I was a little nettled at this, and so I said, somewhat brusquely perhaps:     

       “But you must have known I lived somewhere.”      

       “Oh, yes! But I thought you boarded,” said he. “I had no idea that you had a home.”      

       “But I have one, and a very pleasant home, too. You must excuse me for not stopping longer, as I must catch my train.”      

       “Oh! I'll walk along with you,” said Waterford, and so we went down the street together.     

       “Where is your little house?” he asked.     

       Why in the world he thought it was a little house I could not at the time imagine, unless he supposed that two people would not require a large one. But I know, now, that he lived in a very little house himself.     

       But it was of no use getting angry with Waterford, especially as I saw he intended walking all the way down to the ferry with me, so I told him I didn't live in any house at all.     

       “Why, where DO you live?” he exclaimed, stopping short.     

       “I live in a boat,” said I.     

       “A boat! A sort of 'Rob Roy' arrangement, I suppose. Well, I would not have thought that of you. And your wife, I suppose, has gone home to her people?”      

       “She has done nothing of the kind,” I answered. “She lives with me, and she likes it very much. We are extremely comfortable, and our boat is not a canoe, or any such nonsensical affair. It is a large, commodious canal-boat.”      

       Waterford turned around and looked at me.     

       “Are you a deck-hand?” he asked.     

       “Deck-grandmother!” I exclaimed.     

       “Well, you needn't get mad about it,” he said. “I didn't mean to hurt your feelings; but I couldn't see what else you could be on a canal-boat. I don't suppose, for instance, that you're captain.”      

       “But I am,” said I.     

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