, and got into the
corner, as if wantin' nobody to see her. She only wanted a little good
care, and a little kindness, to bring her to. This we did as well as we
could, and made her understand that no one thought of punishing her, but
wanted to be her friends. Well, the poor wretch began to pick up, as I
said before, and in three days was such another woman that nobody could
have told that she was the poor crazy thing that ran about the lanes and
alleys of the Points. And now, Madame, doing as you bid me, I thought it
more practical to come to you, knowing you could get of her all you
wanted. She is made comfortable. Perhaps you wouldn't like to have her
brought here--I may say I don't think it would be good policy. If you
would condescend to come to our house, you can see her alone. I hope you
are satisfied with my services." The detective pauses, and again wipes
his face.

"My gratitude for your perseverance I can never fully express to you. I
owe you a debt I never can repay. To-morrow, at ten o'clock, I will meet
you at your house; and then, if you can leave me alone with her--"

"Certainly, certainly, everything will be at your service, Madame,"
returns the detective, rising from his seat and thanking the lady, who
rewards him bountifully from her purse, and bids him good night. The
servant escorts him to the door, while Madame Montford buries her face
in her hands, and gives vent to her emotions.

On the morning following, a neatly-caparisoned carriage is seen driving
to the door of a little brick house in Crosby street. From it Madame
Montford alights, and passes in at the front door, while in another
minute it rolls away up the street and is lost to sight. A few moments'
consultation, and the detective, who has ushered the lady into his
humbly-furnished little parlor, withdraws to give place to the pale and
emaciated figure of the woman Munday, who advances with faltering step
and downcast countenance. "Oh! forgive me, forgive me! have mercy upon
me! forgive me this crime!" she shrieks. Suddenly she raises her eyes,
and rushing forward throws herself at Madame Montford's feet, in an
imploring attitude. Dark and varied fancies crowd confusedly on Madame
Montford's mind at this moment.

"Nay, nay, my poor sufferer, rather I might ask forgiveness of you." She
takes the woman by the hand, and, with an air of regained calmness,
raises her from the floor. With her, the outer life seems preparing the
inner for what