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172 THE WHITE SLAVE MARKET
the book from a large shelf in an old cupboard
where she had hidden the ribbons,
hair-pins, postcards, and a hundred playthings
and belongings of the dead child. Poor
madame could hardly handle the little ornaments
and purse and other of Nelly's childish
treasures. They moved me deeply, too. Many
scrawls of poetry were written in the scrapbook
by the boy who had loved her. Poor
Nelly ! He
I chap
Here is one :
must have cared for her, that
Little hands that I have kissed,
Finger by finger to the tips,
And delicately about each wrist
Have set a bracelet with my lips.
Yet another verse from the pen of little
Nelly's boy :
I met her in a house of Blank :
Her face was pale and white,
She looked like a flower not yet in bloom:
She had missed the road to right.
She pined and sighed for her mother's voice,
She shuddered in silent dread
At the waning Day and the coming Night
When her wages were paid ... in bed I
She lived a month, or two, or three,
Perhaps a full whole year;
She died, like a flow'ret plucked too soon,
And was buried without a tear.
Now she fills an unknown grave
Scorched by the Eastern sun.
Poor child ! she's gone . . . where her sisters went
Since the world had first begun.