of genuine ownership, and the round-eyed, pretty thing clung to her as only baby arms cling to mother-necks. Its name was Annabella, and it was fourteen months old and wore a white dress and was undeniably real. Lizzie's face had a proud and happy look save when "he" came into the conversation. Then it clouded. "He" appeared to be a coal-heaver by trade and came home "that dirty there was no doin' anythin' wi' 'im, an' nobuddy couldn't keep the room lookin' tidy-like."
After this surprising eruption of domesticity, Lizzie, like all the rest of the long train, passed on into oblivion. I took her address and sent the baby some things, but heard no more of them.
I like to dwell upon that last picture of Lizzie with her little scrawny neck encircled by dimpled arms, and shy baby eyes peering around it at the strange lady. It was an assuaging interlude in the long list of denials life had dealt out to her, a green and tender blade springing in the bleak garden of her experience.
Then there was Bleason, the elusive, the capable, the inscrutable. She merits a whole
