thim in a chist. An' there I was, cryin' m' eyes out, I was that sick; an' thinkin' ev'ry minute I 'd be the next. An' here I am, livin' yet, praise God—livin' yet."
"We were young then, ma'am."
She chuckled, with an old woman's sudden change of mood. "An' was n't I the green one! The girls at my first place, they tol' me the children in Noo York, whin they cried, took fits an' died. They tol' me that, now. An' Mrs. Elliott—God bless her. She was the good frind to me. I hope that God 'll give 'r the worth 'f it—She come upstairs, an' 'Kitty,' she says. 'What's the matter, Kitty?' she says—me cryin' woorse 'n the child! An' whin I told her! Whin I told her! Aw, my, my!"
At the mention of Mrs. Elliott, the man had turned to her, as if his head were on a rod, like a ventriloquist's dummy, without moving his shoulders. He stared at her, wooden-faced.
"I was the green one," she said. "I come straight from the farms o' County Cavan, where the gurls was brought up in innocency.… We had nuthin' but a dancin' of a Sunda' in the barn—of harvest time—no theayter—nuthin'—nuthin' at all. The folk was all dependin' to their farms." She began to chuckle again. "I mind whin I come to Thurteenth Street, with Rose—they was feedin' pigs in Thurteenth Street in thim days—I says to Rose; 'Sure,' I says, 'they 're all poor here,' I says. 'They 've neither bite ner sup,' I says, 'on'y what they buys.' An' Rose says: 'Don't
