all work-her greasy dress, and hard, ruddy face and hands-her short,
flabby figure, and her coarse, uncombed hair, giving out strong
evidence of being overtaxed with labor. "Is it Mrs. Slocum hersel'
ye'd be seein'?" inquires the maid, wiping her soapy hands with her
apron, and looking querulously in the face of the old lady, who,
with the air of a Scotch metaphysician, says she is come to spend a
week in friendly communion with her, to talk over the cause of the
poor, benighted heathen. "Troth an' I'm not as sure ye'll do that
same, onyhow; sure she'd not spend a week at home in the blessed
year; and the divil another help in the house but mysel' and
himsel', Mr. Slocum. A decent man is that same Slocum, too," pursues
the maid, with a laconic indifference to the wants of the guest. A
dusty hat-stand ornaments one side of the hall, a patched and
somewhat deformed sofa the other. The walls wear a dingy air; the
fumes of soapsuds and stewed onions offend the senses. Mrs. Swiggs
hesitates in the doorway. Shall I advance, or retreat to more
congenial quarters? she asks herself. The wily hack-driver (he
agreed for four and charged her twelve shillings) leaves her black
box on the step and drives away. She may be thankful he did not
charge her twenty. They make no allowance for distinguished people;
Lady Swiggs learns this fact, to her great annoyance. To the much-
confused maid of all work she commences relating the loss of her
luggage. With one hand swinging the door and the other tucked under
her dowdy apron, she says, "Troth, Mam, and ye ought to be thankful,
for the like of that's done every day."

Mrs. Swiggs would like a room for the night at least, but is told,
in a somewhat confused style, that not a room in the house is in
order. That a person having the whole heathen world on her shoulders
should not have her house in order somewhat surprises the