had seven children, only three of whom were living: Mary,
a prosperous, big matron whose husband, Joe Cunningham, had some
exalted position on the Brooklyn police force; Ralph, who was a priest
in California; and George, the youngest, a handsome ne'er-do-well of
about twenty-five, who was a "heart scald." George floated about his
own and neighbouring cities, only coming to see his mother when no
other refuge offered.

The four children who had died were quite as much in their mother's
thoughts and conversation, and probably more in her prayers, than the
living ones. Of "Curley," too, Martie heard much. She was able to
picture a cheerful, noisy home, full of shouting, dark, untidy-headed
children, with an untidy-headed servant, a scatter-brained mother, and
an unexacting father in charge. "Curley" usually went to sleep on the
sofa after dinner, and Mrs. Curley's sister, Mrs. Royce, with her
children, or her sister-in-law, "Mrs. Dan," with hers, came over to
pick up the Curleys on the way to a Mission sermon, a church concert,
or a meeting of the Women's Auxiliary of the Saint Vincent de Paul.

"... Or else maybe the priest would step in," said Mrs. Curley,
remembering these stirring days, "or often I'd take Mollie or
Katie--God rest her!--and go over to see the Sisters. But many a night
there'd be sickness in the house--Curley had two cousins and an aunt
that died on us--and then I'd be there sitting up with the medicines,
and talking with this one and that. I was never one to run away from
sickness, nor death either for that matter. I'm a great hand with death
in the house; there's no sole to my foot when I'm needed! I'll never
forget the day that I went over to poor Aggie Lemmon's house--she was a
lovely woman who lived round the corner from me. Well, I hadn't been
thinking she looked very well for several weeks, do you see?--and I
passed the remark to my brother Thomas's wife--God rest her----"

A reminiscence would follow. Martie never tired of them. Whether she
was held, just now, in the peaceful, unquestioning mood that precedes a
serious strain on mind and body, or whether her old hostess really had
had an unusually interesting experience, she did not then or ever
decide. She only knew that she liked to sit playing solitaire in the
hot evenings, under a restricted cone of light, with Mrs. Curley
sitting in the darkness by the window, watching the lively street,
fanning herself comfortably, and pouring forth the