her of a family all dead now, God rest their souls!"
who should know a lady better than she? And why was Mrs. Bridget
Reynolds, a proper married and equally proper widowed woman of her
reverend years, sitting upon a doorstep at three o'clock of a cold March
morning? Och! God bless ye, just a little trouble with the landlord, no
work for several weeks, and a recent eviction; a small matter that had
often happened before, and was like as not to happen ag'in, God willing!
And who was Mrs. Bridget Reynolds's sleeping mate left behind on the
doorstep? Divil a bit did Mrs. Bridget Reynolds know about her, only
that she had found her that night in the empty warehouse, where she had
gone like herself to sleep, among the packing-cases, under the straw and
excelsior, which made a bed fit for a queen, and where they might still
have been taking their ease had not a heartless cop chased them out, bad
luck to him!

Such was the gist of Mrs. Reynolds's discourse. I have not the courage
to attempt to transcribe her rich brogue and picturesque phraseology;
and even were I able to do so, it could give the reader no adequate idea
of the wealth of optimism and cheerfulness that throbbed in her
quavering voice. Hers could be a violent tongue, too, as the several
men who accosted us on our dark way discovered at their first approach
to familiarity; and on one occasion, when a drunken sailor leered up to
my side, Mrs. Bridget spat at him like an angry tabby-cat. Somehow, I no
longer felt afraid under her protection and guidance.

At last, after a very long walk, we came in sight of the brightly
lighted windows of a drug-store, and Mrs. Reynolds said we were on
Bleecker Street. I had now to explain that my asking the way to a
drug-store had been merely a bit of subterfuge, which I did in fear and
trembling as to how Mrs. Reynolds would accept such deception on my
part. But she was all good humor.

"Sure, dearie, it's all right! I'm glad to do a good turn for yez, being
as you're a poor body like mesilf, even if ye air a lady!"

We were now standing in the glare of the big colored-glass carboys in
the drug-store window at the corner of Bleecker Street and some one of
its intersecting alleys. It was now four in the morning, and the streets
were almost deserted. My companion smiled at me with the maudlin
tenderness which gin inspires in the breast of an old Irishwoman, and as
we stood irresolute on the corner I noticed how thinly clad she was