THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
Good-by!" She flew out into the hall and down the stairs. "You will find a trunk and suit-case up-stairs. Please hurry," she said to the cart-man, whom she met coming up the steps.
"All right, miss."
"I'll ride with you and give you the directions."
The man nodded. Five minutes later he got up beside his passenger and flicked the horse with a broken whip.
The girl looked up at the window. She saw the bulky figure of the landlady in silhouette, and a hard lump came into her throat. She had never been happy in that room, but sometimes she had known content.
Beautiful old square, so brave in history, once so brilliant in fashion, shunted to one side like a plaything which no longer amused the grown-up child called New York. It was only now, when she was going to leave it, that she realized how much she loved every stone of it. The electric lamps were blurred and the blue lances, grotesquely broken, danced absurdly. She knew that she was gazing through tears.
She focused her gaze upon the drooping head of the horse, and for a long time refused to look right or left. Shiffle-shuffle, shiffle-shuffle went the iron shoes. One was loose. She could hear the clink of it each time the animal lifted the hoof.
"Muggy weather," volunteered the cartman. "Th' ol' nag 'ain't got much gumption t'night."
She did not reply. She heard the sound of his voice, but the words fell meaningless against the
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