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THE CONGRESS OF WOMEN.
whether I would go down to a saloon on Water street, where a young woman lay dying. Poor thing, dying of consumption, and in such a place. He said to me: “Can you go soon? You will know better than I how to say a word to the poor girl. She evidently does not belong to the class that frequents saloons.” I readily promised to go, provided myself with a few lemons and a glass of jelly, and got all the Christ-love possible into my heart, for I well knew what it must be and what it meant to go into “ a saloon on Water street.” As I neared the building I saw a coarse looking man standing in the door. The blinds had not been removed, and evidently he was expecting me, for the poormaster had promised to send me. I asked, “ Is there a sick woman here?” He replied, “ Yes, good woman, hurry up those stairs. Poor thing, she don’t belong here. No such sort as the other girls. But my wife is awful tender hearted; she found this girl at one of the hotels, where she was trying to wash dishes to pay for her board. Poor thing; dying by inches. My wife brought her over here, and we gave her the best little room we had upstairs, and my wife has been a mother to her. But, poor bird, it is all up with her. I wasn’t going to open up this place or take down these blinds. Can’t do it. She was a good girl, only everybody deserted her because she was sick and couldn’t work. I reckon she is true, and would keep her virtue even if she starved. Please, good lady, hurry up to her. I hear that dreadful cough.” I hastened upstairs, and in a little room several gaudily dressed girls stood around the bed—girls with the marks of dissipation on their faces so plainly that there was no mistaking the kind of life they were leading. Over the sufferer bent a plain but motherly woman, whose strong arms were pillowing the head of a beautiful girl, for she could scarcely be called a woman. Her jet black hair fell in long curls in one rich mass over the pillow. For an instant all was silent. The coughing ceased, but only for an instant. The girls who were watching the woman wipe the blood-stained lips of the beautiful sufferer cried, “She is dying'” The woman looked up and said, “ Silence; she breathes.” As she held a cup to her lips she said, “ Darling child, take a drop of this, it will soothe you; drink, dear.” Oh, what a scene. I shall never forget it to my dying hour. I stepped forward, for I had not been noticed by the girls or the woman, they were weeping and wringing their hands. One of the girls had just remarked, “That woman (meaning me) will never come. Oh, Daisy is dying; do hold her up ! Open wide the windows, bring a fan, call somebody—get help!” I moved toward the bed, untied my bonnet and handed it to one of the girls. I then and there realized where I was—in one of the low dens, a house of prostitution— realized through the creatures before me. A dying girl, whom the poormaster and the man of the house told me was innocent and a helpless creature. The woman who was partner in the house had, from the goodness of her heart, brought the girl to her home, that “the child,” as she called her, might die in a comfortable bed. Another fit of coughing, and the sufferer turned her eyes toward me and motioned to me, reaching out her cold, cold hand. She cried, “ I am dying! Oh must, must I go to hell?” She sank exhausted on the pillow and the arm of the woman, whose rough cheeks were being washed with the flowing tears. She, too, had seen me, and said, “ Daisy wanted you, and the poormaster said you would come.” I offered to relieve the woman who was so tenderly caring for this poor stranger under such strange circumstances. The poor child looked up at me for a moment. Oh, those big, brown eyes. Can I ever forget them. And her words, “lam dying, and must I go to hell?” Holding that tired head close to my own I whispered, “No, no, dear child; I hear the Saviour calling you. Jesus and the angels are waiting your coming. There, don’t move and fret about that. It makes you cough, and I want you to listen. Hark! Listen! Keep very quiet. Hark! don’t you hear that voice whispering, ‘Come home, poor wanderer, come home.’ Please, Daisy, drink a drop of this lemon water. Don’t move. We’ll help you. There, hush, dear girl, the Saviour calls.” The poor girl believed. A faint “ Yes” came from her lips; one slight struggle for breath, and her hand, holding fast to mine, she whispered so low and faint, yet clearly audible, “ I do hear the sweetest music ”—and she was dead. Dare you, my hearers, or I say that Daisy did not hear