one small one, and
on the fourth floor, that did not have full-size windows, three more.
That there was no "garret" caused endless lamentation.

They could not bring old Mary, indeed she would not come, but they had a
rather youngish countrywoman whose husband had deserted her, and who was
looking for a good home. Mary thought she would stay a while with the
"new folks" and get them "broke in," as she phrased it, and then go and
live with her son.

The little girl stood on her own front stoop looking up and down the
street. It was queer the houses should be just alike--six brown-stone
steps, and iron side railings, and an iron railing to the area, that was
paved with brick. You would always have to be thinking of the number or
you might get into the neighbor's house. Oh, no. Here was a sure sign,
the bright silver door-plate with black lettering--"Vermilye F.
Underhill." She looked at it in amazement. It made her father suddenly
grand in her estimation. Could she sit in his lap just the same and
twist his whiskers about her fingers and comb his hair and read out of
her story-books to him? And where would she go to school? Were there any
little girls around to play with? How could she get acquainted with
them?

While she was considering this point, two girls went by. Both had straw
gypsy hats with flowers and ruffled capes of black silk. They looked up
at her. She was going to smile down to them in the innocent belief that
all little girls must be glad to see each other. One of them
giggled--yes, she absolutely did, and said:

"Oh, what a queer-looking thing! Her frock comes down to her shoe-tops
like an old woman's and that sun-bonnet! Why she must have just come in
from the backwoods!"

CHAPTER III

FINE FEATHERS FOR THE LITTLE WREN

The little girl stood still a moment as if transfixed. There came the
passionate desire to run and hide. She gave the door-bell a sharp pull.

Martha Stimis answered it.

"Goodness sakes, is it you, ringin' as if the world wouldn't stand
another minnit? Next time you want to get in, Haneran, you jest come
down the _aree_! And me a-mouldin' up the biscuit!"

The little girl walked through the hall with a swelling heart. She
couldn't be allowed to ring the door-bell when her own father's name was
on the door!

The ell part was her mother's sleeping chamber and sitting-room. No one
was in it. Hannah Ann walked down to the end. There was a beautiful old
dressing-case tha