As Bibbs came out of the New House, a Sunday trio was in course of passage upon the sidewalk: an ample young woman, placid of face; a black-clad, thin young man, whose expression was one of habitual anxiety, habitual wariness and habitual eagerness.

He propelled a perambulator containing the third--and all three were newly cleaned, Sundayfied, and made fit to dine with the wife's relatives.
"How'd you like for me to be THAT young fella, mamma ?" the husband whispered.

"He's one of the sons, and there ain't but two left now." The wife stared curiously at Bibbs.

"Well, I don't know," she returned.
"He looks to me like he had his own troubles." "I expect he has, like anybody else," said the young husband, "but I guess we could stand a good deal if we had his money." "Well, maybe, if you keep on the way you been, baby'll be as well fixed as the Sheridans.

You can't tell." She glanced back at Bibbs, who had turned north.