“Dis a way, honey; I yearns my own libin’, an’ has my own money, an’ w’en my work is done I kin go an’ comt putty much as I p’ease; but, Lor’, honey, dere ain’t no place to go an’ come to but streets an’ streets, an’ houses an’ houses; an’ I sort ob miss de fiel’s an’ de woods an’ de country all t’rough. Dat’s wot’s de matter ’long ob me.” “I thought so. Well, at any time you please you may come to me at Goblin Hall, and I will give you employment about the house.” “Oh, fanky, honey! An’ Tom, too?” “And Tom, too.” “Now, oh, Lor’! I’s got to yun down an’ ten’ to breakfas’. Sary Ann is down dere, for true, but she ain’t wuff much. Wot shill I sen’ yo’ up, young mist’ess, or would yo’ yudder come down to de yestyant, now dere ain’t hardly anybody dere, ’specially at dis airly hour ob de mornin’? Airly fo’ de city, min’ yo’, young mist’ess. ’Twould be ’sidered moughty late fo’ de country.” “I will go down, Lucy.” “Den I will try to see yo’ ag’in, if it’s only frough de do’. Fank de Lor’ as de kitchen is jus’ ’hind de yestyant!” said the cook, as with a half suppressed sob she left the room. “Here, Tom!” exclaimed Roma, as the boy was about to follow. “Take all these things down to the hall. I shall not return to this room after leaving it.” And she gave her traveling bag, umbrella and shawls to the boy, who, with a half smothered howl, took them and went out. Then Roma hastened to dress herself for her journey, and when she had done so she collected all her remaining effects, put them in a second bag, and then took a long, last look around the rooms she had occupied for four months, and might never see again. She opened the west window and looked out upon the bit of woods which the march of improvement had still spared behind this newly opened street in the northwestern suburb of “the city of magnificent distances.” She hoped that it would yet be spared, and inclosed in a park, rather than be swept away. Then she invoked a blessing on the house and on all who might come into it. Roma, in some moods of her mind, was devout almost to the verge of fanaticism, and had been more than once accused of superstition. “Come, darling, we will go down now,” she said, and took her little Owlet by the hand and led her out, the child carrying the dog basket in which the pup was to travel. On the elevator she remembered the lad who ran the machine, and gave him a gift. “You asked everybody else to come to see us in the country, why don’t you ask poor Titus? He is an orphan boy, too,” said Owlet. “So I will,” said Roma. Then, turning to the lad, who could not have been more than ten years old, though he did run the elevator, she said: “Titus, what is your full name, dear?” “Titus Blair, ma’am.” “Do you lodge here, or only come by the day?” “I lodge here, ma’am.”