square hallway. To each of these open spaces the several families
had equal rights.

The lower hall had originally extended through the whole depth
of the building to a rear doorway, equally old-fashioned but less
elaborately ornamented, but now a partition crossed the raised circle
on the ceiling from which had once hung an ancient candelabrum.
Upon each hallway opened four suites of two rooms each, and thus
the old mansion usually sheltered twelve families instead of one.
The doors were high, and surmounted by quaint and worm-eaten carved
work.

These halls seemed very dark and close to Mildred, who had just
come out of the sunlight and from the country, but they were cool
and spacious. They were shown by the janitor to a room over twenty
feet square on the second story, whose former occupants had left
the souvenir of unlimited dirt. "They was dissipated, and we don't
let sich stay in the buildin'," said the man. "That's one thing
in favor of the place, papa," poor Mildred remarked, and at the
moment it seemed to her about the only thing, for the old house
was evidently going down hill so fast that it seemed to her as if
it might carry its occupants with it. Still, on further inspection,
the room was found to be so large and airy and the ceiling so high
that it might be made the abode of health and comfort. Opening
into the large apartment was another about eight feet by twelve,
and this was all.

Mildred drew a long breath. Could the whole domestic life of the
family be carried on in those two rooms? "I never realized how
thousands of people live," she sighed.