"

"They are as a coiled serpent in the pathway of mankind, Brother John,
fascinating, but poisonous. There can be no good in one of those
creatures."

"Oh yes there is, I'm sure," said I. "Why, 'Lige, don't you know who the
woman was that gave you brandy, held your head, and used her skirts for
bandages when you were hurt?"

Old 'Lige raised up on his elbow, all eagerness. "No, John, I don't, but
she wa'n't one of them. She was too thoughtful, too tender, too womanly.
I've blessed her from that day to this, and though I don't know it, I
think she has sent me all these wines and fruits. She saved my life. Who
is she? Do you know?"

"Yes. She is Molly May, who keeps the largest dance-house in Cascade
City. She makes lots of money, but spends it all in charity; there has
never been a human being buried by the town since she has been there.
Molly May is a ministering angel to the poor and sick, but a bird of
prey to those who wish to dissipate."

The hospital was opened on Easter, and the first patient was a poor
consumptive girl, but lately an inmate of the Red-Light dance-house.
'Lige Clark did not run again; he became mayor of the little city, had
faith in its future, invested his money in land and died rich some years
ago.

'Lige must have changed his mind as he grew older, or at least abandoned
the idea that to crush out a wrong you should push it from all sides,
and thus compress and intensify it at the heart, and come to the
conclusion that the right way is to get inside and push out, thus
separating and dissolving it. For before me lies the tenth annual
prospectus of a now noted institution in one of the great cities of the
continent, and on its title page, I read through the dimmed glasses of
my spectacles: "Industrial Home and Refuge for Fallen Women. Founded by
Elijah Clark. Mary E. May, Matron."

A PEG-LEGGED ROMANCE

Some men are born heroes, some become heroic, and some have heroism
thrust upon them; but nothing of the kind ever happened to me.

I don't know how it is; but, some way or other, I remember all the
railroad incidents I see or hear, and get to the bottom of most of the
stories of the road. I must study them over more than most men do, or
else the other fellows enjoy the comedies and deplore the tragedies, and
say nothing. Sometimes I am mean enough to think that the romance, the
dramas, and the tragedies of the road don't impress them as being as
interesting as those of the pla