lon, loved the open road and the life of it,
Tig, who was not a well-domesticated animal,
wandered away. The humane society never
heard of him, the neighbors did not miss
him, and the law took no cognizance of this
detached citizen -- this lost pleiad. Tig
would have sunk into that melancholy which
is attendant upon hunger, -- the only form of
despair which babyhood knows, -- if he had
not wandered across the path of Nora Finne-
gan. Now Nora shone with steady brightness
in her orbit, and no sooner had Tig entered
her atmosphere, than he was warmed and com-
forted. Hunger could not live where Nora
was. The basement room where she kept
house was redolent with savory smells; and
in the stove in her front room -- which was
also her bedroom -- there was a bright fire
glowing when fire was needed.

Nora went out washing for a living. But
she was not a poor washerwoman. Not at all.
She was a washerwoman triumphant. She
had perfect health, an enormous frame, an
abounding enthusiasm for life, and a rich
abundance of professional pride. She be-
lieved herself to be the best washer of white
clothes she had ever had the pleasure of
knowing, and the value placed upon her ser-
vices, and her long connection with certain