osters, all of which were in full view of Kling's doorway, was the
half-way house of any one who had five minutes to spare; it was inside
its walls that closer greetings awaited those who, even with the
thinnest of excuses, made bold to avail themselves of her hospitality.
Drivers from the livery-stable next door, where Kitty kept her own two
horses; the policeman on the beat; the night-watchman from the big store
on 28th Street, just off duty, or just going on; the newsman in the
early morning, who would use her benches on which to rearrange his
deliveries--all were welcome as long as they behaved themselves. When
they did not--and once or twice such a thing had occurred--she would
throw wide the door and, with a quick movement of her right thumb, order
them out, a look in her eye convincing the culprits at once that they
might better obey.

Never a day passed but there was a pot of coffee simmering away at the
back of the kitchen stove. Indeed, hot coffee was Kitty's standby. Many
a night when she was up late poring over her delivery book, getting
ready for the next day's work, a carriage or cab would drive into the
livery-stable next door, and she would send her husband out to bring in
the coachman.

"Half froze, he is, waitin' outside Sherry's or Delmonico's, and nobody
thinkin' of what he suffers. Go, git him, John, dear, and I'll stir up
the fire. They ought to be ashamed of themselves, dancin' till God knows
when--and here it is two o'clock and a string of cabs out in the cold.
Thank ye, John. In with ye, my lad, and get something to warm ye up,"
and then the rosy-cheeked, deep-breasted, cheery little woman--she was
under forty--her eyes the brighter for her thought, would begin pulling
down cups and saucers from her dresser, making ready not only for the
"lad," but for John and herself--and anybody else who happened to be
within call.

The hospitalities of her family sitting-room, opening out of the
kitchen, were reserved for her intimates. These she welcomed at any hour
of the day or night, from sunrise to sunset, and even as late as two in
the morning, if either business or pleasure necessitated such hours.

Tim Kelsey, the hunchback, often dropped in. Otto Kling, after Masie was
abed; Digwell, the undertaker, quite a jolly fellow during off hours;
Codman and Porterfield, with their respective wives; and, most welcome
of all, Father Cruse, of St. Barnabas's Church around the corner, the
trusted shepherd of