I shook my head.  In my mouth were the pins with which my veil was to be fastened.  Hands on my hat, I straightened the latter before putting on the veil.

“Well, he is.  Funny, ain’t it, that all these swells have to have a plain-clothes man at weddings so the people what come to ’em won’t take any of the presents?  That’s Mr. Crimm’s chief business nowadays, looking out for high-class crooks.  He says you ain’t as strong-colored as some the ladies he sees up-town, but he never did see a face with more sense and soul in it than what yours has got.  At the last wedding he went to he told grannie some the ladies didn’t have on clothes enough to wad a gun.  Are you ready?  It gets dark by five o’clock.”

“I’m ready.”  Taking up my muff, I followed Bettina down the steps and into the street to the corner, on which was the little shop wherein were sold goldfish and canary-birds, and fox-terriers and white rabbits; and from there we turned in the direction which led to Mrs. Gibbons’s.  The day was cold and clear, but the ground was slippery with sleet, and, holding on to my arm, Bettina made valiant effort to pilot me aright.

As we walked she talked, and the names of the occupants of various houses passed were told to me, together with the particular kind of work in which they were engaged, and the amount of wages which were earned by different members of the household.  The information given me had been gained from her schoolmates, and what at first had seemed appalling frankness and freedom, I soon learned was a community custom, and a comparison of earnings a favorite subject of discussion among children of all ages.  Recess, it appears, is the usual time for an exchange of facts concerning family affairs.

“Myra Blunt, who sits in front of me, says she’s going in the pickle-factory as soon as she’s fourteen.”  Bettina slipped, but caught herself, and held my arm more firmly.

“She’s our ashman’s daughter, and she’s got a mole right on the end of her nose.  It’s a little on one side, but it looks awful funny, and Jimmie Rice says she’ll stay in that pickle-factory all her life if she don’t have that mole taken off.  A boy won’t have a girl for a sweetheart if her nose has got a mole on it, will he?  Myra is afraid it will hurt to have it come off.  She’s an awful coward.  This is the place.  This is Ninety-two.”

Mrs. Gibbons’s residence was one of several small and shabby houses which huddled together as if for protection, and as we went up the steps of the shaky porch a head from the second-story window was thrust out—­a head wrapped in a red crocheted shawl.

“You-all want to see Mrs. Gibbons?  Well, she ain’t to home.  That is, I don’t think she is.  She told me this morning she was going down to the ’firmary to get some medicine for that misery in her back what struck her yesterday.  If she ain’t to home, you-all kin come up here and rest yourself if you want to.  It’s awful cold, ain’t it?”