lines were drawn with sharp
distinction, the upper class coldly recognizing the middle class, but
ignoring the very existence of the lower class, refugees from ignoble
fortune.

Mrs. Bradshaw, by right of dignity and regular payments for the best room
in the house, was the star-boarder, and it was undoubtedly her friendship
which raised me socially from that third and lowest class to which my
small payments would have relegated me.

Standing in my tiny, closet-like room, by lifting myself to my toes, I
could touch the ceiling. There was not space for a bureau, but the yellow
wash-stand stood quite firmly, with the assistance of a brick, which made
up for the absence of part of its off hind leg. There was a kitchen-chair
that may have been of pine, but my aching back proclaimed it lignum-vitae.
A mere sliver of a bed stretched itself sullenly in the corner, where its
slats, showing their outlines through the meagre bed-clothing, suggested
the ribs of an attenuated cab-horse. From that bed early rising became a
pleasure instead of a mere duty. Above the wash-stand, in a narrow, once
veneered but now merely glue-covered frame, hung a small looking-glass,
that, size considered, could, I believe, do more damage to the human
countenance than could any other mirror in the world. It had a sort of
dimple in its middle, which had the effect of scattering one's features
into the four corners of the glass, loosely--a nose and eyebrow here, a
mouth yonder, and one's "altogether" nowhere.

It was very disconcerting. Blanche said it made her quite sea-sick, or
words to that effect. This dreadful little apartment lay snug against the
roof. In the winter the snow sifted prettily but uncomfortably here and
there. In the summer the heat was appalling. Those old-timers who knew
the house well, called No. 15 the "torture-chamber," and many a time,
during the fiercest heat, Mrs. Bradshaw would literally drive me from the
small fiery furnace to her own room, where at least there was air to
breathe, for No. 15 had but half a window. And yet, miserable as this
place was, it was a refuge and a shelter. The house was well known, it
was ugly, as cheap things are apt to be, but it was respectable and safe,
and I trembled at the thought of losing my right to enter there.

In the past my mother had been employed by the landlady as seamstress and
as housekeeper, besides which she had once nursed the lonely old woman
through a severe sickness, and a