those stairs that I came up are positively dangerous."
Mrs. Murphy sighed in a discouraged way. Her twisted little figure had fallen back into its old hopelessness.
"We have tried to have something done, but it's never amounted to anything. We never see anybody but the agent, of course; and he says the rents are too low for the owner to put out any more money on repairs."
"Nonsense!" snapped Mrs. Carew, with all the sharpness of a nervous, distraught woman who has at last found an outlet for her exasperation. "It's shameful! What's more, I think it's a clear case of violation of the law;—those stairs are, certainly. I shall make it my business to see that he's brought to terms. What is the name of that agent, and who is the owner of this delectable establishment?"
"I don't know the name of the owner, madam; but the agent is Mr. Dodge."
"Dodge!" Mrs. Carew turned sharply, an odd look on her face. "You don't mean—Henry Dodge?"
"Yes, madam. His name is Henry, I think."
A flood of color swept into Mrs. Carew's face, then receded, leaving it whiter than before.
"Very well, I—I'll attend to it," she murmured, in a half-stifled voice, turning away. "Come, Pollyanna, we must go now."
Over at the bed Pollyanna was bidding Jamie a tearful good-by.
