THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
"But I don't understand! Child, you are all alone, and I couldn't love you more if you were my own. Tell me what has happened and maybe I can help."
"Dear Mrs. Oliver, the only help is what I must give myself."
"You are running away to get married?"
"Do I look like it? No. I am running away from … myself! Please don't ask me questions. I should only lie to you. My determination is irrevocable. Some day I'll come back and tell you."
"You leave me with grave and terrible doubts," said the landlady in a troubled voice.
"Mrs. Oliver!"
"Well, this is life; this is a big and wicked city; I am old, and I know. You are young and pretty and alone." The landlady's motherhood, which was as comprehending as it was deep, yearned toward this girl, who had always remained aloof. The brood she gathered under her wing was composed of struggling artists and writers, but yonder chick had been hatched from a strange egg. "You can't tell me what the trouble is?"
"No." The girl turned quickly toward the window. Once more came the beat of iron shoes. A baggage-cart stopped at the curb. "The man for my things. I thought he never would come." She walked toward the door. The landlady stepped aside. The girl whirled unexpectedly and flung her arms around the surprised landlady and kissed her. "You have been so good to me!
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