"You've got to be my sister," she said, in a gush, "else the hoodlums will
tear you from neck to heels." And seizing Phronsie's hand again, she bore
her off, dodging between rows of dwellings, that, if her companion could
have seen, would have certainly proved to be quite novel. But Phronsie was
by this time quite beyond noticing any of the details of her journey, and
after turning a corner or two, she was hauled up several flights of rickety
steps, strange to say without the usual accompaniment of staring eyes and
comments of the various neighbors in the locality.

"There!" The girl, still clutching the doll, flung wide the rickety door.
"My, ain't I glad to get here, though!" and she drew a long breath,
releasing Phronsie's hand, who immediately slid to the floor in a collapsed
little heap. "Well, this is my home--ain't it pretty, though!"

Phronsie, thus called on for a reply, tried very hard to answer, but the
words wouldn't come.

"You needn't try," said the girl, slamming the door, "'tain't likely you
can praise it enough," and she broke out into a hard, sarcastic laugh,
which shrilled its way out of the one window, whose broken glass was
adorned with nondescript fillings.

"See here now, you're all beat out," she exclaimed suddenly; then rushing
across the room, she dragged up a broken chair, and jammed it against the
door. "There now, we're by ourselves, an' you can rest."

"I must go home," said Phronsie faintly, and holding up her tired arms.
"Give me my child; I must go home."

"Did you think I didn't know what was proper?" cried the girl scornfully,