I have since been told that if we had been dressed like gentlemen, we should not have been safe in it, but I do not think we should have met with any worse welcome if we had come on the same errand--"to see old Biddy Macartney." Roughly enough, it is true, we were directed to one of the houses, the almost intolerable stench of which increased as we went up the stairs.
By the help of one inmate and another, we made our way to Biddy's door, and then we found it locked.
"The missis 'll be out," said a deformed girl who was pulling herself along by the balustrades.

She was decent-looking and spoke civilly, so I ventured to ask, "Do you mean that old Biddy is out ?" "Nay, not Biddy.

The woman that sees to her.

When she's got to go out she locks t' old lass up to be safe," and volunteering no further help, the girl rested for a minute against the wall, with her hand to her side, and then dragged herself into one of the rooms, and shut the door in our faces.
The court without and the houses within already resounded so to the squalling of children, that I paid no attention to the fact that more of this particular noise was coming up the stairs; but in another moment a woman, shaking a screaming baby in her arms, and dragging two crying children at her skirts, clenched her disengaged fist (it had a key in it) close to our faces and said, "And which of you vagabones is t' old lass's son ?" "Neither of us," said I, "but we want to see her, if we may.

Are you the woman who takes care of her ?" "I've plenty to do minding my own, I can tell ye," she grumbled, "but I couldn't abear to see t' ould lass taken to a 'sylum.