"As I say, no man can defend me. I am too near that awful separation of soul and body. Years ago I was a child of brightest promise. I lived with my parents in Kentucky. Wayward and light-hearted, I was admired by all the gay society known in the neighborhood. A man came and professed his love for me. I don't say this, Judge, to excite your sympathy. I have many and many a time been drawn before courts, but I never before spoke of my past life."
She coughed again and caught a flow of blood on a handkerchief which she pressed to her lips. "I speak of it now because I know that this is the last court on earth before which I will be arraigned. I was fifteen years old when I fell in love with the man. My father said he was bad, but I loved him. He came again and again, and when my father said that he should come no more I ran away and married him. My father said I should never come home again. I had always been his pride and had loved him dearly, but he said that I must never again come to his home,—my home, the home of my youth and happiness. How I longed to see him. How I yearned to put my head on his breast. My husband became addicted to drink. He abused me. I wrote to my father, asking him to let me come home, but the answer that came was 'I don't know you!' My husband died—yes, cursed God and died! Homeless and wretched, and with my little boy I went out into the world. My child died, and I bowed down and wept over a pauper's grave. I wrote to my father again, but he answered: 'I know not those who disobey my commandments!' I turned away from that letter, hardened. I spurned my teachings. Now I am here."
Several lawyers rushed forward. A crimson stream flowed from her lips. They leaned her lifeless head back against the chair. The old magistrate had not raised his eyes; "Great God!" said a lawyer, "he is dead!"
The woman was his daughter.
THE DEAD DOLL.
BY MARGARET VANDEGRIFT.
You needn't be trying to comfort me—I tell you my dolly is dead!
There's no use in saying she isn't with a crack like that in her head;
It's just like you said it wouldn't hurt much to have my tooth out, that day,
And then, when the man 'most pulled my head off, you hadn't a word to say.
And I guess you must think I'm a baby, when you say you can mend it with glue,
As if I didn't know better than that! Why, just suppose it was you?
You might make her look all mended—but what do I care for looks?
Why glue's for chairs and tables, and toys, and the backs of books!
My dolly! my own little daughter! Oh, but it's the awfullest crack!
It just makes me sick to think of the sound when her poor head went whack
Against that horrible brass thing that holds up that little shelf.
Now, Nursey, what makes you remind me? I know that I did it myself?