babe to sleep, and wandered among 
 the memories of the past. And the dwellers in the flat 
 overhead, who of course, did not know her and had sel 
 dom ever seen her, would sometimes listen spellbound 
 to the music and charmed by the sweetness of the lonely 
 mother s voice, would wonder in a listless way who the 
 beautiful woman they had noticed passing through the 
 halls could be, and why it was she seemed so passion 
 ately fond of singing to her child a song that was so 
 sad. 
 
 Rockaby Baby, thy cradle is green, 
 Father s a nobleman, Mother s a queen. 
 Rockaby, hushaby, all the day long, 
 Down to the land of the lullaby song. 
 Babyland never a?ain will be thine, 
 Land of all mystery, holy, divine,- 
 Motherland, Otherland, 
 Wonderland, Underland,
 
 428 . PERDIDA. 
 
 Land of a time ne er again to be seen. 
 
 Flowerland, Bowerland, 
 
 Fairyland, Airyland, 
 Rockaby baby, thy cradle is green. 
 
 Rockaby Baby, thy mother will keep 
 Gentle watch over thee, guarding thy sleep. 
 Baby can t feel what the mother-heart knows, 
 Throbbing its fear, o er thy quiet repose. 
 Motherheart knows how baby must fight 
 Wearily on through the fast-coming night; 
 
 Battle unending, 
 
 Honor defending, 
 Baby must wage with the powers unseen. 
 
 Sleep now, my baby dear, 
 
 God and thy mother near; 
 Rockaby Baby, thy cradle is green. 
 
 Rockaby Baby, the days will grow long, 
 
 Silent the voice of the motherlove song ; 
 
 Filled with life s sorrows, the future will own 
 
 Burdens that Baby must bear all alone. 
 
 Wonderland never can come back again, 
 
 Thought will come soon, and with reason comes pain, 
 
 Morrowland, Sorrowland, 
 
 Drearyland, Wearyland, 
 Baby and Heavenland lying between, 
 
 Smile then, in Motherland. 
 
 Dream in the Other land ; 
 Rockaby Baby, thy cradle is green. 
 
 Thus she would often sit and sing, with her child 
 upon her lap and lose herself in reverie, with mind in 
 tent on nothing but the sense of comfort it gave her to 
 enjoy the bliss ot her one inviolable condition of exist 
 ence the privilege of her motherhood. That, at least, 
 could not be forced from her. While it lasted it was 
 safely hers. Thus it is that I best love to think of her, 
 as I muse upon the vicissitudes of her unhappy life and
 
 PERDIDA. 429 
 
 trace her wanderings step by step, in painful contem 
 platoon of her mournful fate. Thus it is that I en 
 deavor to dwell upon her memory, putting aside all 
 other things and realizing the marvelous beauty of her 
 Christ-like soul that no contamination could destroy. 
 Thus would I always wish to remember her, sitting in 
 her room with her baby on her lap, the divine light of 
 motherhood shining in her face, as she softly sings the 
 little one to sleep. 
 
 Once the child was sick. The quick instinct of the 
 mother knew it at a glance. Dropping all thought of 
 everything else, she gave her time entirely to the little 
 sufferer. And when, one night the physician whom 
 she had for it shook his head with saddened eyes and 
 intimated that, even with his best efforts, the worst 
 might happen, she would not consent to believe him, 
 but clung to hope as other mothers cling and prayed 
 her God to spare it, although she knew its death would 
 probably be the best thing that could come to it. Then, 
 fighting the Terror as those who fight with love in their 
 hearts always fight him, she redoubled her energies 
 and, by skillful nursing, brought the baby through its 
 illness and back to health again, rejoicing in her vic 
 tory as other mothers do. She was what she was; 
 and yet, oh, mother of the child whose hand you would 
 not care to have her darling touch, it is very possible 
 that, in the eyes of God, there is no difference; that, in 
 His sight, all mothers are alike, if they are true to the 
 instincts of their motherhood; and that, if we could 
 know His mind, we would find He makes no distinc 
 tions whatever between the child that was born of 
 Nellie Brown, and the child that was born of you? If 
 we are to view Him as a God of justice, we have no 
 other ground upon which to stand. "Whoso shall 
 offend one of these little ones ... it were better for him
 
 430 PERDIDA. 
 
 that a millstone were hanged about his neck and that 
 he were drowned in the depth of the sea. " 
 
 With the recovery of the child she increased her efforts 
 to prepare its future, saving every dollar she could put 
 aside and stinting herself often even of necessaries to add 
 to the hoard that she intended to put in Sue s hands to be 
 used for its bringing up. She thought, too, of her own 
 possible death and wrote careful instructions that would 
 help Sue in the work she was to assume for the sake of 
 the friend who trusted her, preparing a power-of-attor- 
 ney that would render it easy for her to get the money. 
 A good-natured banker of her acquaintance helped her 
 in this arrangement, and advised her to make a will, 
 giving what she had in trust to her friend and with the 
 help of a lawyer she did this. Her preparations were, 
 in truth, singularly businesslike for a woman of her 
 class, but it was all for the child and she could not 
 afford to neglect anything. Some of her friends were 
 very decent fellows, who knew just enough of her 
 wishes to understand and admire her for the course she 
 was pursuing, and they felt that a woman who would 
 thus plan for the future of her fatherless child was 
 worthy of their respect and assistance. They did not 
 care much, of course, but the attitude of the woman 
 and her sincerity appealed to that easy-going generos 
 ity which is common to many people, eo they helped 
 her at times with presents "for the baby," and felt 
 that after all they were not such very bad men. Nor 
 were they. 
 
 She spent much of her time in a place that was like 
 dozens of others, where she could sit at a table and 
 make acquaintances when she chose. There were many 
 other poor wretches like herself there, and their ways 
 were always about the same. It was dismally monoto-
 
 PEED ID A. 431 
 
 ous and far from cheerful, and there was a horrible 
 orchestrion that played hoarse music all the time and 
 gave one the headache. But it was as good as any 
 other place, so she often went there. Occasionally a 
 girl would get into trouble, for many of the girls drank 
 and became boisterous, and that, from the view-point of 
 the eminently respectable proprietor, would not do; but 
 she never made any disturbance, always behaving her 
 self like a gentlewoman and bearing herself with a 
 modesty that was as natural to her as her kindness of 
 heart. She could have made many friends had she 
 wished to, but she felt she did not need them. Her 
 money was her only friend, she often said, and would 
 have to suffice. The few whom she knew liked her and 
 found her always agreeable and peaceable, so she had 
 no quarrels with any one, and simply minded her own 
 business and thought of her child. 
 
 One evening, as she was sitting alone in this place, a 
 young woman entered who seemed to be a former ac 
 quaintance. She was evidently a stranger to the peo 
 ple, for they all stared at her, as they always do at a 
 newcomer when she enters a resort of this kind. The 
 woman was nice-looking, and seemed self-possessed, for 
 she sauntered in leisurely, looking right and left as she 
 came down the room. Suddenly she paused and fixed 
 her glance upon Nellie. In an instant more the recog 
 nition was mutual. It was Hilah Banta, one of the old 
 schoolmates of former days. Hilah, not in the least 
 excited, turned and came to" where Nellie sat and seated 
 herself beside her. 
 
 "Well," said she. "This is what they call a sur 
 prise! Where did you drop from?" 
 
 "It would be natural," replied Nellie, "if I asked 
 you that question. Where have you dropped from?" 
 
 "Oh, me?" said Hilah. " Why I came down here
 
 432 PERDIDA. 
 
 to see what the place was like. I ve been further up 
 town since I came to the city. But say, Nellie," she 
 whispered. "Honest, everybody thinks you re dead. 
 I did myself." 
 
 "Well," replied Nellie. "It is best they should 
 think so. You will not tell?" she added anxiously. 
 
 "Sure not," said Hilah with evident sincerity. 
 "Why should I. It s your own business. I ve been 
 away mj T self for over a year. Ever since, in fact but 
 I forgot, of course you don t know uothiu about that." 
 
 "No," said Nellie. "I have had no news from home 
 and do not care for any. I am doing the best I can. I 
 don t wish to hurt your feelings, Hilah," she continued. 
 "But tell me, if you care to, how do you come to be 
 here?" 
 
 "Oh, I suppose its just like it is with all the rest of 
 em," said Hilah. "I was foolish, and the fellow said 
 he d marry me and then he ran away." 
 
 Nellie sighed. It was painful to her to hear this old 
 schoolmate talk so lightly of her fall. 
 
 "Yes," continued the other. "I soon found out what 
 kind of a man John Hadley was and " 
 
 Nellio felt a great pain at her heart. She did not 
 wish to hear any more, but Hilah rattled on as if it 
 were nothing. 
 
 "I tell you, Nell, he s no good. I was just a fool, 
 that s all. What do you suppose he s doin now?" 
 
 "I have no idea," replied Nellie sadly and full of old 
 memories. "What?" 
 
 "Workin as a waiter in an oyster-shop round on 
 Sixth Avenue," said Hilah. "Gets four dollars a week 
 and his tips. They wouldn t let him teach school any 
 more after that, so he come down here to get a job. 
 Bah! I hate him. Sometimes I go there and eat just 
 to let him see I don t care and make him uncomforta 
 ble. Let s walk round there and let him see us."
 
 PERDIDA. 433 
 
 "No," replied Nellie. "I will not. I would ratber 
 he never saw me." 
 
 "Oh, of course; just as you please," said Hilah. 
 "You always was nice about things. How are you 
 getting along?" 
 
 Nellie told her in a few words that she was doing as 
 well as she could expect, and then their talk became 
 general. Hilah chatted on about all sorts of things, 
 and was plainly not fretting about herself. It gave 
 her old friend great pain to see how reckless the girl 
 had become. And yet there were many like her. How 
 sad it was. 
 
 Later in the evening, two men entered and took seats 
 behind them in a corner. As they began to talk, Nellie 
 caught some of their words and shifted her chair a little 
 to see who they were. One of them was Stivers, the 
 man she despised for his cruelty to Cora. The other 
 was the same villainous fellow she had seen with him 
 once before. The men did not recognize her and 
 seemed to think their conversation was not overheard. 
 Nellie was now alert and anxious to hear what they 
 were saying. 
 
 "I tell you it s dead easy," said Stivers. "The 
 glove fitted all right, and if we can fasten the pistol on 
 her, it will be a good plan. I don t know where she is, 
 but we can find out somehow. At first I didn t feel 
 like playing spy on a girl that owed Jadman one her 
 self, but a thousand dollars is big money." 
 
 "Yes," replied his companion, "that s so. D ye 
 think she done it?" 
 
 "I do know," said Stivers, "but I have suspicions. 
 She was awful mad at him, and then the glove did fit. 
 Any one could see that. We ll try for that reward, I 
 say." 
 
 During this conversation Nellie became by turns
 
 434 PERDIDA. 
 
 cold and hot, white and flushed. A great emotion was 
 working in her. She turned about, arose from her seat, 
 stepped to the table where the men sat, and, fixing 
 her eyes upon Stivers spoke, not very loudly but with 
 clearness and marked distinctness of utterance. He 
 was so astonished that he but once attempted to inter 
 rupt her, but he grew very pale. 
 
 "You mean, wretched coward," she said, "to want 
 to sell an innocent girl s life for money. You don t 
 remember me, I see, but I know you well. You are 
 the porter who gave the alarm after that murder. Yes; 
 and you were the last one in the store the night before 
 and the first one there in the morning. It was you 
 who had the only extra key that opened the private 
 office. I know that, for I worked there a long time 
 and know all about it. I know some other things, too, 
 that you would not care to have me tell. About that 
 missing fifty-dollars that you and he had a row about, 
 and then that other time you know. Let me tell you 
 something, you mean traitor. It was you who left the 
 door open that night. Oh, yes; you dare not deny it. 
 It was your key, not his, that was in the lock. Of 
 course that was an accident. Why didn t you ask the 
 lady who called in the afternoon to try on the glove? 
 You do know who she was ; and she paid you well to 
 pretend you do not. She did not care to have her visit 
 made public, because it would be disagreeable for a 
 person in her station to be mixed up in the affair. 
 What you want to do is this explain how it happened 
 that the office door was opened on the inside. Oh, no ! 
 you do not want to testify to that, I see. Then drop 
 the persecution of that girl, or I ll have you made to 
 do it." 
 
 She turned abruptly about and want back to her seat 
 flushed and panting with the effort she had made.
 
 PERDIDA. 435 
 
 "What in heaven have you been making all that 
 fuss about?" said Hilah. 
 
 "Oh, it s nothing," said Nellie. "I have simply 
 been doing a kindness to an absent friend. It was all 
 put on, but he thinks I know, so the purpose is served." 
 
 "Well," said Hilah. "Whatever is the matter, he 
 certainly has a good scare on. Who is he anyhow?" 
 
 "Nobody you want to know," said Nellie, as she 
 arose and prepared to depart. She was so perturbed by 
 the incident that she felt she must get away. Hastily 
 bidding Hilah good-night and promising to see her 
 again soon, she went out and hurried to her rooms. 
 And there for several hours she paced the floor in 
 anguish and wrung her hands in silence, wanting to 
 cry, but not daring to because of the child who slept 
 peacefully in the cradle and must not be disturbed. 
 
 She was very wretched. No matter where she went, 
 no matter what she tried to do, the memory of the man 
 who was her first and worst enemy and the recollection 
 of his horrid end pursued her always. She felt that it 
 would kill her in time. 
 
 The meeting with Hilah and the news of John Had- 
 ley had also agitated her beyond endurance. It seemed 
 as if everything was running across her path to inter 
 fere with the little peace she had left and add to the 
 burden of her sad and solitary life. The thought that 
 the man she first loved, or thought sha loved, and who 
 was the first man to condemn her in her hour of trial, 
 had become the meanest of betrayers of innocent girl 
 hood filled her with disgust; and as she contrasted him 
 with her dead lover and saw how different they were, 
 the suggestion came to her that but for John Had ley it 
 was probable Mr. Sappleigh might have won her heart 
 in time to have averted all the calamities that had be 
 fallen her, and this made her very bitter, and she
 
 436 PERDIDA. 
 
 wanted to beat her breast and tear her hair and shriek 
 in her agony of soul. Her poor overburdened heart 
 was breaking, though she did not know it, and the 
 struggle that had been so long going on within her was 
 wearing out her mental endurance and would soon end 
 in a collapse unless she had relief. Her life, too, was 
 killing her, for it sapped the marrow of her conscience 
 and kept her ever on the qui vive with nervous agita 
 tion, hating herself and loving her baby in alternate 
 fits of dull despair and miserable ecstasy, until she 
 really did not know just what she was or what she 
 would yet become. She was not strong enough, or per 
 haps not coarse enough, to carry out such a plan as she 
 had formed to a successful execution, and the end, 
 although she did not clearly see it, was at hand. How 
 could it have been otherwise? She had surrendered her 
 self to her misfortune and her fate was now sealed. She 
 might save her child, but herself she could not hope to 
 save. It was literally a life for a life; the destruction 
 of the mother that the baby might survive. 
 
 I hold that some natures cannot thrive on sin as cer 
 tain others seem to thrive. Whether this be a matter 
 of special dispensation or predestination, I do not as 
 sume to suggest; possibly it is due to something in 
 natural law which has never been explained; possibly 
 it is a result of heredity; perhaps it is only a conse 
 quence of early training. It really does not make any 
 difference what the cause may be. But the fact re 
 mains that there are people who cannot be made to de 
 scend comfortably into the pits of iniquity that often 
 seem to be congenial abodes for others, and who can 
 never, no matter how long the initiation lasts, hope to 
 become contented experts in the art of sinning. The 
 doctrine of total depravity still has its adherents, and I 
 am not prepared to argue against them in the face of
 
 PERDIDA. 437 
 
 the examples they are able to produce, even had I the 
 alliance of the Unitarian Church to back me up; but I 
 am prepared to believe that it is possible to conceive a 
 theory, based on observation and experience, by which 
 one may hope to rationally assume a doctrine of uncor 
 ruptible goodness, and which gives one a chance to con 
 tend that there are characters so thoroughly imbued 
 with a sense of rectitude that it is impossible for them 
 to prosper in the doing of evil deeds; and that this ina 
 bility to enjoy is not the result of a hard-working con 
 science that forbids the deed and condemns the doer, but 
 a natural instinct of the character itself. Such a 
 character cannot thrive on sin. It is not a case of per 
 fect holiness that we are here considering, for it is 
 always possible that a person of this character may sin. 
 The point is, that no matter how much he may indulge 
 in evil, he cannot do it and thrive. The struggle made 
 by the moral nature against its foe inevitably weakens 
 the physical body and, if it be continued too long, will 
 drive it to its death. It was to a death of this kind that 
 Nellie was being driven by the life she was compelled 
 to lead. 
 
 When she turned upon Stivers so suddenly and poured 
 the vials of her wrath over his head in anger at his sor 
 did cruelty toward her missing friend, it was not with 
 any real knowledge that she spoke, beyond the mention 
 of the fifty-dollar incident. That she had learned at 
 the time she was employed in the store; but the rest of 
 her implied charges were mere guess-work ; for beyond 
 the one incident she had nothing with which to accuse 
 the man. It was therefore with some astonishment 
 that she saw how alarmed he was at her threats, and it 
 also amused her in a sad way to think how much an 
 uneasy conscience would accomplish. After this inter 
 view she felt that Cora would be safe from persecution
 
 438 PERDIDA. 
 
 by Stivers, whose only motive was money, and who 
 was plainly very much of a coward ; and she was glad 
 she had spoken, painful and dangerous though she felt 
 it to have been. But she had always been ready to sac 
 rifice herself for her friends, so it was, after all, she 
 said, only right. It really did not matter much what 
 became of her that is when her child should be made 
 safe. Stivers would not trouble Cora again, she was 
 certain of that now, and it was a great relief to her 
 mind. 
 
 She met Hilah Banta, few days after the incident, 
 and learned from her that the two men had discussed the 
 subject for some time after she left the concert-garden. 
 Hilah had watched them with interest and curiosity, 
 and, although she did not overhear much of their talk, 
 caught enough of it to see that fhe strange man had de 
 cided to part with Stivers aud was anxious to be rid of 
 him. This pleased Nellie, for it meant that Stivers was 
 himself distrusted by his crony. Cora was really free. 
 
 She resumed her sad undertaking, after this, with a 
 lighter heart, but not with any sense of contentment. 
 She simply could not be contented with her lot, it was 
 too wretched. Some women of her acquaintance ap 
 peared to be at least free from care, and many of them 
 led reckless lives that served to lull their sense of deg 
 radation and kept them at a high pitch of excitement; 
 but she could not learn their ways. Her thought was 
 always of her child and of its future, and there was 
 nothing else in her mind but her grief at the death of 
 her lover and a miserable feeling of bereavem ent that 
 seldom left her. She realized, too, that her health was 
 failing, and that it could not be very long before she 
 would have to surrender to the inevitable and prepare 
 to lie down for the last time upon her bed. She did not 
 know whether she dreaded death or not. Sometimes
 
 PERDIDA. 439 
 
 she did, and again she did not. Such religious faith as 
 she once had was now diminished to two points, a 
 doubt of everything but the goodness and mercy of God 
 and a definite idea that she was a sinner who would 
 need compassion and had no plea to offer in extenuation 
 of her personal conduct. It never occurred to her that 
 she could be forgiven for having destroyed herself in 
 the interest of her child. That she looked upon as a 
 deliberate act of her own choosing, for which she was 
 directly responsible, and she was willing to face the 
 consequences, if she might save the babe from such a 
 life as hers had been. One of them, at least, could be 
 saved; and of course she preferred it should be the 
 child. On all other points she simply left the case 
 with God and asked nothing. 
 
 Thus she drifted on, sometimes feeling better, and 
 again becoming too ill to leave her rooms. Her physi 
 cian, who was very frank with her, told her plainly 
 that she was a doomed woman, and that it was only a 
 matter of time ere she must cease to hope, and she 
 heard his words calmly and faced the truth, as she 
 always had, without fear. It was time to prepare her 
 letter to Sue, for she might not be able to write it later; 
 so she attended to this. Then she resumed her old life 
 when she could, and lived with her babe as much as 
 possible when she could not go out, and was sometimes 
 happy in a sad, miserable way that even touched the 
 heart of the old black woman who was her servant, and 
 who had learned to regard her with something akin to 
 kindness although it was her intention to steal her 
 small belongings, as eoon as she should pass away, and 
 to turn the baby over to the charities when the end had 
 come. But this was only in accord with the nature of 
 the creature, and did not impair her usefulness or dimin 
 ish her fondness for the mistress whom she really ad-
 
 440 PERDIDA. 
 
 mired. It was simply what they all did ; and who had 
 a better right to the things when nobody claimed them? 
 It is a question whether the negress was precisely what 
 one could call a thief, viewing the case from her stand 
 point and that of her class. Her attitude was more like 
 that of a lawyer who had secured control of a fat estate 
 that has no apparent inheritors, the main difference be 
 ing that the negress saw no reason why it should not all 
 be hers. 
 
 So Nellie drifted on, each day drawing nearer to the 
 time when she should no more pursue her way in sin 
 and sorrow, or again clasp to her breast the child that 
 was become her only care. And the days wore on and 
 the nights came and found her less able to be about and 
 utterly unfitted for activity, and she spent her time in 
 waiting for the end and in loving the child with an in 
 tensity of affection that overshadowed everything else 
 and was her strength and comfort to the last. 
 
 The character that could not thrive on sin was assert 
 ing itself against the bondage of the body that held it 
 from its natural development, and the battle was 
 already over. It was merely a matter of days ere the 
 surrender would be complete. Then the gods would 
 come and take the Lily from the Valley of the Poisons 
 thus the legend runs and, after a time, it would be 
 purified and find a new home among the immortals, 
 where it would always bloom pure and white and holy; 
 for the hour was near at hand.
 
 PERDIDA. 
 
 441 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 SUE DODGE S CONFESSION. 
 
 ONE evening, just before the close of office hours, a 
 messenger visited the banking house of Mr. Sappleigh 
 and delivered a package and a letter to Miss Dodge. 
 The letter and the package were both marked "pri 
 vate." Sue opened the letter first; and, as she glanced 
 at the penmanship and the opening words of the mes 
 sage, a sense of astonishment and agitation overcame 
 her, for she perceived that it was from Nellie Brown, 
 the girl she had so long believed to be in the grave, 
 that the letter had come. It was some time before she 
 was able to calmly master the contents of the message, 
 although it was short and not at all confusing. 
 
 "Come to me, after you have read the little books I 
 send," it said, "and not before. I know that you have 
 long believed me dead ; and I have been glad to have 
 you think so, for it was best, until now, that it should 
 be that way. What my life has been since last we met, 
 the little story of the books will tell. Read it with 
 care, and then, if you can feel as I would have you feel 
 toward me, come; but do not come before. I ain dy 
 ing, dear Sue; it is only a few cays more that I shall 
 have here. Do not hasten on that account, but wait 
 until to-morrow, after you have read the books, and 
 then come. Everything that I wish to tell you except 
 one thing is in the story, and that I will tell with my 
 lips to you alone. No other shall ever know it. I 
 have a dear little child, Sue, that you will learn about 
 from the books, and in one of them is a letter for you,
 
 442 PEED ID A. 
 
 telling what I would ask you to do for her and why I 
 ask it. I also inclose my passbook with power of at 
 torney so you can get all the money I have in bank for 
 the child. I know I can trust you, dear, and shall die 
 happy, feeling that with you my baby will be safe. 
 Place her where you can always watch her, Sue, and, 
 as she grows to womanhood, oh, see to it that she does 
 not go out into the world unprepared to guard herself, 
 and I will bless you with my last breath and hover 
 over you lovingly in spirit after I am gone. But read 
 the story first, dear Sue, for it is necessary that you 
 should; and when you have finished it, try to recall 
 once more your promise that, no matter what I might 
 become, you would always remember me at my best. 
 "From your loving, 
 
 "NELLIE." 
 
 It was still two hours before the offices would be 
 closed for the night, and Sue had her time to herself. 
 With tearful eyes she opened the package and disclosed 
 the little diaries the wretched girl had so long kept as a 
 solace of her lonely hours and a record that should 
 truthfully tell the story of her struggles and her fall. 
 The manuscript of the books was fine and clear, and 
 showed what painstaking labor the writer had given to 
 the task of making her story plain to the eyes of the 
 reader. 
 
 Sue began at once, with a singular sense of intrusion 
 upon the privacy of another; but that feeling soon wore 
 off as she perused the story and saw how strong was 
 Nellie s wish that she should be the one to read it. 
 Much of it was, in fact, directly addressed to herself. 
 There were many passages over which she could has 
 ten, for they did not require close attention, others that 
 sank so deep into her heart that she could scarcely read 
 them for the blinding tears that filled her eyes: and 
 again she would find herself burning with hot indigna-
 
 PERDIDA. 443 
 
 tion, as she read on, and wishing she had a superhuman 
 power that she might arise in her wrath and strike 
 down the wretches whose work was here so clearly ex 
 posed. It was a painful reading; and when she had 
 finished, she felt weak and unnerved and, lajingthe 
 books aside, she bowed her head upon her desk with a 
 sense of weariness and heartache, that was so intense she 
 felt she must wait for it to pass off before she could rea 
 son clearly upon a point that had grown in importance 
 with the reading of the story. 
 
 For she had almost decided that it was her duty to 
 take Mr. Sappleigh into her confidence in this matter, 
 even though it would pain him, and Nellie plainly did 
 not wish that he should know. The child was un 
 doubtedly entitled to his attention, and Sue felt it was 
 at least her duty to let him know of it. After that he 
 could do as he pleased. He might either repudiate it 
 or offer to aid it in remembrance of his son; she could 
 not guess which course he would feel like taking; but 
 from her point of view the child certainly had a natural 
 claim on him, and she could not see it otherwise. She 
 was pondering over this question when Mr. Sappleigh 
 himself entered the office and perceived that she had 
 not yet gone home, but was sitting with bowed head at 
 her desk as if she were ill. She roused herself, as he 
 came in. 
 
 "Why, Miss Dodge!" said he, "you are very late. 
 Are you sick?" 
 
 "No, Mr. Sappleigh, "she replied, "I am not ill; but 
 I have just received a message that tells me what we 
 have long been wishing to learn. Nellie Brown is 
 alive." 
 
 He started with surprise, and at once drew a chair to 
 her side and said : 
 
 "Is that so? Then we can secure her estate for her."
 
 444 PERDIDA. 
 
 Sue was thinking hard. She was still in doubt about 
 the confidence she had received. Would it be wrong 
 to let Mr. Sappleigh know all and then tell Nellie of 
 her good fortune? The question of the inheritance 
 seemed to put a new condition on the case. Nellie and 
 her child ought to have what was their own. After a 
 long pause, she decided to take what appeared to be the 
 wiser course. Somehow it did not seem that halfway 
 measures would be good. Nellie might object, but on 
 the other hand Mr. Sappleigh was a kind, good man 
 who took an interest in her. He was also a just man 
 and would understand. It would be best to let him 
 have the whole case. Then he could act with full 
 knowledge. 
 
 "Mr. Sappleigh," she said, studying his face as she 
 spoke, "I have just received a letter from Nellie her 
 self, in which she bids me come to her. She is dying. 
 She has a child, but it is not the one that was born in 
 Chicago. I have been in doubt whether or not I ought 
 to betray her confidence and possibly bring trouble 
 upon you. But, after thinking it over, it seems best 
 that you should know all. I will, therefore, let you 
 take the letter and some little books she sends, asking 
 you to be as merciful as you can after reading them. 
 It will take 3*ou some time to read the books, so per 
 haps you would best take them with you. Until I hear 
 from you I will do nothing." 
 
 She handed him the package and the letter, and ris 
 ing from her seat, bade him good-night. 
 
 "Good-night, Miss Dodge," said he, kindly beaming 
 on her as she turned to him. "I will take good care 
 of these things, and will put them in the safe over 
 night. Would it be possible for me to call on you this 
 evening, if I have anything to communicate?" 
 
 "Certainly," she replied. "I will wait up until
 
 PERDIDA. 445 
 
 eleven o clock and will tell Mrs. Ferguson I expect 
 you. Good-night." 
 
 As she walked homeward, the thoughts that filled 
 her were so confused that it was with no definite plan 
 in view that she arrived at her boarding-place. The 
 only thing that was clear was the fact that Nellie was 
 dying and she would see her to-morrow. She wanted 
 to go at once, but felt she must not do it until after she 
 had heard from Mr. Sappleigh. She would wait, hard 
 though it was to think of the poor girl dying alone, 
 probably with no real friends near her. It would be 
 best to wait until she heard from Mr. Sappleigh, for he 
 might have something to suggest. Meantime she de 
 cided that she would tell him something she had always 
 kept secret. It was not very important peihaps, but 
 she felt she would like to have him know it, in justice 
 to the memory of his son. 
 
 He came at ten o clock. His face was careworn and 
 there were lines of sorrow in it, but she perceived at 
 once that she had nothing to dread from having let 
 him share the story of the little books. She received 
 him in the parlor of the house, where at that hour there 
 were no other people. He came directly to her and 
 taking her by the hand, said very gently : 
 
 "I have finished the books, Miss Dodge; it is not nec 
 essary to go over their contents with you. What I 
 wish is this : you must let me share with you in the 
 care of that helpless child. In truth, I think I have the 
 better right, barring the mother s wish that you should 
 assume the responsiblity. But I shall hope to get her 
 to consent to my proposition." 
 
 "I am glad to hear you speak as you do, Mr. Sap 
 pleigh," said Sue, with a tone of gratitude in her voice. 
 "It is noble and generous, and just what I expected." 
 
 "Thank you," he replied. "I had not thought of it
 
 446 PERDIDA. 
 
 in that way. It was my love for the dear son who is 
 no more, and my regard for the girl he wanted to 
 marry, that moved me, apart from my feeling for the 
 child, which, I admit, was in itself sufficient as you 
 seem to think. But I have not told you all that I wish 
 to do. The more I study this subject the more I real 
 ize how difficult it will be to carry out the wishes of the 
 mother, even with such financial aid as I can give, un 
 less the child has a strong legal protector. I want you 
 to consent to the adoption of the babe by me. In brief, 
 I wish to make my son s daughter my daughter, and 
 with your help I shall then hope to reward the mother 
 for her sacrifice on my behalf." 
 
 "Why, Mr. Sappleigh," said she. "Can it be possi 
 ble you are willing to assume so great a charge as that?" 
 
 "Yes, Miss Dodge, if you will help me," he re 
 plied, looking upon her tenderly. "Let me say it 
 frankly like a man, Miss Dodge all that I have to say, 
 and then you can answer as your heart inclines you to. 
 I have had it in my mind for a long time to ask you if 
 you would be willing to think of me in a new way, to 
 look upon me as a possible future life partner; in short, 
 if you would try to learn to give me a place in your 
 heart that only one man can have. I know this seems 
 strange to you, but it is not new with me. I have 
 thought of it for many a day, and to-night, after read 
 ing that story so pitifully told by the dying girl, it 
 seems that it may be a good time to put the question 
 bravely. Will you consider it, dear Sue, for her sake, 
 for his sake, and just a little bit for mine?" 
 
 She stood before him trembling. She had never per 
 mitted her mind to dwell upon him as a possible hus 
 band; her loyalty to herself and her ideas of right 
 had kept that thought down; and yet she now 
 saw that she had simply been deceiving herself, that
 
 PERDIDA. 44? 
 
 her regard for him was really a deep and lasting affec 
 tion such as seldom takes root in youth-time, and that 
 it would be the crowning happiness of her womanhood 
 to walk beside him to the end of life s journey. She 
 felt no jealousy of his other wives, understanding in 
 her ripened maturity, that, no matter how great might 
 be the love he felt for at least one of them, it was no 
 petty freak of fancy that led him to her. She could not 
 afford to be dishonest with herself nor with him. It 
 was the simple truth that he uttered; she would follow 
 his example. 
 
 Placing her hands in his with frank and gentle con 
 fidence, she turned her face toward him, and gazing 
 affectionately into his bright, manly eyes with her own 
 true eyes of honest gray, she said : 
 
 "I did not look for this, but I am glad to hear it. If, 
 after reading the story of the little books, you can come 
 to me like that, what is there I could say to you with 
 thankful heart but yes. God knows I can appreciate 
 and love you, and that what you have said to me to 
 night fills me with a new happiness I had never ex 
 pected to know. I will be all it is possible for one true 
 woman to be to the best man in the world, and together 
 we will receive the child, that is now not only father 
 less but almost worse than motherless, and love it as 
 our very own." 
 
 He drew her to his heart a minute and softly kissed 
 her on the brow. 
 
 "It is a good thing," he said, "that in the hour of 
 our mutual happiness we can join our hands with a 
 definite prospect of doing good to others. Let us now 
 give our attention to the case of the poor girl and her 
 baby, and prepare to visit her to-morrow, and perhaps 
 to make her as happy as it is possible for her to be. I 
 wonder why it was she so persistently refused to marry
 
 448 PERDIDA. 
 
 my poor boy. It would have been better if they had 
 come to me long ago and given me their full confidence. 
 And they really should have been married. Lispen- 
 ard was more right than she about that. How honest 
 he was." 
 
 "Yes," said Sue, "the most honest young man that 
 I have ever known. But I suppose she felt she had no 
 right to bring a taint upon the name of an honorable 
 family. I think I should have felt as she did." 
 
 She paused a moment. Then she continued : 
 
 "I was going to tell you something to-night that 
 I would have told before if you had not interrupted 
 me," she added with a smile, "by another more impor 
 tant subject. It is about that horrible murder that no 
 one can explain. You noticed that Nellie, in the 
 books, speaks of Lispenard s loss of his pistol and of 
 his suspicions of me. I was surprised when I read that; 
 and yet, do you know, he was right. I did steal that 
 pistol from his table drawer." 
 
 "Impossible!" said Mr. Sappleigh. 
 
 "No," she continued, "it was very easy to do. He 
 had shown it to me several times, and I remembered it. 
 Not very long before the murder, you remember how 
 angry I was at what Mr. Jadman did to try to injure 
 me in your eyes. Ah, how kind you were ! Had you 
 known how cruel be had been, you would have been even 
 more kind. Let me tell it now, and then never refer to 
 it again. That letter was an old message from one 
 who was once my lover, a man whom I afterward 
 learned to despise, and Mr. Jadman stole it and kept 
 it hanging over me for years, because I had spurned 
 him with contempt. I dared not leave him for a long 
 time, and it was not until his conduct made me so de 
 test him that I did not care what measures he might 
 take to humiliate me, that I had the courage to aban-
 
 PERDIDA. 44.9 
 
 don him and come to you. And even then he followed 
 me up with his malice, as you know. It was after that 
 that I hated him to the point of murder. Yes, it s 
 true; I said that I would kill him, and the more I said 
 it and thought of Nellie Brown, and several others as 
 well as myself, the more the passion to kill him grew 
 upon me, until one day I stole the pistol and walked 
 out into the street with it. But in a few minutes the 
 mania left me, and I felt that I could not do murder, 
 even with justice as my excuse. A small boy was 
 coming toward me, and, without thinking what I did, 
 I gave the pistol to him. So you see the boy s story 
 was really true. I never said anything about it, be 
 cause I felt it would do no good, and because I did not 
 really care to have the murderer found. Now you know 
 just how bad I have been." 
 
 "It certainly was a dangerous hour for you, dear," 
 said Mr. Sappleigh as he gazed at her flushed face, and 
 noted the flash of the strong eyes that spoke so pa 
 tently of passion well controlled and deep sincerity of 
 feeling. "How terrible a thing it is to be goaded to 
 desperation. Let us thank God no harm came of it. 
 We will dismiss the story now forever, and leave it, 
 like the letter, among the ashes of the past." 
 
 He bade her good-night and left her; and she sat up 
 late after he was gone, and wondered why it was that 
 poor Nellie should be dying alone, while she, who was no 
 better, should have found a lifelong peace and happi 
 ness at the hour of the poor girl s death, 
 mysteries can never be explained this side of the grave. 
 When she finally sought her bed it was with a strange 
 mixture of happiness and misery in her heart that 
 troubled her even in her sleep. 
 
 As Mr. Sappleigh slowly pursued his homeward way 
 through the quiet streets, he could not help thinking how
 
 450 PERDIDA. 
 
 much it seemed like an instance of poetic justice, that 
 the man who had robbed his son of the girl he loved and 
 made her life a wreck should have met his fate at the 
 muzzle of a pistol that was the property of a person he 
 had wronged. Of course it was a mere coincidence of 
 accidents that this happened, but it was nevertheless a 
 singular thing; and it was also strange that the pistol 
 should have passed into the hands of the murderer 
 through the agency of another woman who chanced to 
 be a friend of the girl whom the man had ruined, and who 
 had almost made herself the avenger of his victims. 
 There was something horribly suggestive about the 
 part that pistol had played in the tragedy, and it set 
 him wondering who it could have been that finally se 
 cured it and made it fulfill its mission as an instrument 
 of execution. Probably, he said, it was no one ac 
 quainted with those who originally knew the weapon ; 
 more than any one else it was likely to have been some 
 person they never even heard of; and with this sug 
 gestion came a realization of the possible extent of the 
 crimes the man had committed, and Mr. Sappleigh 
 wondered what his record would be were it exposed in 
 full. There was not the slightest possibility now that 
 the murderer would ever be traced, and he was not 
 sorry; for, though he was a man of justice and obedi 
 ent to the law, he could not help the feeling that the 
 woman who shot Jadman must have been one whose 
 wrongs had been many and whose provocation was 
 very great. What Sue had told him showed to what 
 depths of cruelty the scoundrel was able to descend, and 
 the story of Mary Neal, as given in Nellie s diary, 
 proved beyond a doubt, that there was nothing wicked 
 he did not stand ready to do. Sad as the whole sub 
 ject was, he felt it was a good thing that Jadman was 
 dead, and that it would have been an infinitely better 
 thing if he had never been born.
 
 PERDIDA. 45! 
 
 There was nothing unreasonable in the assumption 
 of a belief that the murderer would never be discov 
 ered. It is only in story books and detective fiction 
 that the villain always falls into the clutches of the 
 "able sleuth" in the last chapter. In plain everyday 
 life a large proportion of the murderers escape detec 
 tion and pursue their way unmolested to the end of 
 their careers. This is especially true of the murderers 
 of young children, not half of whom are ever caught. 
 Generally, if a murderer is not run down and captured 
 within a few months after the death of his victim, in 
 terest in him ceases and he becomes a forgotten person; 
 and then nothing more is done about it unless accident 
 reveals him. In the absence of clews, and when no 
 strong motive exists for investigation, an unknown 
 murderer has a very good chance of permanent im 
 munity from punishment by law. Therefore Mr. Sap- 
 pleigh was right. There was neither clew nor motive 
 for investigation in the Jadman case, nothing in fact 
 beyond curiosity, for the reward had been withdrawn, 
 and nobody cared whether the murderer was found or 
 not. All that was known was that some one, probably 
 an injured woman, had seen fit to take the law into her 
 hands and had sent him to his account without mercy. 
 He deserved to die. So the matter rested where it 
 was, and was fully in r conformity with custom and the 
 ways of the world in general. Mr. Sappleigh was glad 
 Sue had told him about her connection with the pistol, 
 for it showed her trust in him and her eense of honor. 
 He was also very glad she had controlled herself and 
 had not let her passion drive her on to its limit of de 
 sire. And yet he felt he would not blame her if she 
 had. She must have suffered a fearful persecution at 
 the hands of the man she feared and hated so deeply. 
 It was with great tenderness that he dwelt upon this
 
 452 PERDIDA. 
 
 thought, realizing how her proud and honorable heart 
 must have rebelled against such cruel injustice. Jad- 
 man surely must have been a veritable fiend. And yet 
 he feared there were others not unlike him in many 
 ways, in fact he knew there were. In this Mr. Sap- 
 pleigh was also right. 
 
 The desire to persecute the weak and helpless, once 
 it be cultivated, is one of the strongest passions in hu 
 man nature. It is probable that Jadman s treatment of 
 Nellie Brown was as much a result of this passion as 
 of others. Had she been in a position to punish him 
 for his crimes, it is not likely he would have dared to 
 interfere with her or would have wished to. It was 
 her weakness and helplessness that inspired him to 
 persecute her, not an uncontrollable infatuation for 
 which he could offer even a poor excuse. In his treat 
 ment of Sue, this desire to persecute was intensified by 
 a sense of revenge, because she had baffled him in sev 
 eral things and had spurned his advances. Finding 
 her in a position where a previous error had made her 
 helpless, he used the secret that deprived her of strength 
 to escape him as an instrument of torture, and took a 
 positive pleasure in witnessing the sufferings of his 
 victim. His cruelty to Cora Wasson had in it an ele 
 ment of the same desire to persecute one who was not 
 in a position to retaliate. Of course, in the case of 
 Nellie, there was also present, in addition to this pas 
 sion for torture, another element of evil, for the girl 
 was beautiful and charming ; but even this would not 
 have made it seem worth while to interfere with her, 
 had she not been helpless, pure and innocent. If she 
 had cared for him as Cora cared for Stein, Jadman 
 would have taken no interest in her at all. It was, 
 therefore, the instinct of cruelty and the lust of perse 
 cution that made his conquest enjoyable. He did not
 
 PERDIDA. 453 
 
 want a sweetheart, it was a victim that he sought 
 Thus, cultivating the passions upon which he had 
 taught his heart to feed until nothing was enough to 
 satiate him, he finally seized the most helpless thing he 
 could find, and, going even beyond his original inten 
 tions, and far beyond what his sense of prudence told 
 him was safe, he had actually kidnapped and destroyed 
 a little child. 
 
 As Mr. Sappleigh thought this all over, and recalled, 
 point by point, the details of the pitiful story that lay 
 between the covers of the little books that Nellie had 
 so painfully prepared, he understood to what depths of 
 black villainy a willfully wicked human heart may de 
 scend, and felt that it was indeed a good thing that 
 Jadman should be lying in the grave. He also per 
 ceived, as he dwelt upon, the contents of the letter she 
 had sent to Sue, how important a thing it is that girls 
 who are cast upon the world to make their way alone, 
 should be well-equipped with wisdom and a proper 
 knowledge of the perils that lurk beside the roadway of 
 their lives. And, as he pondered over the thoughts 
 suggested by what he had learned, he could not but 
 feel how sad a thing it was that the dying mother of 
 the babe that was his son s, should have been so cruelly 
 forced from her natural course of existence, and be so 
 mercilessly robbed of her rightful place among the 
 good women of the land. The more he considered 
 this, the more he realized the sterling qualities of the 
 young man who was dead, and saw how faifthully he 
 had tried to do the best that he could do for the one 
 woman he loved, in the face of circumstances that were 
 especially difficult to contend with. It seemed a pity 
 that the young people had not trusted their affairs to 
 him, for, the more he thought over the question, the 
 more he felt that, with his help, something beneficial
 
 454 PERDIDA. 
 
 might have been accomplished. "Surely," he said, 
 "I would have been not less merciful than he. I could 
 have helped them, I know. Poor Lispenard, how 
 brave he was." 
 
 To the murderer of Jadman he gave no further 
 thought. The deed might have been done by Stivers, 
 as Nellie seemed to suspect, or it might be possible 
 Cora, in her anger and wrath at the fate of Mary Neal, 
 had been the agent of destruction and revenge, as had 
 been suggested by the fitting of the glove to her hand ; 
 though it was more likely that the criminal was an 
 unknown person whose motive had been of kindred 
 character and of whom nothing would now be learned. 
 But it did not really matter. The Jadman mystery 
 would be best left a mystery, since the important point 
 was settled, namely that Jadman himself was dead. 
 So Mr. Sappleigh dropped it, without desire to resur 
 rect the topic, and with no curiosity to discover any 
 thing more. No one, in fact, cared who the murderer 
 was. 
 
 His thoughts were of the dying girl who should have 
 been his son s wife, and of the child that was soon to 
 become the joint care of himself and the woman who 
 had just pledged her life to him. In spite of his loss 
 and the sadness of the fate of the young woman who 
 now awaited the hour of her death, he felt that he was 
 not without cause for gladness, as he thought of the 
 opportunities that lay before him to do good, and real 
 ized that life still held something worth living for.
 
 PERDIDA. 455 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE ONLY WAY. 
 
 " Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and 
 I will give you rest." Matt. XI, 28. 
 
 SHE lay upon her bed and patiently awaited the end. 
 
 She had no desire to hasten it and no wish to defer 
 its coming, but she was ready. She had made her 
 peace with God, as well as she was able to with her 
 limited knowledge of religious matters and the experi 
 ences of her cruelly embittered life as her only guides, 
 and gave no further thought to the future, simply 
 waiting and thinking only of the meeting with Sue (for 
 she knew that Sue would come), and of the welfare of 
 the child she loved so dearly that she had cheerfully 
 surrendered almost every principle of her life for its 
 sake. There was nothing more to do except to bid fare 
 well to the baby and commit it to the keeping of the 
 friend who would not fail her in her hour of need, and 
 then to just close her eyes forever and leave the rest to 
 the mercy of the Christ in whom she still believed, 
 and upon whom she now threw herself without the 
 least fear of the punishment she might receive know 
 ing it would at least be just. 
 
 It was a Sabbath morning, and the city was at rest. 
 The noises that disturb its peace on week days were not 
 present in the air and the sounds that reached her ears, 
 as she lay upon her bed were few and not distressful, 
 and with them were the voices of bells that called
 
 456 PEEDIDA. 
 
 the world to worship and spoke of a better life beyond 
 the whirl and tumult of the town. 
 
 Her physician had left her for a time, saying he would 
 return if called, and would be in again toward night. 
 Before leaving he had spoken to her with tenderness 
 and assured her of his regard, marveling within him 
 self at the composure of the woman and her evident 
 willingness to go. They were not many of his patients 
 who faced the last inevitable as she did, and it moved 
 him to a special interest in her that was something 
 wholly apart from professional feeling. She had 
 thanked him for his kindness with a gentle smile; and, 
 as he descended the stairs, he wondered who she really 
 could be and what might be her history for she was 
 plainly of the class whose past contains a tragedy of 
 some kind. But she had never told him anything, so 
 he could only guess at the experiences of a life that 
 clearly was not a happy one, and admire the woman 
 for her sweetness of manner and her fortitude in the 
 presence of death. He had told her that she might 
 perhaps live another forty-eight hours, although he 
 feared the end would come sooner, and that there was 
 no probability of her suffering any more pain. She 
 was dying of weakness and there was a slow internal 
 hemorrhage that he could not check. She would sim 
 ply grow weaker and weaker until the end, he said, and 
 might, he thought, lapse into unconsciousness, scarcely 
 knowing when it fell upon her. She was grateful for 
 this, for she wanted to just go to sleep, and it seemed 
 to her like a kindness that was come to her from 
 heaven to be permitted to pass away in this manner 
 after so much intense suffering during her lifetime. 
 
 So she lay upon her bed, patiently awaiting the end, 
 while the child slept peacefully in its cradle nearbj 71 
 and her attendant kept watch in the next room, ready
 
 PEED ID A. 
 
 457 
 
 to answer if called. Thus it was that Sue and Mr. 
 Sappleigh found her when they came. 
 
 It was Sue who entered first. As Nellie saw her 
 coining and beheld once more the face she loved so 
 well, a smile of happiness lighted her countenance and 
 she feebly raised her arms to put them around the neck 
 of the woman who was dearer to her than any other she 
 had ever known. For a few minutes the two friends 
 were clasped in close embrace. Then Sue, perceiving 
 how weak Nellie was, laid her gently back upon her 
 pillow, and kneeling by the bedside, took the thin 
 white hands in her own and spoke: 
 
 "Do not try to talk, too much, dear," she said. "It 
 will tire you. Oh, how glad I am to find you at last, 
 even as it is. I have read every word, Nellie, dear; 
 and believe me, it is all right. I shall always think of 
 you as I knew you at your best and will love you and 
 your child with the old-time tenderness to the very end. 
 Do not be troubled." 
 
 The dying woman replied with a look of intense grat 
 itude and smiled her thanks. She was about to speak, 
 but the other checked her, as she continued : 
 
 "Wait awhile, dear," she said. "I will listen to 
 you in a few minutes, when you have recovered your 
 strength. Until then, let me do the talking, for I have 
 much to tell you that you do not know. When I re 
 ceived your message, I did not at first know just 
 what I ought to do, because there were things of which 
 you have not learned. Listen. For a long time Mr. 
 Sappleigh and I have been trying to find you, to let you 
 know of the death of your aunt, the woman who was 
 so cruel to you, dear, and to tell you that her estate is 
 now yours and your child s after you. Just think what 
 that will mean to the child, Nellie, even though it can 
 not help you now."
 
 458 PERDIDA. 
 
 "Oh, Sue!" said Nellie. "Is it possible that this 
 is so? That she is gone? I felt that I would like to 
 send some word to her through you, to let her know I 
 forgave her. Yes; she was unkind; I may not deny 
 that; hut still I would wish her to think I bore her no 
 ill-will." 
 
 "Well, dear," continued her friend, "it is impossible 
 now. She passed away some time ago, leaving every 
 thing to you." 
 
 Something [told Sue that it would be best to let Nel 
 lie think her aunt had repented and made the legacy 
 an atonement, so she said nothing of the details of the 
 case. The poor girl was dying, with tenderness 
 toward the woman who had wronged her in her heart, 
 and it would do no good to add to her pain by explain 
 ing what had happened. It was certainly better to let 
 her remain ignorant of the truth. 
 
 "Yes," she said. "The estate is wholly yours and 
 after you the child s, and we have been trying for a 
 long time to hunt you up. Think how much it means 
 to the little one, dear, even though it cannot now be 
 yours." 
 
 "I do think of it," replied the mother. "It seems 
 almost as if God had heard my prayers and was about 
 to help me in the efforts I have made to save my child. 
 I am very glad for her sake." 
 
 "I knew you would be," said Sue. "And that is the 
 reason I was in doubt what to do, after receiving your 
 message. I needed help. So, after careful though*, I 
 decided that I must take Mr. Sappleigh into my confi 
 dence; and now I am not sorry that I did. Do not be 
 alarmed, dear. He knows all, and he loves you for the 
 struggle you have made and for the sake of the dear 
 son who loved you too. He cannot, even now, under 
 stand why it was you would not consent to become his 
 daughter. Is he not a noble man?"
 
 PERDIDA. 
 
 459 
 
 " Yes, Sue ; he is indeed. I love him very much. And 
 yet I could not marry Lispenard. It was not right." 
 
 "Perhaps so," said Sue. "It is difficult to decide a 
 question of conscience. Now, dear, let me call him, 
 for he is waiting and wants to see you. You will not 
 fear to meet him?" 
 
 "No," said Nellie. "I shall not be afraid now. If 
 he can forgive me like that, I will be happy to have 
 him near." 
 
 "Very well," replied Sue. "I will call him in a 
 minute, after I have told you something else. He is 
 going to take your baby, dear, and he and I will be 
 come its parents and will care for it and love it always; 
 for, Nellie dear he has asked me to be his wife and I 
 have told him yes." 
 
 The expression of surprised happiness that showed in 
 the face of her friend at this announcement, was some 
 thing Sue remembered throughout her after life. Nellie 
 was so overcome that she could not speak, but it was 
 not necessary. Sue understood and it made her very 
 glad. She pressed the hand that lay in hers in silence 
 for a minute, then going into the adjacent room called 
 Mr. Sappleigh. 
 
 "It is a good thing, my daughter," he said, as he 
 came to the bedside and stood where she could see him 
 and took her hand in his, "a very good thing that you 
 and I are permitted to meet before it is too late. I 
 thank you for the brave true love you gave my boy, 
 and for the sacrifice you nobly made for me." 
 
 He stooped and kissed her brow, and she murmured 
 words of gratitude that he scarcely heard, they were 
 so faint and her utterance was so broken; but he under 
 stood what she would say, so it did not matter. She 
 was plainly anxious to speak again to Sue. He with 
 drew a little and made room for her.
 
 460 PERDIDA. 
 
 "What is it?" said Sue, as she resumed her place. 
 "Is there something else you wish to say to me?" 
 
 "Yes," said Nellie, recovering her composure. 
 "There is something that I must say, before it is too 
 late, both to you and him. Come closer, dear; and do 
 not turn from me when I have finished, for I could not 
 bear that now." She paused in her effort to collect her 
 strength, and then continued : "Sue, let me tell you at 
 once, while I still have strength : Nobody has known it 
 until now, but it is not a secret I dare carry to the 
 grave. It was I who shot Mr. Jadman." 
 
 Mr. Sappleigh started, but held himself in check; 
 Sue s face grew very white, but she did not turn away. 
 In an instant she recovered her nerve and quietly re 
 plied : 
 
 "Is that a fact, dear? Or are you laboring under the 
 effect of some delusion?" 
 
 "No, Sue; it is no delusion. I did it. I could not 
 help it. It was after the death of little Mary that the 
 mania seized me and I did the deed. Cora was almost 
 beside herself at the time and often threatened to kill 
 him. I knew that you had cause to wish him dead. I 
 thought of all that he had done to so many poor girls, 
 and to dear little Mary, who was only a child, and who 
 died in my arms crying for protection against him, 
 and something seemed to keep saying to me that he 
 must be killed or he would never stop and then I did 
 it. I do not very well remember how it was done. 
 All that I recollect is going down the street and seeing 
 the pistol in a shop and going in. I had a ring on my 
 finger that I offered the man, and while he was exam 
 ining it I stole the pistol and ran out. The rest has 
 never been very clear. Don t interrupt me yet, dear," 
 she continued, pausing to recover her strength again ; 
 "there is more that you must know. I have told you
 
 PERDIDA. 461 
 
 this, so that if any one should ever be accused you can 
 clear her. I have always been ready to confess it if such 
 an emergency should arise, and that is why I could not 
 marry Lispenard, even if there had been no other reason. 
 He knew all about it, for I made him hear it before I 
 would consent to go with him ; and he forgave me, Sue 
 oh think of it, dear, he forgave me because of the love 
 he bore me and because my trial had been so severe. Do 
 you wonder that I loved him after that?" 
 
 "No," said Mr. Sappleigh, interrupting. "He was 
 right, Nellie. He did not condemn you because he saw 
 the truth. Neither do I." 
 
 She panted with excitement at his words and tried 
 again to speak, but her strength was gone for the time 
 being, and she lay upon the bed in silence, while her 
 friend watched her closely and ministered to her com 
 fort as best she could. After awhile she recovered her 
 voice and addressed them. 
 
 "You are both very kind," she said. "You are very 
 good to me. God will surely reward you for being so mer 
 ciful, and for what you are going to do for our child. 
 Poor Lispenard ! He was kind and good to me too, and I 
 tried to repay him all that I could, and never forgot 
 that I owed a great obligation to his little one. Is it 
 not strange, Sue? Even with that awful load on my 
 soul, I was very happy with Lispenard. Sometimes it 
 almost seemed I had done a necessary thing, and that I 
 had become an instrument in God s hand to remove the 
 man for the sake of others; for really, Sue, I did not 
 kill him in revenge for what he had done to me. Yes; 
 I was happy with Lispenard, and at times I even forgot 
 about that and it seemed only a dreadful dream that 
 was gone. There is nothing more to tell, dear. I am 
 ready to go." 
 
 She closed her eyes and was quiet for a long time.
 
 462 PERDIDA. 
 
 Mr. Sappleigh watched her attentively and almost be 
 lieved she was already dead. But Sue perceived that 
 she would rally and that it was not death that lay upon 
 her yet. They sat beside the bed and spoke but little, 
 merely exchanging the few words that naturally came 
 to them from the suggestions of the hour and the scene. 
 The shock of Nellie s confession was still upon their 
 minds, and yet it did not trouble them as it would 
 have done had it come under different conditions and 
 at another time. Somehow, with the death angel hov 
 ering so close at hand, and in the face of the confession 
 itself and all that had followed the crime of which it 
 told, it seemed to them, as it had to her, to be only a 
 dream that was passed and would not come again. 
 And then, they both felt that they could understand ; 
 and that, whatever cold reason might decree, here was 
 a case of which God alone could be competent to judge. 
 Whatever the measure of guilt might be that lay upon 
 her soul, to them she seemed as innocent of sin as the 
 child that slept in its cradle near at hand. 
 
 Her condition did not change until it was almost 
 noon-time. Then she aroused as from a restful slum 
 ber, and turning her face to Sue said very gently : 
 
 "Let me have my child now. She will not wake. 
 Bring her to me, and let me feel her near me when the 
 end comes. Something tells me it is closer than I 
 thought." 
 
 Sue stepped to the cradle and lifted the baby in her 
 arms. As she did so a sense of the obligation of moth 
 erhood came upon her, and she realized the awesome- 
 ness of the responsibility she was about to assume in 
 accepting this gift from the hands of the dying friend 
 who trusted her. She softly kissed the little one, and 
 bearing it to the bedside, gently laid it by the mother 
 and helped to place one loving arm about it in the last 
 embrace it would ever receive from her.
 
 PERDIDA. 463 
 
 "Thank you, dear Sue," she said. "I shall not have 
 her long. She will soon be all your own. There is 
 only one thing more that I would wish. If Mr. Sap- 
 pleigh will read for me the hymn that is marked in the 
 little book that lies on the table, I think it will give me 
 strength. It is all that has comforted me during my 
 sad hours of repentance and reflection. Once I tried to 
 sing it for others and could not; but of late I have read 
 it over many times with happiness. It is all that I 
 have to guide me now." 
 
 He went to the table at once and got the book. 
 Turning to the place that was indicated by the mark 
 between the pages, he easily found the hymn, for it 
 was underscored with pencil lines and the page was 
 blotted with the traces of many tears. As he began to 
 read, the melodies of the chimes in old Trinity Church 
 came floating by upon the quiet Sabbath air, and 
 seemed almost to be a spirit benediction that followed 
 on the hymn. 
 
 " Just as I am, without one plea, 
 But that Thy blood was shed for me, 
 And that Thou bid st me come to Thee, 
 O Lamb of God, I come. 
 
 " Just as I am, and waiting not 
 To rid my soul of one dark blot, 
 To Thee, whose blood can cleanse each spot, 
 O Lamb of God, I come. 
 
 " Just as I am, though tossed about 
 With many a conflict, many a doubt, 
 By fears within and foes without, 
 O Lamb of God, I come. 
 
 " Just as I am, poor, wretched, blind, 
 Sight, healing, riches of the mind, 
 Yea, all I need in Thee I find, 
 O Lamb of God, I come.
 
 464 PERDIDA. 
 
 Just as I am, Thou wilt receive, 
 Wilt welcome, pardon, cleanse, relieve; 
 Because Thy promise I believe, 
 O Lamb of God, I come." 
 
 He ceased and closed the book noiselessly. There 
 were now no sounds in the room, but the music of the 
 chimes and the gentle breathing of the sleeping child. 
 The dying woman lay very quiet for awhile before she 
 broke the silence, and then she said : 
 
 "I thank you, oh, very much. Your voice is like my 
 dear one s and I could almost believe it was his that 
 spoke to me. It is very good to feel like that. How 
 often in my lonely hours I have wanted to know what 
 I am, and never could seem to learn. Now I see that 
 it really does not matter after all. I shall go as I am 
 without one plea. I sometimes think there is no other 
 way that any one can go. Good-by, dear friend. Good- 
 by, darling Sue. Always remember that I go just as I 
 am, and try to think of me at my best." 
 
 She gave one lingering look of affection to the woman 
 she loved, and who was to become the mother of her 
 orphaned babe, and seemed to fall asleep. It was plain 
 that the end was very near at hand. 
 
 After a time she opened her eyes again, but she did 
 not see them now. There was a new look in their clear 
 blue depths, a look that comes to mortals only when 
 they gaze in advance upon the glories that lie beyond 
 the ken of earthly life. She was murmuring whispered 
 words, and Sue bent closer that she might catch their 
 meaning ere it would be too late. 
 
 "Just as I am O Lambof God without one plea I 
 come." 
 
 There was a slight dropping of the chin, a faint flut 
 tering of the eyelids one long, low, gentle sigh and
 
 PERDIDA. 465 
 
 it was over. The brave, true, patient, weary heart 
 had ceased to beat forever. 
 
 It was thus that she died, her hand clasped in that of 
 the woman friend who loved her best of all, her baby 
 sweetly slumbering at her breast. 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Sappleigh, as he stood beside the 
 weeping Sue, and laid his hand upon the golden masses 
 of the sleeper s tangled hair, "she was right it is 
 indeed the only way to go." 
 
 THE END.
 
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