The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 11, No. 63, January, 1863. Various

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СКАЧАТЬ well: had helped drag her drunk to the lock-up a day or two before. Now, before the white folks, he drew his coat aside, loathing to touch her. She followed him with a glazed look.

      "Do you see what I am?" she said to the manager.

      Nothing pitiful in her voice. It was too late for that.

      "He wouldn't touch me: I'm not fit. I want help. Give me some honest work."

      She stopped and put her hand on his coat-sleeve. The child she might have been, and never was, looked from her face that moment.

      "God made me, I think," she said, humbly.

      The manager's thin face reddened.

      "God bless my soul! what shall I do, Mr. Storrs?"

      The young man's thick lip and thicker eyelid drooped. He laughed, and whispered a word or two.

      "Yes," gruffly, being reassured. "There's a policeman outside. Joe, take her out, give her in charge to him."

      The negro motioned her before him with a billet of wood he held. She laughed. Her laugh had gained her the name of "Devil Lot."

      "Why,"—fires that God never lighted blazing in her eyes,—"I thought you wanted me to sing! I'll sing. We'll have a hymn. It's Christmas, you know."

      She staggered. Liquor, or some subtler poison, was in her veins. Then, catching by the lintel, she broke into that most deep of all adoring cries,—

      "I know that my Redeemer liveth."

      A strange voice. The men about her were musical critics: they listened intently. Low, uncultured, yet full, with childish grace and sparkle; but now and then a wailing breath of an unutterable pathos.

      "Git out wid you," muttered the negro, who had his own religious notions, "pollutin' de name ob de Lord in yer lips!"

      Lot laughed.

      "Just for a joke, Joe. My Redeemer!"

      He drove her down the stairs.

      "Do you want to go to jail, Lot?" he said, more kindly. "It's orful cold out to-night."

      "No. Let me go."

      She went through the crowd out into the vacant street, down to the wharf, humming some street-song,—from habit, it seemed; sat down on a pile of lumber, picking the clay out of the holes in her shoes. It was dark: she did not see that a man had followed her, until his white-gloved hand touched her. The manager, his uncertain face growing red.

      "Young woman"—

      Lot got up, pushed off her bonnet. He looked at her.

      "My God! No older than Susy," he said.

      By a gas-lamp she saw his face, the trouble in it.

      "Well?" biting her finger-ends again.

      "I'm sorry for you, I"—

      "Why?" sharply. "There's more like me. Fifteen thousand in the city of New York. I came from there."

      "Not like you, child."

      "Yes, like me," with a gulping noise in her throat. "I'm no better than the rest."

      She sat down and began digging in the snow, holding the sullen look desperately on her face. The kind word had reached the tortured soul beneath, and it struggled madly to be free.

      "Can I help you?"

      No answer.

      "There's something in your face makes me heart-sick. I've a little girl of your age."

      She looked up quickly.

      "Who are you, girl?"

      She stood up again, her child's face white, the dark river rolling close by her feet.

      "I'm Lot. I always was what you see. My mother drank herself to death in the Bowery dens. I learned my trade there, slow and sure."

      She stretched out her hands into the night, with a wild cry,—

      "My God! I had to live!"

      What was to be done? Whose place was it to help her? he thought. He loathed to touch her. But her soul might be as pure and groping as little Susy's.

      "I wish I could help you, girl," he said. "But I'm a moral man. I have to be careful of my reputation. Besides, I couldn't bring you under the same roof with my child."

      She was quiet now.

      "I know. There's not one of those Christian women up in the town yonder 'ud take Lot into their kitchens to give her a chance to save herself from hell. Do you think I care? It's not for myself I'm sorry. It's too late."

      Yet as this child, hardly a woman, gave her soul over forever, she could not keep her lips from turning white.

      "There's thousands more of us. Who cares? Do preachers and them as sits in the grand churches come into our dens to teach us better?"

      Pumphrey grew uneasy.

      "Who taught you to sing?" he said.

      The girl started. She did not answer for a minute.

      "What did you say?" she said.

      "Who taught you?"

      Her face flushed warm and dewy; her eyes wandered away, moistened and dreamy; she curled her hair-softly on her finger.

      "I'd—I'd rather not speak of that," she said, low. "He's dead now. He called me—Lottie," looking up with a sudden, childish smile. "I was only fifteen then."

      "How old are you now?"

      "Four years more. But I tell you I've seen the world in that time."

      It was Devil Lot looked over at the dark river now.

      He turned away to go up the wharf. No help for so foul a thing as this. He dared not give it, if there were. She had sunk down with her old, sullen glare, but she rose and crept after him. Why, this was her only chance of help from all the creatures God had made!

      "Let me tell you," she said, holding by a fire-plug. "It's not for myself I care. It's for Benny. That's my little brother. I've raised him. He loves me; he don't know. I've kept him alone allays. I don't pray, you know; but when Ben puts his white little arms about me 't nights and kisses me, somethin' says to me, 'God loves you, Lot.' So help me God, that boy shall never know what his sister was! He's gettin' older now. I want work, before he can know. Now, will you help me?"

      "How can I?"

      The whole world of society spoke in the poor manager.

      "I'll give you money."

      Her face hardened.

      "Lot, I'll be honest. There's no place for such as you. Those that have made you what you are hold good stations among us; but when a woman's once down, there's no raising her up."

      "Never?"

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