r-headed corporation.

"That it is, Marm," returns the methodical hack-driver, "he an't got a
very big head, our corporation." And Lady Swiggs, deprived of her
carpet-bag and band-box, and considerably out of patience, is rolled
away to the mansion of Sister Slocum, on Fourth Avenue. Instead of
falling immediately into the arms and affections of that worthy and very
enterprising lady, the door is opened by a slatternly maid of all
work--her greasy dress, and hard, ruddy face and hands--her short,
flabby figure, and her coarse, uncombed hair, giving out strong evidence
of being overtaxed with labor. "Is it Mrs. Slocum hersel' ye'd be
seein'?" inquires the maid, wiping her soapy hands with her apron, and
looking querulously in the face of the old lady, who, with the air of a
Scotch metaphysician, says she is come to spend a week in friendly
communion with her, to talk over the cause of the poor, benighted
heathen. "Troth an' I'm not as sure ye'll do that same, onyhow; sure
she'd not spend a week at home in the blessed year; and the divil
another help in the house but mysel' and himsel', Mr. Slocum. A decent
man is that same Slocum, too," pursues the maid, with a laconic
indifference to the wants of the guest. A dusty hat-stand ornaments one
side of the hall, a patched and somewhat deformed sofa the other. The
walls wear a dingy air; the fumes of soapsuds and stewed onions offend
the senses. Mrs. Swiggs hesitates in the doorway. Shall I advance, or
retreat to more congenial quarters? she asks herself. The wily
hack-driver (he agreed for four and charged her twelve shillings) leaves
her black box on the step and drives away. She may be thankful he did
not charge her twenty. They make no allowance for distinguished people;
Lady Swiggs learns this fact, to her great annoyance. To the
much-confused maid of all work she commences relating the loss of her
luggage. With one hand swinging the door and the other tucked under her
dowdy apron, she says, "Troth, Mam, and ye ought to be thankful, for the
like of that's done every day."

Mrs. Swiggs would like a room for the night at least, but is told, in a
somewhat confused style, that not a room in the house is in order. That
a person having the whole heathen world on her shoulders should not have
her house in order somewhat surprises the indomitable lady. In answer to
a question as to what time Mr. Slocum will be home, the maid of all work
says: "Och! God love the poor man, there's