at is the
throbbing heart of the Latin Quarter. But she is a woman, as I may have
mentioned a hundred times before this. Her interest went out to the
child, and she bent over to one side and took a little hand within hers.

"I hope you were not hurt," she said, tenderly.

At the recollection of the injury the little mouth puckered up for an
instant. Diplomatically, I advanced a chocolate and the crisis was
averted.

"She's a darling, Mr. Sullivan," ventured Frances.

"Yes'm, that's what me and Loo thinks," he assented. "But you'd oughter
see Buster. Wait a minute!"

About ten seconds later he returned with a slightly bashful and very
girlish little wife, who struggled under the weight of a ponderous
infant.

"Mr. Cole, Loo," the Kid introduced me, "and--and I guess Mrs. Cole."

"No," I objected, firmly. "There is no Mrs. Cole. I beg to make you
acquainted with Mrs. Dupont. Please take my chair, Mrs. Sullivan, you
will find it very comfortable. My young friend, may I offer you a
cigar?"

"I'm agreeable, sir," said the young man, graciously. "I've give up the
ring now, so I don't train no more."

The two of us leaned against the rail, while the women entered upon a
pleasant conversation. At first, Frances was merely courteous and kindly
to the girl with the two babies, but in a few minutes she was
interested. From a fund of vast personal experience little Mrs.
Sullivan, who looked rather younger than most of the taller girls one
sees coming out of the public schools, bestowed invaluable information
in regard to teething. Later, she touched upon her experience in a
millinery shop.

"I seen you was a lady, soon as I peeped at yer hat," she declared, in a
high-pitched, yet agreeable, voice. "There's no use talking, it ain't
the feathers, not even them egrets and paradises, as make a real hat.
It's the head it goes on to."

As she made this remark, I stared at the youthful mother. She was
unconscious of being a deep and learned philosopher. She had stated a
deduction most true, an impression decidedly profound. The hat was the
black one bought in Division Street, where the saleswomen come out on
the sidewalk and grab possible customers by the arm, so Frieda told me.

Frances smiled at her. In her poor, husky voice she used terms of
endearment to Mrs. Sullivan's baby. It was eleven months and two weeks
old, we were informed, and, therefore, a hoary-headed veteran as
compared to Baby Paul. Had they been of the s