it seemed a moment for confidence, yet words were hard to find.
At last I got out desperately:
"Mary Ellen, what is love like?"
"Love is it, Masther John? What do the likes o' me know about love thin?" She smiled broadly, as she dexterously shifted the puffy white mass.
"Oh, you know," I persisted, "'cos you've been in it, often. You've had lots of 'followers' now, Mary Ellen, haven't you?"
"Well, thin, if ye must know, I'll tell ye point blunt to kape out av it. It's an awful thing whin it gits the best av ye."
"But what's it feel like?" I probed.
Mary Ellen wiped the flour off each red finger in turn, and gazed into the flame of the lamp.
"It's like this," she said solemnly, "ye burns in yer insides till ye feel like ye had a furnace blazin' there. Thin whin it seems ye must bust wid the flarin' av it, ye suddintly turns cowld as ice, an' yer sowl do shrivil up wid fear. An' thin, at last, ye fergit all about it till the nixt wan happens along. Och—I haven't had a sphell fer months! This is an awful dull place. I think I'll be quittin' it soon."
"Oh, no, no, Mary Ellen!" I cried, alarmed, "you mustn't leave us! When Jane and I get
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