carriage. Their
attentions really were flattering. It was like a welcome in this strange
place.

It was like being in a little room all cushioned seats and windows when
I got into the great double carriage so kindly offered me.

The cushions were soft as down, and gave so, when I seated myself, that
I couldn't help catching my breath. "Where to," says the driver,
a-leaning through the window.

"First," says I, "if it won't be too much trouble, I will go somewhere
and buy a new satchel; I really don't feel at home without one. Then you
may take me to a boarding-house in Bleecker Street. You'll know where it
is by inquiring about a little. The name is Smith, and they come from
Vermont. Their daughter married and settled on Sprucehill. Smith. You
can't help but find them."

"Have you got a number?" says the man.

"No," answers I, "only one family."

"But the house."

"No," says I again. "I haven't got any house, but the old homestead on
Sprucehill."

"But Bleecker is a long street."

"Is it?"

"And I must have a number."

"Why, isn't one street of a name enough?" says I, getting out of
patience. "What on earth do you want?"

"I want the name of the people."

"Smith."

"And the number of the house they live in."

"Oh, then, houses go by numbers, not names, here in York, do they? Stop
a minute!"

Here I took a slip of paper from my pocket-book which Smith's daughter
had written, and gave it to him.

"All right," says he, hopping up the wheel, and going to his seat. Then
away we rolled, genteel as could be.

I bought the satchel at a store we drove by, and then we went on and on
and on, till at last he stopped before a brick house with a good deal of
iron about it.

The driver jumped down, ran up the steps, pulled a rusty knob fastened
to the door stone, and faced round towards his horses.

A girl I should consider as hired help opened the door.

"Is Mrs. Smith at home?" says I, a-putting my head out of the window.

"Yes," says she.

"I'll get out," says I.

The driver unfolded a lot of steps that had been hid away under the
windows. I went down them with a genteel trip. The man had been so
polite, I stopped to thank him.

"Three dollars," says he, a holding out his hand.

"Three dollars? What for?" says I, all in a flutter.

"For bringing you here," says he. "Stopping on the way, and so on."

"But you invited me."

The fellow grinned, and held out his hand harder than ever. The help o