"Aw, well now and is that you, Mrs. Adam?" enquired Judy, her little face peering out of the clouds of steam. "Sure it's yerself would be bringin' beautiful weather, aven if it was poorin'." Her voice was soft, her manner ingratiating, there was no sign of the warrior spirit beneath. "I hope the rain'll keep off till you get your clothes dry," said Madame pleasantly, but passing resolutely on, for Mrs. Cassidy showed sighs of a desire to come to the gate and have a friendly chat. "We must get out of her way. If she starts to talk we'll never escape," she whispered. "Just look at that will you!" The second place was one where some pitiful attempts at beautifying had been made. The yard was swept clean and a little drain had been dug at the side to let the water run off. A few drowned flowers leaned over on their hard clay beds, and there was a neat curtain and a mosquito netting on each window. But right against the window that overlooked the Cassidys' yard, Mrs. Cassidy had piled all the old boards, boxes and rubbish she could find, to obstruct the view to the town, of her too ambitious neighbour. "Now, what do you think of that?" cried Madame. "Isn't she the malicious little soul?" "Good day, Mrs. Kent, and how are you to-day?" "Good day, Mrs. Adam," from a sharp-faced neat woman, sitting at the doorway of the barricaded house, knitting rapidly. "It's a beautiful day, isn't it?" said Madame ingratiatingly. "Lovely," responded the woman. "It's a great thing we had so much rain, we need a lot down here, we're that dry." Madame chose to take the sarcasm as a joke, and laughed blithely. But the woman did not smile. "She's had to work too hard, poor soul," whispered the visitor when they had passed. "She's clean and thrifty but she has to wash to support a crippled boy and a consumptive girl. No wonder she's sour." They passed two or three more sorry-looking houses and finally paused before the gate of the home of Madame's little pupil. The bare grassless yard was filled with old boxes and rubbish. A big lumbering lad of about fourteen sprawled over the doorstep playing with a string. He looked up with vacant eyes, and clutched at the visitors' skirts, muttering and jabbering in idiot glee. Madame put her hand tenderly on his small, ill-shaped head. "Poor Eddie," she whispered, "poor boy." She fumbled in her big black satchel and brought out a gay candy stick. He grabbed it with strange cries of joy. The sounds brought a ragged little ghost of a woman to the door, carrying a tiny bundle on her arm. "Well, well, is that you, Madame?" she cried, smiling a broad toothless smile. "I thought it was you, an' Minnie she says, I believe that's my teacher, Ma." Madame climbed the steep steps, Helen following. The room was dirty and untidy. A rusty stove and table, three chairs and an ill-smelling cupboard in the corner, with some gaudy glass dishes upon it, were the only furniture.