knows when--and here it is two o'clock and a string
of cabs out in the cold. Thank ye, John. In with ye,
my lad, and get something to warm ye up," and then
the rosy-cheeked, deep-breasted, cheery little woman--
she was under forty--her eyes the brighter for her
thought, would begin pulling down cups and saucers
from her dresser, making ready not only for the "lad,"
but for John and herself--and anybody else who happened
to be within call.

The hospitalities of her family sitting-room, opening
out of the kitchen, were reserved for her intimates.
These she welcomed at any hour of the day or night,
from sunrise to sunset, and even as late as two in
the morning, if either business or pleasure necessitated
such hours.

Tim Kelsey, the hunchback, often dropped in. Otto
Kling, after Masie was abed; Digwell, the undertaker,
quite a jolly fellow during off hours; Codman
and Porterfield, with their respective wives; and, most
welcome of all, Father Cruse, of St. Barnabas's Church
around the corner, the trusted shepherd of "The
Avenue"--a clear-skinned, well-built man, barely forty,
whose muscular body just filled his black cassock so
that it neither fell in folds nor wrinkled crosswise, and
whose fresh, ruddy face was an index of the humane,
kindly, helpful life that he led. For him Kitty could
never do enough.