incident in all its details (even to the return of the husband who appeared to visit Bessie after the mysterious fashion prevalent among the heathen gods) was repeated twice more. At the birth of the third child, Bessie very nearly died and after that she appeared to change her ways. At least the husband did not miraculously reappear and she had no more children.
At twenty-eight she was a plump, coarsely pretty girl, whose high spirits never deserted her. With a loud laugh she could bandy the coarsest jests with any of the coarse patrons of the Pot and Pie. Her round rosy face, her blue eyes, and the blond hair that hung damp and curling from a huge pompadour constructed over an elaborate apparatus of wire, were among the stimuli which betrayed sober men suddenly into the pagan knowledge that it was best to live while one was alive. Without dreaming of such a thing she conveyed this message to every man she served with mutton pie and stout. And Bessie was so carefree and good-natured that she never imposed upon her admirers any sense of sin. It was all a lark. She even came to be known in a strange blend of good humor, affection and contempt bred of familiarity as Our Bess and sometimes Good Queen Bess. She was the toast and the joy of the Pot and Pie and the men who came in with pockets empty and spirits depressed went away after a tilt with Our Bess feeling warmed and cheered. She really loved humanity. She loved the smoke and heat of the tap room, the collared looks of the mugs of ale, the oaths of the cabbies and bookmakers and the sight of old Mrs. Crumyss, ginny
