and though the street way was very narrow, the opposite walls shut in the grounds of a public building, where there were trees and grass, and above which there was really a chance at the sky.  Further along, at the corner, loomed the eight stories of an apartment hotel.  All up and down this great structure, and up and down the little three-storied fronts of the Court as well, the whole place was gay with illumination, for these last were nearly all lodging houses, and at night at least, looked brilliant and grand; certainly to Bel Bree’s eyes, seeing three-storied houses and gas-lights for the first time.  Inside, at number eight, the one little gas jet revealed presently just what Aunt Blin had told about:  the scarlet and black three-ply carpet in a really handsome pattern of raised leaves; the round table in the middle with a red cloth, and the square one in the corner with a brown linen one; the little Parlor Beauty stove, with a boiler atop and an oven in the side,—­an oval braided mat before it, and a mantel shelf above with some vases and books upon it,—­all the books, some dozen in number, that Aunt Blin had ever owned in the whole course of her life.  One of the blue vases had a piece broken out of its edge, but that was turned round behind.  The closets, one on each side of the fire-place, answered for pantry, china closet, store-room, wardrobe, and all.  The refrigerator was out on the stone window-sill on the east side.  The room had corner windows, the house standing at the head of a little paved alley that ran down to Hero Street.

“There!” says Aunt Blin turning up the gas cheerily, and dropping her shawl upon a chair.  “Now I’ll go and get Bartholomew, and then I’ll run for some muffins, and you can make a fire.  You know where all the things are, you know!”

That was the way she made Bel welcome; treating her at once as part and parcel of everything.

Down stairs ran Aunt Blin; she came up more slowly, bringing the great Bartholomew in her arms, and treading on her petticoats all the way.

Straight up to the square table she walked, where Bel had set down her bird-cage, with the newspaper pinned over it.  Aunt Blin pulled the paper off with one hand, holding Bartholomew fast under the other arm.  His big head stuck out before, and his big tail behind; both eager, restless, wondering, in port and aspect.

“Now, Bartholomew,” said Aunt Blin, in her calmest, most confident, most deliberate tones, “see here!  We’ve brought—­home—­a little bird, Bartholomew!”

Bartholomew’s big head was electric with feline expression; his ears stood up, his eyes sent out green sparks; hair and whiskers were on end; he devoured poor little Cheeps already with his gaze; his tail grew huger, and vibrated in great sweeps.

“O see, Aunt Blin!” cried Bel.  “He’s just ready to spring.  He don’t care a bit for what you say!”

Aunt Blin gave a fresh grip with her elbow against Bartholomew’s sides, and went on with unabated faith,—­unhurried calmness.