Still I stood watching her as she moved away, regardless quite of watery pool or deepest mud; she marched straight on and at the first corner disappeared, but never turned her head.  As she had left me first without good-by, so she met me now without a greeting, and passed me by without farewell.  And I, who knew her, understood at last the reason why.  Poor wounded, loyal heart, who would deny herself a longed-for pleasure rather than put the tiniest touch of shame upon so small a person as a ballet girl whom one year ago she had so lovingly called friend.

At last I turned to go.  As I came to the window into which Semantha had so lovingly been gazing, I looked in too, and saw a window full of fine, thick underwear for men.

Two crowded, busy years swept swiftly by before I heard once more, and for the last time, of poor Semantha.  I was again in Columbus for a short time, and was boarding at the home of one of the prison wardens.  Whenever I could catch this man at home, I took pains to make him talk, and he told me many interesting tales.  They were scarcely of a nature to be repeated to young children after they had gone to bed, that is, if you wanted the children to stay in bed; but they were interesting, and one day the talk was of odd names,—­his own was funny,—­and at last he mentioned Semantha’s.  Of course I was alert, of course I questioned him—­how often I have wished I had not.  For the tale he told was sad.  Nothing new, nay, it was common even; but so is “battle, murder, and sudden death,” from which, nevertheless, we pray each day to be delivered.  Ah! his tale was sad if common.

It seemed that when Semantha followed that treacherous young brute, her convicted lover, she had at first obtained a situation as a servant, so she could not come to the prison every visiting day, and what was worse in his eyes, she was most poorly paid, and had but very small sums to spend upon extras for him.  He grumbled loudly, and she was torn with loving pity.  Then quite suddenly she was stricken down with sickness, and her precious brute had to do without her visits for a time and the small comforts she provided for him, until one visiting day he fairly broke down and roared with rage and grief over the absence of his tobacco.

The hospital sheltered Semantha as long as the rules permitted, but when she left it she was weak and worn and homeless, and as she crept slowly from place to place, a woman old and well-dressed spoke to her, calling her Mamie Someone, and then apologized for her mistake.  Next she asked a question or two, and ended by telling Semantha she was the very girl she wanted—­to come with her.  She could rest for a few days at her home, and after that she should have steady employment and better pay, and—­oh! did I not tell you it was a common tale?

But when on visiting day the child with frightened eyes told what she had discovered about her new home, the soulless monster bade her stay there, and every dollar made in her new accursed trade was lavished upon him.