The Heels of Her.
Passing down Commercial-street one fine day,
I observed a lady standing alone in the middle of
the sidewalk, with no obvious business there, but
with apparently no intention of going on. She was
outwardly very calm, and seemed at first glance to
be lost in some serene philosophical meditation. A
closer examination, however, revealed a peculiar
restlessness of attitude, and a barely noticeable uneasiness
of expression. The conviction came upon
me that the lady was in distress, and as delicately as
possible I inquired of her if such were not the
case, intimating at the same time that I should
esteem it a great favour to be permitted to do something.
The lady smiled blandly and replied that
she was merely waiting for a gentleman. It was tolerably
evident that I was not required, and with a
stammered apology I hastened away, passed clear
around the block, came up behind her, and took up
a position on a dry-goods box; it lacked an hour to
dinner time, and I had leisure. The lady maintained
her attitude, but with momently increasing
impatience, which found expression in singular
wave-like undulations of her lithe figure, and an occasional
unmistakeable contortion. Several gentlemen
approached, but were successively and politely
dismissed. Suddenly she experienced a quick convulsion,
strode sharply forward one step, stopped
short, had another convulsion, and walked rapidly
away. Approaching the spot I found a small iron
grating in the sidewalk, and between the bars two
little boot heels, riven from their kindred soles, and
unsightly with snaggy nails.
Heaven only knows why that entrapped female
had declined the proffered assistance of her species
—why she had elected to ruin her boots in preference
to having them removed from her feet. Upon
that day when the grave shall give up its dead, and
the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed, I shall
know all about it; but I want to know now.
