e it," I laughed, "for it's the only skirt I
have"; and I picked up the heavy pitcher and carried it up the rest of
the way, the child following me, holding up her apron skirts with both
hands to keep from stumbling, and making a ringing, metallic noise as
the copper toes struck the wood at every rise. She took the pitcher at
the head of the stairs without comment, but with a look full of
diffident gratitude. Stopping before one of the doors, the child rapped
timidly--so timidly, in fact, that it could scarcely be heard. No answer
coming, she rapped again, this time a little louder, and a woman's
shrill voice screamed, "Come in!"

"Mis' Pitbladder, the lady down-stairs says as this is a young girl
what wants to have a talk with youse about coming here," my little guide
announced all in one breath, and almost before the door had entirely
swung open upon the group within, consisting of an old lady and two
little girls. The old lady was in a comfortable state of dishabille; the
little girls each wore big checked gingham aprons like Julia's, and
buttoned down the back with the same big, white bone buttons. One of
them was waving Mrs. Pitbladder's hair with a crimping-iron which she
heated in a gas-jet before the bureau; the other child was laboriously
working at one of the pudgy hands with a pair of nail-scissors.

"Come in, come in, and don't stand there with the door open," mumbled
the bowed figure in the armchair, who held a twisted bit of uncrimped
forelock between her teeth to keep it from getting mixed with what was
already waved, and which fell over her face so that I could not see her
features.

"So you want to come here to board with us, my dear?" began the masked
one, which was the signal for an exchange of grave winks between the
hairdresser, the manicure, and the little slavey, Julia, who was pouring
the hot water into the pitcher on the washstand.

"If I could arrange it," I replied quickly, taking courage from the
woman's kindly manner of putting the question, which was in such
startling contrast to that of the dragon down-stairs.

"You are a working girl, are you, my dear?"

"I want to be. I'm looking for work now, and I hope to get a job in a
few days. I understand your rates are very low, and that I can live here
cheaper than almost anywhere else."

"And who sent you here, my dear?"

In answer to this I told her my story almost in totality, leaving out
only such details as could not possibly have c