“Yes, sir; Mary was a good child to me once; she respected religion and religious people, and used to love to go to church; but lately, sir, God knows she has almost broken my heart. Last spring I took her home, and the three dear children; but she would not listen to me, and left without telling me where she was going. I heard that there was a poor woman living in a basement in Willet Street, with three children, and my heart told me that that was my poor, lost Mary, and there I found her. But, oh, sir—oh, sir”—and she sobbed as if her heart were breaking—“such a place! My Mary, that I used to cradle in these arms to sleep, that lisped her little evening prayer at my knee—my Mary, drunk in that terrible place!”
She was getting so agitated that Mr. Pease, wishing to turn the current of her thoughts, asked her if she herself was a member of any church. She said yes, of the —— Street Baptist Church. She said she was a widow, and had had one child beside Mary—a son. And her face lighted up as she said:—
“Oh, sir, he was such a fine lad. He did all he could to make me happy; but he thought, that if he went to California he could make money, and when he left he said, ‘Cheer up, dear mother; I’ll come back and give my money all to you, and you shall never work any more.’
“I can see him now, sir, as he stood there, with his eye kindling. Poor lad! poor lad! He came back, but it was only to die. His last words were, ‘God will care for you, mother—I know it—when I’m gone to Heaven.’ Oh! if I could have seen my poor girl die as he did, before she became so bad. Oh, sir, won’t you take her here?—won’t you try to make her good?—can’t you make her good, sir? I can’t give Mary up. Nobody cares for Mary now but me. Won’t you try, sir?”
Mr. Pease promised that he would do all he could, and sent a person out with the old lady, to visit “Mary,” and obtain particulars; he soon returned and corroborated all the old lady’s statements. Mr. Pease then took a friend and started to see what could be done.
In Willet Street is a rickety old wooden building, filled to overflowing with the very refuse of humanity. The basement is lighted with two small windows half under ground; and in this wretched hole lived Mary and her children. As Mr. Pease descended the steps into the room, he heard some one say, “Here he comes, grandmother; he’s come—he’s come!”
The door was opened. On a pile of rags in the corner lay Mary, “my Mary,” as the old lady tearfully called her.
God of mercy! what a wreck of beautiful womanhood! Her large blue eyes glared with maniac wildness, under the influence of intoxication. Long waves of auburn hair fell, in tangled masses, over a form wasted, yet beautiful in its graceful outlines.
Poor, lost Mary!
“Such a place!” as her mother had, weeping, said. Not a table or chair, or bedstead, or article of furniture in it of any description. On the mantel-piece stood a beer-bottle, with a half-burnt candle in its neck. A few broken, dirty dishes stood upon the shelf, and a quantity of filthy rags lay scattered round the floor.