truly a crime," she says to
herself, musing over her hard lot, while sitting in her chamber one
evening. "But I am the richer! I will rise above all!" She has just
prepared to carry some nourishment to her father, when Keepum enters,
his face flushed, and his features darkened with a savage scowl. "I have
said you were a fool--all women are fools!--and now I know I was not
mistaken!" This Mr. Keepum says while throwing his hat sullenly upon the
floor. "Well," he pursues, having seated himself in a chair, looked
designingly at the candle, then contorted his narrow face, and frisked
his fingers through his bright red hair, "as to this here wincing and
mincing--its all humbuggery of a woman like you. Affecting such morals!
Don't go down here; tell you that, my spunky girl. Loose morals is what
takes in poor folks."

Maria answers him only with a look of scorn. She advances to the door to
find it locked.

"It was me--I locked it. Best to be private about the matter," says
Keepum, a forced smile playing over his countenance.

Unresolved whether to give vent to her passion, or make an effort to
inspire his better nature, she stands a few moments, as if immersed in
deep thought, then suddenly falls upon her knees at his feet, and
implores him to save her this last step to her ruin. "Hear me, oh, hear
me, and let your heart give out its pity for one who has only her virtue
left her in this world;" she appeals to him with earnest voice, and eyes
swimming in tears. "Save my father, for you have power. Give him his
liberty, that I, his child, his only comfort in his old age, may make
him happy. Yes! yes!--he will die where he is. Will you, can you--you
have a heart--see me struggle against the rude buffets of an unthinking
world! Will you not save me from the Poor-house--from the shame that
awaits me with greedy clutches, and receive in return the blessing of a
friendless woman! Oh!--you will, you will--release my father!--give him
back to me and make me happy. Ah, ha!--I see, I see, you have feelings,
better feelings--feelings that are not seared. You will have pity on me;
you will forgive, relent--you cannot see a wretch suffer and not be
moved to lighten her pain!" The calm, pensive expression that lights up
her countenance is indeed enough to inspire the tender impulses of a
heart in which every sense of generosity is not dried up.

Her appeal, nevertheless, falls ineffectual. Mr. Keepum has no generous
impulses to bestow