pickle-factory as soon as she's fourteen." Bettina slipped, but
caught herself, and held my arm more firmly.

"She's our ashman's daughter, and she's got a mole right on the end
of her nose. It's a little on one side, but it looks awful funny,
and Jimmie Rice says she'll stay in that pickle-factory all her life
if she don't have that mole taken off. A boy won't have a girl for a
sweetheart if her nose has got a mole on it, will he? Myra is afraid
it will hurt to have it come off. She's an awful coward. This is
the place. This is Ninety-two."

Mrs. Gibbons's residence was one of several small and shabby houses
which huddled together as if for protection, and as we went up the
steps of the shaky porch a head from the second-story window was
thrust out--a head wrapped in a red crocheted shawl.

"You-all want to see Mrs. Gibbons? Well, she ain't to home. That
is, I don't think she is. She told me this morning she was going
down to the 'firmary to get some medicine for that misery in her back
what struck her yesterday. If she ain't to home, you-all kin come up
here and rest yourself if you want to. It's awful cold, ain't it?"

Before we could express our appreciation of the hospitality offered,
the door at which we had knocked was opened cautiously, and at its
aperture a head was seen. There was a moment's hesitancy and then
the door opened more widely.

"Is this Mrs. Gibbons?"

Bettina asked the question, and at its answer called to the woman