"No 'e ayn't," the man cried heatedly. "'E's a Yank, that's wot 'e is. I know."
"Lord lumme, look a' that," she exclaimed, as we debouched upon the Strand, choked with the roaring, reeling Coronation crowd, the men bellowing and the girls singing in high throaty notes:—
Oh! on Coronation D'y, on Coronation D'y,
We'll 'ave a spree, a jubilee, an' shout 'Ip, 'ip, 'ooray.
For we'll all be merry, drinkin' whiskey, wine, and sherry,
We'll be merry on Coronation D'y.
"'Ow dirty I am, bein' around the w'y I 'ave," the woman said, as she sat down in a coffee-house, wiping the sleep and grime from the corners of her eyes. "An' the sights I 'ave seen this d'y, an' I enjoyed it, though it was lonesome by myself. An' the duchesses an the lydies 'ad sich gran' w'ite dresses. They was jest bu'ful, bu'ful."
"I'm Irish," she said, in answer to a question. "My nyme's Eyethorne."
"What?" I asked.
"Eyethorne, sir; Eyethorne."
"Spell it."
"H-a-y-t-h-o-r-n-e, Eyethorne."
"Oh," I said, "Irish Cockney."
"Yes, sir, London-born."
She had lived happily at home till her father died, killed in accident, when she had found her-
