r-house. In it I was treated worse than a
slave, left, sick and heart-broken, and uncared-for, to the preying of a
fever that destroyed my mind. And as if that were not enough, I was
carried into the dungeons--the 'mad cells,'--and chained. And this
struck such a feeling of terror into my soul that my reason, as they
said, was gone forever. But I got word to Anna, and she came to me, and
gave me clothes and many little things to comfort me, and got me out,
and gave me money to get back to New York, where I have been ever since,
haunted from place to place, with scarce a place to lay my head. Surely
I have suffered. Shall I be forgiven?" Her voice here falters, she
becomes weak, and seems sinking under the burden of her emotions.
"If,--if--if," she mutters, incoherently, "you can save me, and forgive
me, you will have the prayers of one who has drank deep of the bitter
cup." She looks up with a sad, melancholy countenance, again implores
forgiveness, and bursts into loud sobs.

"Mine is the guilty part--it is me who needs forgiveness!" speaks Madame
Montford, pressing the hand of the forlorn woman, as the tears stream
down her cheeks. She has unburdened her emotions, but such is the
irresistible power of a guilty conscience that she finds her crushed
heart and smitten frame sinking under the shock--that she feels the very
fever of remorse mounting to her brain.

"Be calm, be calm--for you have suffered, wandered through the dark
abyss--truly you have been chastened enough in this world. But while
your heart is only bruised and sore, mine is stung deep and lacerated.
The image of that child now rises up before me. I see her looking back
over her chequered life, and pining to know her birthright. Mine is the
task of seeking her out, reconciling her, saving her from this life of
shame. I must sacrifice the secrets of my own heart, go boldly in
pursuit of her--" She pauses a moment. There is yet a thin veil between
her and society. Society only founds its suspicions upon the mystery
involved in the separation from her husband, and the doubtful character
of her long residence in Europe. Society knows nothing of the birth of
the child. The scandal leveled at her in Charleston, was only the result
of her own indiscretion. "Yes," she whispers, attempting at the same
time to soothe the feelings of the poor disconsolate woman, "I must go,
and go quickly--I must drag her from the terrible life she is
leading;--but, ah! I must do i