Although Blankville was not a large village, there was in it, as in nearly every town blessed with a railroad depot, a shabby quarter where the rougher portion of its working people lived. The house stood in this quarter--it was a three-story frame building, occupied by half a dozen families, mostly those of Irish laborers, who found work in the vicinity of the depot. I had seen the strange girl ascend to the second floor, in the dim light of the previous night, so we went up and knocked at the first door we came upon. It was opened by a decent-appearing middle-aged woman, who held the knob in her hand while she waited for us to make known our errand; we both stepped into her apartment, before we spoke. A rapid glance revealed an innocent-looking room with the ordinary furniture of such a place--a cooking-stove, bed, table, etc.; but no other inmate. There was a cupboard, the door of which stood open, showing its humble array of dishes and eatables--there were no pantries, nor other places of concealment. I was certain that I had seen the girl enter this room at the head of the stairs, so I ventured: "Is your daughter at home, ma'am?" "Is it my niece you mean?" I detected an Irish accent, though the woman spoke with but little "brogue," and was evidently an old resident of our country--in a manner _Americanized_. "Oh, she is your niece? I suppose so--a tall girl with dark eyes and hair." "That's Leesy, herself. Was you wanting any work done?" "Yes," answered the officer, quickly, taking the matter out of my hands. "I wanted to get a set of shirts made up--six, with fine, stitched bosoms." He had noticed a cheap sewing-machine standing near the window, and a bundle of coarse muslin in a basket near by. "It's sorry I am to disappoint you; but Leesy's not with me now, and I hardly venture on the fine work. I make the shirts for the hands about the railroad that hasn't wives of their own to do it--but for the fine bussums"--doubtfully--"though, to be sure, the machine does the stitches up beautiful--if it wasn't for the button-holes!" "Where is Leesy? Doesn't she stop with you?" "It's her I have here always when she's out of a place. She's an orphan, poor girl, and it's not in the blood of a Sullivan to turn off their own. I've brought her up from a little thing of five years old--given her the education, too. She can read and write like the ladies of the land." "You didn't say where she was, Mrs. Sullivan."