—when she could help a fellow-creature, it was her business.
"Leave the mug here, Juliet," she said, "and tell your mother I wish to speak with her."
"Oh, I dare not, Mrs. Aikin—she'll be so angry with me; she does not mind speaking, with other people, but she seems to hate to see any of your family. I'm sure I don't know what the reason is—there—I hear her—pray let me go!" and Juliet seized the mug, which Mrs. Aikin had set on the stair, and disappeared.
In a few moments Mrs. Aikin followed her and tapped at the door. Juliet opened it, and stood aghast, while Mrs. Aikin said—"Mrs. Smith, I know you are sick, and in trouble—let me come in, and see if something cannot be done for you."
The door, evidently at a sign from within, was closed in Mrs. Aikin's face; but, through the crevices, Mrs. Aikin heard a voice that seemed familiar to her, half scolding and half crying.
She again tapped at the door, and Juliet opened it a crack, and said, in a voice whose tremulous softness contrasted with the rudeness of her words—
"She says, ma'am, she won't be bothered."
"Well, Juliet, I'll go away now. She may feel differently by-and-by."
Mrs. Aikin's persevering kindness and forbearance touched the heart of the miserable woman; but the fumes of the liquor were mounting to her brain, and she drew the bed-clothes over her head and fell into a heavy sleep, from which she was awakened late in the evening by the stealthy entrance of a man, who brought her a note from her nominal husband. This threw her into violent
