"What fambly is ther'?" and mother peered out rather curiously.
"Only me and my little gal. There's such big stories told about Chicago."
"An' they're comin' out the little end of the horn," said mother with a short laugh. "You can hardly give lots away."
The man stood rather uncertain.
"See here," began mother, who was hospitality itself, "we can put you up for the night. S'pose you unhitch and take a bite of supper. It's tough goin' to a strange place in the dark, an' a tavern ain't jest the place for a little gal. Norme, you great lazy lout, stir your stumps, and show the way to the barn. Bring your little gal in here, Mister. I declare for it, a gal is quite a treat. I've five boys an' I'm countin' on the time they get married so's I can see a petticoat around."
"Do I come up here?"
"Yes." I was off with a bound and began to turn the tired beasts up the roadway. Just at the stoop I paused.
"I'm mighty obliged to you," he began, bowing to mother. "'Tisn't everybody you find willing to take in a stranger. But I'm going to stay if I can squeeze out any sort of a living. Times are hard everywhere. Seems as though the bottom's fallen out of everything."
"When the bottom falls out 'er Chicago we fill it in agen," returned mother with a heartsome laugh. "You've come to a queer place, stranger. First, we're way out top of the chimbly wavin' defiance to everybody and braggin' like all possessed, then down we come kerflunk! But we rub our bruises and knock off the soot an' go at it agen."
"That's the way you have to do," was the almost cheerful response. Then he went to the side of the wagon and chirped, and lifted out the Little Girl and put her down. I looked intently at her and she was impressed upon my brain.