't say." If she
was at home, she was at an address which he gave us.

"Will you go, Dennis? I must. At once."

"Of course."

Biddy was at home, and never whilst I live can I forget the "home." Four
blocks of high houses enclosed a small court into which there was one
entrance, an archway through one of the buildings. All the houses opened
into the court. There were no back-doors, and no back premises whatever.
All the dirt and (as to washing) all the cleanliness of a crowded
community living in rooms in flats, the quarrelling and the love-making,
the old people's resting, and the children's playing;--from emptying a
slop-pail to getting a breath of evening air--this court was all there
was for it. I have since been told that if we had been dressed like
gentlemen, we should not have been safe in it, but I do not think we
should have met with any worse welcome if we had come on the same
errand--"to see old Biddy Macartney."

Roughly enough, it is true, we were directed to one of the houses, the
almost intolerable stench of which increased as we went up the stairs.
By the help of one inmate and another, we made our way to Biddy's door,
and then we found it locked.

"The missis 'll be out," said a deformed girl who was pulling herself
along by the balustrades. She was decent-looking and spoke civilly, so I
ventured to ask, "Do you mean that old Biddy is out?"

"Nay, not Biddy. The woman that sees to her. When she's got to go out
she locks t' old lass up to be safe," and volunteering no further help,
the girl rested for a minute against the wall, with her hand to her
side, and then dragged herself into one of the rooms, and shut the door
in our faces.

The court without and the houses within already resounded so to the
squalling of children, that I paid no attention to the fact that more of
this particular noise was coming up the stairs; but in another moment a
woman, shaking a screaming baby in her arms, and dragging two crying
children at her skirts, clenched her disengaged fist (it had a key in
it) close to our faces and said, "And which of you vagabones is t' old
lass's son?"

"Neither of us," said I, "but we want to see her, if we may. Are you the
woman who takes care of her?"

"I've plenty to do minding my own, I can tell ye," she grumbled, "but I
couldn't abear to see t' ould lass taken to a 'sylum. They're queer
places some on 'em, as I know. And as to t' House! there's a many folks
says, 'Well, if t' gua