in my life before had I
bought anything on the Sabbath day, and never before had I seen a place
of business open for trade on that day. My people had not been sternly
religious people, and, theoretically, I didn't think I was doing
anything wicked; yet I felt, as I gave my order to the groceryman, as
though I were violating every sacred tradition of birth and breeding.
After that I tried to do all necessary marketing the day before, and if
I needed anything on Sunday I made myself go without it.

Returning with my unholy provisions tucked under my arm and a
broken-nosed blue pitcher deftly concealed under my protecting cape, I
made my first daylight inventory of that block of Fourteenth Street
where I lived. On each corner stood a gaudy saloon, surmounted by a
Raines law hotel. It seemed to have been at one time the abode of
fashion, for though both ends of the block were supported by business
buildings, the entire middle presented a solid front of brownstone,
broken at intervals by long flights of steps leading to handsome,
though long-neglected black-walnut doors. The basements were given over
to trade.

On the stairs I was brought face to face again with my sinister-looking
young man. I looked straight ahead, so as to avoid his eyes. But I found
the way blocked, as he stretched his arms from banister to wall.

"What's the matter with you?" he began coaxingly. "Say, I'll take you to
the theater, if you want to go. What do you say to 'The Jolly Grass
Widows' to-morrow night?"

Thoroughly frightened, I responded to the unwarranted invitation by
retreating two steps down the stairs, whereupon the young ruffian jumped
down and grasped the arm in which I held my packages. I don't know what
nerved me up to such a heroic defense, but in the twinkling of an eye he
fell sprawling down the stairs, followed by the flying remnants of my
landlady's milk-pitcher. Then I ran up the remaining two flights as fast
as my feet would carry me, and landed in the midst of an altercation
between the inarticulate landlady and my girl neighbor. In passing, I
could make out enough of the wrangle to understand that the latter was
being ordered out of the house.

When quietness had been restored, there was a tap at my door. I
demanded the name of my visitor in as brave a voice as I could command.
"Mrs. Pringle," returned the broken voice of the landlady. I saw, when I
opened the door, that she wanted to talk to me. I also saw, what I had
n