9] Alas! its ruthless keepers
have refused them bread, shut them into the street, and left them in
rags scarce sufficient to cover their nakedness, to sleep upon the cold
stones, a mute but terrible rebuke to those hearts that bleed over the
sorrows of Africa, but have no blood to give out when the object of pity
is a poor, heart-sick girl, forced to make the cold pavement her bed.
The stranger shudders. "Are these heaps of human beings?" he questions
within himself, doubting the reality before him. As if counting and
hesitating what course to pursue for their relief, he paces up and down
the grotesque mass, touching one, and gazing upon the haggard features
of another, who looks up to see what it is that disturbs her. Again the
low moan breaks on his ear, as the sentinel cries the first hour of
morning. The figure of a female, her head resting on one of the steps,
moves, a trembling hand steals from under her shawl, makes an effort to
reach her head, and falls numb at her side. "Her hand is cold--her
breathing like one in death--oh! God!--how terrible--what, what am I to
do?" he says, taking the sufferer's hand in his own. Now he rubs it, now
raises her head, makes an effort to wake a few of the miserable
sleepers, and calls aloud for help. "Help! help! help!" he shouts, and
the shout re-echoes through the air and along the hollow court. "A woman
is dying,--dying here on the cold stones--with no one to raise a hand
for her!" He seizes the exhausted woman in his arms, and with herculean
strength rushes up the narrow street, in the hope of finding relief at
the Gin Palace he sees at its head, in a blaze of light. But the body is
seized with spasms, an hollow, hysteric wail follows, his strength gives
way under the burden, and he sets the sufferer down in the shadow of a
gas light. Her dress, although worn threadbare, still bears evidence of
having belonged to one who has enjoyed comfort, and, perhaps, luxury.
Indeed, there is something about the woman which bespeaks her not of the
class generally found sleeping on the steps of St. Martin's Work-house.

[Footnote 8: An institution for the relief of the destitute.]

[Footnote 9: This sight may be seen at any time.]

"What's here to do?" gruffly inquires a policeman, coming up with an air
of indifference. The stranger says the woman is dying. The policeman
stoops down, lays his hand upon her temples, then mechanically feels her
arms and hands.

"And I--must die--die--die