She had brought her bonnet and sacque down-stairs with her, and was transferring them from the hatrack to her person while she talked. The friendly door-boy let them into the street, and the clear October evening air brightened her so that as she tucked her hand under her husband's arm and began to pull him along she said, “If we find something right away--and we're just as likely to get the right flat soon as late; it's all a lottery--well go to the theatre somewhere.” She had a moment's panic about having left the agents' permits on the table, and after remembering that she had put them into her little shopping-bag, where she kept her money (each note crushed into a round wad), and had heft it on the hat-rack, where it would certainly be stolen, she found it on her wrist. She did not think that very funny; but after a first impulse to inculpate her husband, she let him laugh, while they stopped under a lamp and she held the permits half a yard away to read the numbers on them. “Where are your glasses, Isabel?” “On the mantel in our room, of course.” “Then you ought to have brought a pair of tongs.” “I wouldn't get off second-hand jokes, Basil,” she said; and “Why, here!” she cried, whirling round to the door before which they had halted, “this is the very number. Well, I do believe it's a sign!” One of those colored men who soften the trade of janitor in many of the smaller apartment-houses in New York by the sweetness of their race let the Marches in, or, rather, welcomed them to the possession of the premises by the bow with which he acknowledged their permit. It was a large, old mansion cut up into five or six dwellings, but it had kept some traits of its former dignity, which pleased people of their sympathetic tastes. The dark-mahogany trim, of sufficiently ugly design, gave a rich gloom to the hallway, which was wide and paved with marble; the carpeted stairs curved aloft through a generous space. “There is no elevator?” Mrs. March asked of the janitor. He answered, “No, ma'am; only two flights up,” so winningly that she said, “Oh!” in courteous apology, and whispered to her husband, as she followed lightly up, “We'll take it, Basil, if it's like the rest.” “If it's like him, you mean.” “I don't wonder they wanted to own them,” she hurriedly philosophized. “If I had such a creature, nothing but death should part us, and I should no more think of giving him his freedom!” “No; we couldn't afford it,” returned her husband.