ial messenger of
the ministerin' angel.

It's the usual fam'ly-room tenement scene, such as the slum writers are
so fond of describin' with the agony pedal down hard, only there ain't
quite so much dirt and rags in evidence as they'd like. There's plenty,
though. Also there's a lot of industry on view. Over by the light shaft
window is Mrs. Tiscott, pumpin' a sewin' machine like she was entered in
a twenty-four-hour endurance race, with a big bundle of raw materials at
one side. In front of her is the oldest girl, sewin' buttons onto white
goods; while the three younger kids, includin' the four-year-old boy, are
spread out around the table in the middle of the room, pickin' nut meat
into the dishpan.

What's the use of tellin' how Mrs. Tiscott's stringy hair was bobbed up,
or the kind of wrapper she had on? You wouldn't expect her to be sportin'
a Sixth-ave. built pompadour, or a lingerie reception gown, would you?
And where they don't have Swedish nursery governesses and porcelain tubs,
the youngsters are apt not to be so----But maybe you'll relish your nut
candy and walnut cake better if we skip some details about the state of
the kids' hands. What's the odds where the contractors gets such work
done, so long as they can shave their estimates?

The really int'restin' exhibit in this fam'ly group, of course, is the
bent shouldered, peaked faced girl who has humped herself almost double
and is slappin' little pearl buttons on white goods at the rate of twenty
a minute. And there's no deception about her being a fine case for Piny
Crest. You don't even have to hear that bark of hers to know it.

I stands there lookin' 'em over for a whole minute before anybody pays
any attention to me. Then Mrs. Tiscott glances up and stops her machine.

"Who's that?" she sings out. "What do you----Why! Well, of all things,
Shorty McCabe, what brings you here?"

"I'm playin' errand boy for the kind Miss Colliver," says I, holdin' up
the basket.

Is there a grand rush my way, and glad cries, and tears of joy? Nothing
doing in the thankful hysterics line.

"Oh!" says Mrs. Tiscott. "Well, let's see what it is this time." And she
proceeds to dump out Miss Ann's contribution. There's a glass of
gooseb'ry bar le duc, another of guava jelly, a little can of pate de
foie gras, and half a dozen lady fingers.

"Huh!" says she, shovin' the truck over on the window sill. As she's
expressed my sentiments too, I lets it go at that.

"Looks