Michael waited, and in a few minutes Sam returned with Aunt Sally. But it was a transformed Aunt Sally. Her face had been painfully scrubbed in a circle out as far as her ears, and her scraggy gray hair was twisted in a tight knot at the back of her neck. Her hands were several shades cleaner than Michael had ever seen them before, and her shoes were tied. She wore a small three-cornered plaid shawl over her shoulders and entered cautiously as if half afraid to come. Her hands were clasped high across her breast. She had evidently been severely threatened against touching anything. “The saints be praised!” she ejaculated warmly after she had looked around in silence for a moment “To think I should ivver see the loikes uv this in de alley. It lukes loike a palace. Mikky, ye’re a Nangel, me b’y! An’ a rale kurtin, to be shure! I ain’t seen a kurtin in the alley since I cummed. An’ will ye luke at the purty posy a blowin’ as foine as ye plaze! Me mither had the loike in her cottage window when I was a leetle gal! Aw, me pure auld mither!” And suddenly to Michael’s amazement, and the disgust of Sam, old Sal sat down on the one chair and wept aloud, with the tears streaming down her seamed and sin-scarred face. Sam was for putting her out at once, but Michael soothed her with his cheery voice, making her tell of her old home in Ireland, and the kind mother whom she had loved, though it was long years since she had thought of her now. With rare skill he drew from her the picture of the little Irish cottage with its thatched roof, its peat fire, and well-swept hearth; the table with the white cloth, the cat in the rocking chair, the curtain starched stiffly at the window, the bright posy on the deep window ledge; and, lastly, the little girl with clean pinafore and curly hair who kissed her mother every morning and trotted off to school. But that was before the father died, and the potatoes failed. The school days were soon over, and the little girl with her mother came to America. The mother died on the way over, and the child fell into evil hands. That was the story, and as it was told Michael’s face grew tender and wistful. Would that he knew even so much of his own history as that! But Sam stood by struck dumb and trying to fancy that this old woman had ever been the bright rosy child she told about. Sam was passing through a sort of mental and moral earthquake. “Perhaps some day we’ll find another little house in the country where you can go and live,” said Michael, “but meantime, suppose you go and see if you can’t make your room look like this one. You scrub it all up and perhaps Sam and I will come over and put some pretty paper on the walls for you. Would you like that? How about it, Sam?” “Sure!” said Sam rather grudgingly. He hadn’t much faith in Aunt Sally and didn’t see what Michael wanted with her anyway, but he was loyal to Michael.