oices to cry down an abstract
evil. When actual misery appeals to them, they are deaf; when the plain
and palpable error stalks before them, they turn aside. They are too
busy with the tangles of some philanthropic Gordian knot, to stretch out
a helping hand to the sufferer at their sides. They are frenzied with
their zeal to build a bridge over a spanless ocean, while the drowning
wretch is sinking within their grasp. They scorn the simple charity of
the good Samaritan; theirs must be a gigantic and splendid achievement
in experimental beneficence, worthy of their philosophic brains. The
wrong they would redress must be one that half the world esteems a
right; else there would be no room for their arguments, no occasion for
their invective, no excuse for their passion. To do good is too simple
for their transcendentalism; they must first make evil out of their
logic, and then, through blood and wasting flames, drive on the people
to destruction, that the imaginary evil may be destroyed. While Charity
soars so high among the clouds, she will never stoop to lift the
Magdalen from sin.

CHAPTER XIII.

Arthur heaved an involuntary sigh, as he gazed upon those sad wrecks of
womanhood, striving to harden their sense of degradation by its impudent
display. But an expression of bewildered and sorrowful surprise suddenly
overspread his countenance. Seated alone upon a cushioned stool, at the
chimney-corner, was a young woman, her elbows resting upon her knees,
and her face bent thoughtfully upon her palms. She was apparently lost
in thought to all around her. She was thinking--of what? Perhaps of the
green fields where she played in childhood; perhaps of her days of
innocence; perhaps of the mother at whose feet she had once knelt in
prayer. But she was far away, in thought, from that scene of infamy of
which she was a part; for, in the glare of the gaslight, a tear
struggled through her eyelashes, and glittered like a ray from heaven
piercing the glooms of hell.

Arthur walked to her, and placed his hand softly upon her yellow hair.

"Oh, Mary!" he murmured, in a tone of gentle sorrow, that sounded
strangely amid the discordant merriment that filled the room.

She looked up, at his touch, but when his voice fell upon her ear, she
arose suddenly and stood before him like one struck dumb betwixt
humiliation and wonder. The angel had not yet fled that bosom, for the
blush of shame glowed through the chalk upon her br