book men and vendors of crocheted-lace horrors of whom our street seems to have more than its rightful share. One friend said to me, "I thought at first I had come to the wrong house, I had got so used to old Hannah's massive immobility, covering latent suspicion, that I was for backing off when I beheld this radiant piece of Ould Ireland."
But not all the visitors were for the front door by any means. Youth and sweetness draw homage in the kitchen no less than in the parlor—very much more so, in fact, being less barricaded by convention there.
First came Maggie O'Rourke, Sheila's cabin mate on the passage out, a strapping, outspoken damsel whose brogue, rich in quality, demanded concentrated attention. She had fallen in the allocation, to the home of Toronto magnate manned (and womaned) by a staff of twelve who evidently rendered the life of the supervising housekeeper a daily misery. At least, mine would have been so under the conditions pictured by Maggie, who drew some very realistic vignettes of high life in Toronto's select circles. The raciest of these were no doubt reserved for Sheila's ear alone, but the combination of
