An expression of satisfaction, almost blissful in its depths, spread over her face and seemed to strengthen her whole person. “I’m doing it though there isn’t any need. Mother’s makin’ bigger money than me. She is company-companion to a rich lady—don’t have to do no work of any kind, just walks out with the old lady and helps her in and out the limmossin when they goes drivin’. The trained nurse who waited on the old lady went to France.” “Does she give your mother the same wages?” I asked. “Sure. Forty a week. You oughter see the eats she brings home nights. Last night she had a baked chicken—only the wings and a little of the breast had been cut off. The cook told mother she might as well take it—the help was tired of chicken. Somehow—” She paused thoughtfully, a troubled look clouding her eyes, then added wistfully: “Somehow I can’t just fancy folks havin’ good things to eat so constant that they’d get tired of baked chicken, can you?” In the filing department my next-seat neighbor was the heir apparent of the Irish throne. Having bossed the princess royal of the same country while at Sutton House, I bore with equanimity this close association with such an exalted personage. Of course I was careful to defer to his judgment on all matters of importance—such as the proper length of a lady’s skirt, when one gentleman should knock another gentleman down, just how drunk a gentleman or a lady might be permitted to get at their grandmother’s wake, and politics. Yes, of course politics. All rightful heirs to the Irish throne whom I have met, and I have met thousands, have talked politics. That I take it, talking politics, is the surest sign of their royal blood. Just at this time the state and city elections were brewing in New York. John Purroy Mitchel was standing for re-election as mayor of the Greater City. One day, wishing to keep in touch with the thoughts of my royal neighbor, I asked if he thought Mr. Mitchel would win. “Win!” he cried, in a voice of haughty scorn. “He’ll be snowed under.” Then he added reprovingly: “You should know that.” “How should I know?” I inquired, meek though puzzled. “Every Catholic has been instructed to vote against the scoundrel,” he informed me. “Ah!” I exclaimed, for I was genuinely startled. “That order came straight from Rome,” he assured me, in a lowered tone. “If your brother lived here he would have told you.” I stared at him, and he, misinterpreting my expression, smiled jubilantly as he nodded his head in emphasis. “I wonder if either of my three brothers could have told me?” I questioned, and I looked him straight in the eyes. “My brothers are all Americans.” “I’m an American,” he asserted indignantly. “I was born——” “I don’t care where you were born,” I interrupted. “No one, man or woman, who takes orders from a power outside the United States is an American. A person who takes orders from Rome is no more to be trusted than one who takes orders from Berlin. I’ll not sit by either.”