Dilsey Quinn was fourteen. You would not have supposed her that; but hard work, bad air, and perhaps the lack of the natural joys of childhood, had played havoc with her growth and the graces of youth. She had rarely known what it was to run and shout and play as even the street arabs did. There had always been a big baby for her to tend; for the Quinns came into the world lusty and strong. Next to Dil had been a boy, now safely landed in the reform-school after a series of adventures such as are glorified in the literature of the slums. Then Bess, and two more boys, who bade fair to emulate their brother. Mrs. Quinn was a fine, large Scotch-Irish woman; Mr. Quinn a pure son of Erin, much given to his cups, and able to pick a quarrel out of the eye of a needle. One night, four years agone, he had indulged in a glorious “shindy,” smashed things in general, and little Bess in particular, beat his wife nearly to a jelly, then rushed to the nearest gin-mill, and half murdered the proprietor. He was now doing the State service behind prison-bars. Mrs. Quinn was an excellent laundress, and managed better without him. But she, too, had a weakness for a “sup o’ gin,” which she always took after her day’s work and before she went to bed. But woe betide the household when she began too early in the day. The baby that set up such a howl was a fat, yellowish-white, small-eyed creature, looking like a great, soggy, overboiled potato. “There, Jamsie, there,” began the little mother soothingly; “would he like a turn in the baby-jumper? He’s tired sitting on the floor, ain’t he, Jamsie?” The cooing voice and the tender clasp comforted the poor baby. She placed him in the jumper, and gave him an iron spoon, with which he made desperate lunges at the baby nearest him. But Dil fenced him off with a chair. She gave another one a crust to munch on. The two on the lounge were asleep; the other was playing with the spokes of Bess’s wheel. Dil always had a “way” with babies. It might have been better for her if she had proved less beguiling. Sometimes the number swelled to ten, but it was oftener five or six. If it fell below five there were hard lines for poor Dil, unless she had a reserve fund. She early learned the beneficent use of strategy in the way of “knock-downs.” “O Dil!” and Bess gave a long, rapturous sigh, “did you ever see so many? And they’re real roses, but fine and tender and strange, somehow. The buds are like babies,—no, they’re prittier than babies,” glancing disdainfully at those around her; “but rose babies would be prittier and sweeter, wouldn’t they?” with a wan little smile. “O my darlings, I must kiss you! Thank you a thousand, thousand times. Did the pritty lady guess you were coming to me?” She buried her face down deep in their sweetness, and every faint, feeble pulse thrilled with wordless delight. “It was awful good of Patsey, wasn’t it?” she continued, when she looked up again.