Giving me his arm, he placed me and baby, carpet-bag and basket, in a carriage and the driver was told to go to 97 Brenton Street.
"Yis, sor," said the Irishman. "97 Brinton Strate, sure."
"God bless you and watch over you! Good-bye, little baby."
After driving some time, the Irishman impatiently told me there was no street by that name and I would have to get out, but not until I had paid him for the time he had been hunting for 97 Brenton Street.
I did not know enough to go to a drug store and consult a directory. I was at my wits' end, if I had ever had any wits.
"Drive me back to the captain of the boat, please," I said. "I don't know what else to do."
When I went on board the captain was not yet gone, which was an unusual thing. He had waited to see the officers before leaving. I answered the smile that came into his face, in spite of his kind heart, by handing him the letter of my aunt who wrote a hand that was not only peculiar but illegible.
"Read, captain, and see if this is not Brenton Street, the place to which my aunt has written me I must come."
"'Go to 97 Brenton Street, where my niece, Mrs. C——, will bring you to my house,'" he read. "It might be anything else as well as Brenton," he said. "It looks like Brenton, but I have lived here all my life and have never heard of such a street. I will get my directory and look. No; but it may be Preston; let's look; but there are no C——s living there. You might try this house, at any rate, 97 Preston Street, and if you do not find your friends, come to the number on this card, where my wife and I will be happy to have you as our guest, you and the little lost bird, till you can write to your friends and find out where they want you to come."