"Good for Jarge! Good forJarge!"Rosie cried, clapping her hands in excitement. "He was able for her that time, wasn't he?"
"Able for her, Rosie? Well, I must say it's a mighty strange way for a young fella to talk that's courtin' a girl. Your own poor da never talked that way to me, did you, Jamie dear? I wouldn't have stood it! I give you me word of honour I wouldn't!"
Terry chuckled and Rosie, glancing at her meek quiet little father, also smiled for an instant. Then her face again went grave.
"How did Ellen take it? Did she tell him once for all she'd never have him?"
"Bless your poor innocent heart, no!" Mrs. O'Brien was astonished at the mere suggestion. "That'd be a strange thing for a girl to tell a man! Of course, though, it ain't likely that Ellen ever will have him. Jarge is all right, understand, but take Ellen with her fine looks and her fine education and it's me own opinion that some of these days she'll be making a big match. Especially now that she's going around to them offices downtown where she'll be meeting lots of rich business men."
"Of course, Ma, that's the way you look at it and the way Ellen looks at it. Neither of you thinks of poor old Jarge one little bit."
"Nonsense, Rosie. I like Jarge and so does Ellen. But you mustn't be blaming a girl like Ellen for not throwing over a good useful beau like Jargeuntil she's made sure of some one better. It's fine for Ellen to have Jarge to fall back on."
"To fall back on!" Rosie echoed.
Jamie O'Brien slowly pushed away his chair and cleared his throat. "It's me own opinion," he announced gravely, "that Jarge is too good for Ellen by far."
"You bet he is!" Rosie declared fiercely.
Mrs. O'Brien looked hurt and grieved. "I don't see how you can all talk that way about poor Ellen. Besides his other virtues, you'll soon be telling me that Jarge is a good-looker!"
"A good-looker!" Rosie cried. "Ma, how can you talk that way? His looks are all right and Jarge himself is all right."
Mrs. O'Brien fumbled a moment. "It's not that I meself object to his looks, understand, but Ellen, being so fine looking herself, is mighty particular. She likes them big and handsome and stylish and dressy."
"Like Larry Finn," snickered Terry.
Mrs. O'Brien pretended not to hear.
Rosie, with sober quiet face, pushed back her chair and began clearing the table.
"No, no, not today, Rosie," her mother insisted. "You're not going to start right off with dish-washing. You're company for one day at least, ain't she, Jamie? So take Terry and Jack out in front and tell them about the country. Jack wantsto hear all about the pigs and cows, don't you, Jackie dear?"
"Not just now," Jack answered truthfully. "I got to go out and see a fellow. But thanks for that turtle, Rosie."
Rosie paused a moment in doubt until her father nodded encouragingly and Terry, putting an arm about her shoulder, drew her away.
"I sure am glad to see you home again," he said when they were alone.
Rosie looked up at him affectionately. "And I'm glad to be home, Terry. But I'm awful sorry about poor Jarge."
"Don't you worry about Jarge," Terry advised. "If Ellen did take him it would be the worst thing that ever happened him."
"I know, Terry, but I can't bear to have him so unhappy."
"Well, take it from me, he'd be unhappier if he got Ellen."
Rosie paused a moment. "Say, Terry, is she worse since she's got a job?"
Terry answered shortly: "She's the limit! She's making a bigger fool than ever of ma. Wait till you see her tonight."
"I don't want to see her. She always rubs me the wrong way and makes me say things I don't want to say. But I do want to see poor old Jarge.... Say, Terry, don't it beat all the way a goodsensible fellow like Jarge goes crazy over a girl like Ellen? How do you account for it?"
Terry shook his head. "Search me."
"They always do," Rosie continued.
"Well, I tell you one thing, Rosie: I be blamed if ever I fall in love with a girl that ain't nice!" Fourteen years old looked out upon the world firmly and resolutely. "Not on your life!"
"I wouldn't either, Terry, if I was you! 'Tain't sensible!" And twelve years old shook her head sagely.
Atthree o'clock Janet appeared and Rosie and she started out together. Rosie had been gone only three weeks but, in that short time, changes had come about, events had occurred, which had altered irrevocably the face of her little world. Within the limits of her own short paper route the whole cycle of existence had turned. Life had been ushered in, life had passed out, and that closest of human pacts which is the promise of life to succeeding generations had been entered into.
Janet McFadden was voluble. "It turned out to be twins at the Flannigans, Rosie, and they just had an awful time. The doctor said that poor Mis' Flannigan was too hard-worked before they came and that's why they're so weak and sickly. Ain't it just tough the way poor little babies have to pay up for things like that?... And you know about Jake Mullane dying last week, don't you? It was sunstroke and I suppose he had been drinking and he just went that quick. They certainly had a swell funeral with six carriages and plumes and tassels on the horses and Lucy and Katie and even the baby dressed in black. But doesn't it kindof scare you, Rosie, to think of a big strong man like Jake being dead and buried before you can turn around?... And, say, Rosie, I do wish you had been here to see the wedding! It was just beautiful! Bessie had a veil and pink roses and smilax and Ed Haskins hired three carriages for the day. There were white ribbons on the whips and little white bows behind the horses' ears. Maybe you think they didn't look swell! They rode around town from ten o'clock in the morning until midnight. Jarge Riley saw them coming home and he says they were lying all over each other fast asleep. I'm not surprised at that, are you? Bessie's in her own little flat now. It isn't any bigger than a soap-box but she's got it all fixed up and pretty. She took me through and showed me her dishes and everything. They furnished on twenty-five dollars down and a dollar a week for a year. I guess Ed Haskins is going to be a good provider all right...."
Janet chatted on, pausing only to let people greet Rosie. Rosie's progress that afternoon was something of a reception. Every one who saw her stopped to call out: "Back again, Rosie? Awful glad to see you!" or, "Hello, kid! How's the country?" It gave Rosie the very pleasant feeling that she had been missed during her absence.
At the end of the route when they came to Danny Agin's cottage, they found old Mary Agin near the gate, busied over her flowers. At sightof Rosie, she stood up, tall and gaunt, and held out welcoming hands.
"Ah, Rosie dear, it's glad I am to see you! And himself will be glad as well when he hears you're back." Mrs. Agin was an undemonstrative old woman but she bent now and kissed Rosie on the forehead.
"How is Danny, Mis' Agin?" Rosie asked. "Is he pretty well?"
"Pretty well, do ye say? Ah, Rosie—" and Mary Agin paused while her eyes half closed as if in pain.
"I forgot to tell you," Janet whispered; "Danny's been awful sick."
"And for two weeks," Mary Agin said, "the great fear was on me day and night that he'd be shlippin' away and me left a sad lonely old woman with nobody to talk to but the cat.... Will ye come in and see him, Rosie? The sight of you will do him a world of good, for he's mighty fond of you and he's been askin' for you every day. Just run along in for a minute and say 'Howdy.' Janet'll wait out here with me."
Rosie found Danny propped up at the bedroom window. The colour of his round apple cheeks had faded, their plumpness had fallen in, but on sight of Rosie the twinkle returned to his little blue eyes and he raised a knotted rheumatic hand in welcome.
"Is it yourself, Rosie O'Brien? Come over andgive an old man a kiss and tell him you're glad he's not dead yet."
"Oh, Danny, don't talk that way," Rosie pleaded. She kissed his cheek, which was rough with a stubby growth of beard, then stood for a moment with her arms about his neck.
"It's the merest chance that ye find me here," Danny said; "but now that I am here I suppose I'll stay on awhile longer. But I almost got off, Rosie. 'Twas Mary that pulled me back. Poor girl, she couldn't stand the thought of not having some one to scold. 'Twould be the death of her." Danny blinked his eyes and chuckled.
"Danny, you oughtn't to talk that way about poor Mis' Agin!" Rosie shook her head vigorously. "She loves you, Danny, you know she does!"
"To be sure," Danny agreed. "'Whom the Lord loveth, He chases,' and Mary has been chasin' me these forty years. But she's a good woman, Rosie—oh, ho, I never forget that!" Danny paused a moment, then added with a wicked little grin: "And if I was to forget it, she'd be on hand herself to remind me of it!"
As always, when they were alone, Danny was a good deal of the naughty small boy saying things he should not say, and Rosie a good deal of the helpless shocked young mother begging him to mind his manners. She looked at him now sadly and yearningly. "Oh, Danny, I don't see how you cantalk that way and poor Mis' Agin's just been nursing you night and day."
"Pooh!" scoffed Danny. "Take me word for it, Rosie, when ye've been married forty years, ye'll expect to be nursed night and day and no back talk from any one. But, for love of Mike, darlint dear, let's talk of something else! I've had nuthin' but Mary for the last couple of weeks. Not another face have I seen and ye know yourself that Mary's face was niver intinded for such constant use!"
Rosie gasped and swallowed and tried hard to find some fitting reproof. Failing in this she sought to distract her friend from further indiscretions by changing the subject. "Hasn't Janet been in to see you, Danny?"
"Janet?" Danny spoke as though with an effort to recall the name. "Yes, I suppose Janet has been in. I dunno."
"Danny, I don't see how you could forget."
"I don't forget but I don't just exactly remember."
"Danny, you're always saying things like that and I don't know what you mean. Either you remember or you don't remember and that's all there is to it." Rosie looked at him severely. "I don't think it's a bit nice of you to pretend not to remember Janet. She's my dearest friend and besides that she's a very nice girl."
Danny agreed heartily: "Oh, Janet's a fine girl—she is that! In fact"—and Danny paused tomake Rosie a knowing wink—"she might very well be Mary's own child. Just look at the solemn face of her that hurts when she laughs!"
"Danny, Danny, you mustn't talk that way, and you wouldn't either if you knew the hard time poor Janet has at home!"
"Wouldn't I now? Don't I know the hard time poor Mary Agin has at home and don't I say the same of her? Rosie, take me word for it, there are some women are born for a hard time. They like it. Since Mary's been waiting on me, hand and foot, she's been a happy woman. In the old days when I was a spry, jump-about kind of man, making good money and no odds from any one, Mary was a sad complainin' creature, always courtin' disaster and foreseein' trouble. And look at her now: with a penny in her pocket where she used to have a dollar and a cripple in a chair instead of a wage-earnin' husband, and never a word of complaint out of her mouth!" Danny ruminated a moment. "The rheumatiz has been pretty hard on me, Rosie dear, but I tell you it's been the makin' of a happy woman!"
Close as they were to each other, Rosie was often in doubt as to the exact meaning of Danny's little quirks of thought. She looked at him now, trying to decide whether his remarks deserved reproof or acceptance. Danny watched her with twinkling amusement. At last he burst out laughing.
"Ah, Rosie dear, don't trouble yir pretty littlehead for ye'll never make it out! And, after all, what does it matter if ye don't? With you, darlint, the only thing that matters is this: that it's yourself that cheers a man's heart with your lovin' ways and your sweet pretty face."
How Danny had worked around to this sentiment, Rosie could not for the life of her tell. His words, however, suggested a question that called for discussion.
"It seems to me, Danny, you think all men like girls with loving ways."
Danny's answer was prompt: "I do that, Rosie! You can take an old man's word for it and no mistake."
Rosie shook her head thoughtfully. "I don't see how you make that out. Take Ellen now: she hasn't very loving ways; she snaps your head off if you look at her; but she's got beaux all right—more than any girl on the street, and poor old Jarge Riley's gone daft over her. Now how do you make that out?"
"Ah, that's a different matter," Danny explained airily. "You see, Rosie, there be two classes of men, sensible men and fools, and most men belong to both classes. Now a sensible man knows that a sweet loving woman will make him a happy home and a good mother to his children. Any man'll agree to that. So I'm right when I tell you that all men love that kind of a woman, for they do. But let a bold hussy come along with a handsomeface on her and a nasty wicked temper, and before you count ten she'll call out all the fool there is in a man and off he goes after her as crazy as a half-witted rooster. Ah, I've seen it time and again. Many a poor lad that ought have known better has put the halter about his own neck! Have you ever thought, Rosie dear, of the queer ch'ices men make when they marry?"
"Danny, I don't know what you mean."
Danny's eyes took on a far-away look. "Take Mary and me. For forty years now I've been wonderin' what it was that married us."
"Why, Danny!" Rosie's expression was reproachful. "Didn't you love Mary?"
"Love her, do you say? Why, of course I loved her! Didn't me knees go weak at sight of her and me head dizzy? But the question is: why did I love her or why did she love me? There I was a gay dancing blade of a lad and Mary a serious owl of a girl that had never footed a jig in her life and would have died of shame not to have her washin' out bright and early of a Monda' mornin'. Now what was it, I ask you, that put love between us?"
Danny appealed to his young friend as man to man. Rosie, however, was not a person to grant the purely academic side of any question that was perfectly clear and matter-of-fact.
"Why, you loved her, Danny, and she loved you and that's all there was to it."
For a moment Danny looked blank. Then he chuckled. "Strange I didn't think of that before!" His eyes began to twinkle. "I'll wager, Rosie dear, ye've never lain awake o' nights wondering what it was that made the world go round, have you now?"
Rosie's answer was emphatic: "Of course not! I'm not so silly!"
Danny laughed. "I thought not."
Rosie went back to serious matters. "But, Danny, I can't understand about Jarge Riley and Ellen. Why is he so crazy about Ellen?"
Danny drew a long face. "The truth is, I suppose he loves her."
"But why does he love her?"
Danny's eyes opened wide. "Is it yourself, Rosie O'Brien, that's askin' me why?"
"I don't understand it at all," Rosie continued. "I've got a mind to give Jarge a good talking to. He just ought to be told a few things for his own good."
"I'm sure he'll listen to you." There was a hint of guile in Danny's voice but Rosie refused to hear it.
"He always does listen to me. We're mighty good friends, Jarge and me.... Yes, I'll just talk to him tonight. I'll put it to him quietly. Jarge has got lots of sense if only you talk to him right."
"Of course he has," Danny agreed. "And,Rosie dear, I'm consumed with impatience to hear the outcome of your conference. You won't fail to stop in and tell me about it tomorrow—promise me that!"
Rosie promised. She bid her old friend good-bye and left him, her mind already full of the things she would say to George Riley.
"I don'tknow what's keepin' poor Ellen," Mrs. O'Brien remarked as the family gathered at supper that evening. "They're awful busy at them down-town offices, I'm thinkin'. Ellen was expectin' to be home at six o'clock sharp but something important must have come in and they need her. Ah, say what you will, a poor girl's got to work mighty hard these days."
"Huh!" grunted Terry.
There was a slam at the front door, at sound of which Mrs. O'Brien's face lighted up. "Ah, there she is now, the poor dear!"
Yes, it was Ellen. She swept at once into the kitchen and stood a moment glowering on the family with all the blackness of a storm-cloud. Then, without a word, she flung herself into a chair.
"Why, Ellen dear," her mother gasped, "what's ailin' you?"
Beyond twitching her shoulders impatiently, Ellen made no answer.
"How do you do, Ellen?" Rosie spoke formally, in the tone of one not at all certain as to how her own civility would be received.
Ellen glanced at her sharply. "Huh! So you're back, are you?"
"Ellen, Ellen," Mrs. O'Brien cried reprovingly, "is that the way you talk to poor little Rosie and her just in from the country? And she brought you two nice dressed chickens and a basket of fine fresh vegetables and a box——"
Ellen cut her mother short with an impatient, "Aw, Ma, you dry up!"
"What's the matter, Ellen?" Terry drawled out. "Lost your job?"
For answer Ellen snatched off her hat and flung it angrily into the corner.
"Ellen, Ellen!" Mrs. O'Brien cried. "Your new hat!" She started forward to rescue the hat, then paused as the significance of Terry's question reached her understanding. Her fluttering hands fell limp, her face took on an expression at once scared and appealing. "Oh, Ellen dear, you haven't lost your job, have you? Don't tell me you've lost your job!"
Ellen scowled at her mother darkly. "You bet your life I've lost my job! I wouldn't have staid in that office another day for a thousand dollars! They're nothing but a set of old grannies—every one of them!"
"Oh, Ellen!" Mrs. O'Brien dropped back helplessly into her chair. A look of overwhelming disappointment settled on her face; her mouth quivered;her eyes overflowed. "Oh, Ellen," she repeated, "how does it come that ye've lost it?"
"Well, I guess you'd have lost it, too!" Ellen glared about the table defiantly. "Any one would with that old fogy, old man Harrison, worrying you to death with his old-maidish ways. He thinks people won't read his old letters if every word ain't spelled just so and every comma and period put in just right. The old fool! I'd like to know who cares about spelling nowadays! I did one letter over for him today six times and the sixth copy he tore up right in front of my face for nothing at all—a t-h-e-i-r for a t-h-e-r-e and a couple of little things like that. I tell you it made me hot under the collar and I just up and told him what I thought of him."
"Ellen!" Mrs. O'Brien gasped weakly.
"Well, I did!" Ellen repeated. "I just says to him, 'Since you're so mighty particular, Mr. Harrison, I don't see why you don't do your own typing!'" Ellen stood up and, indicating an imaginary Mr. Harrison, showed her family the pose she had taken.
"Well," asked Terry, "what did he say?"
"What did he say? He flew off the handle and shouted out: 'There's one thing sure: I'll never have you type another letter!' Just that way, as if I was nothing but an old errand boy! And after I had just done over his old letter for him six times, too!" Aggrieved and injured, Ellen appealed toher father: "Say, Dad, what do you know about that?"
Jamie O'Brien slowly cleared his throat. "Is that the way they teach you at the Business College to talk to your employer?"
The reproof in Jamie's words was entirely lost upon Ellen. She tossed her head scornfully. "Oh, us girls are on to his kind all right! We give it to them straight from the shoulder! That's the only way to treat 'em—the fussy old women! Then they respect you!"
"Ellen, Ellen, Ellen," Mrs. O'Brien wailed forlornly, "what makes you talk that way?"
Terence drew Ellen back to her story: "Well, Sis, after that, what did you say and what did he say?"
Ellen's ill humour was fast disappearing. Under the magic of her own recital, she was beginning to see herself in a new and flattering light. Instead of the inefficient stenographer who, a few moments before, had sought to hide her discomfiture in a bluster of abuse, she was now a poor deserving working-girl who had been put upon by an unscrupulous employer. Conscious of her own worth and made courageous by that consciousness, she had been able, it now seemed to her, to hold her own in a manner which must excite the admiration of her family.
"Well, when he used such language to me, I saw all right what kind of a man he was and I just gaveit to him straight. 'I see what you're after,' I says to him. 'You think you're going to bounce me before my week's up and you think I'm so meek that I'll leave without saying a word! But I just won't!' I says to him. 'You hired me for a week and if you think you can throw me out without paying me a week's salary, you're mighty mistaken! I've got a father,' I says to him, 'and he'll make it hot for you!'"
Upon Mrs. O'Brien at least the effect of the story was almost terrifying. "Ellen, Ellen," she wailed, "what makes you talk so? You didn't really say that to the gentleman, did you?"
"I didn't, eh?" Ellen tossed her head defiantly. "You just bet I did!"
"Then what did he say?" It was Terry who again asked the question that would help the narrative on.
Ellen smiled triumphantly. "He had nothing more to say to me. He just called the book-keeper over to him and says: 'Pay this young woman a week's wages and let her go.' Yes, that was every word he said. Then, without even looking at me, he turned his back and began sorting the papers on his desk. Fine manners for a gentleman, I say!"
Before she finished, every member of the family had looked up in quick surprise.
"Do you mean," Mrs. O'Brien quavered, "do you mean, Ellen dear, that he paid you?"
Ellen glanced at her mother scornfully. "Ofcourse I mean he paid me! Here!" She opened her handbag and exhibited a wad of bills. "One five and three ones! Pretty good pay for two days' work—what?"
Mrs. O'Brien turned devout eyes to heaven. "Thank God, Ellen dear, he paid you! I was a-fearin' all your hard work was going for nuthin'! Thank God, you'll be able to start in this week payin' your board like you intended."
Ellen looked at her mother coldly. "Say, Ma, what do you think I am? I told you I'd begin paying three dollars a week as soon as I got a good steady job. Well, have I got a good steady job? No. In fact, I'm out of a job. So you'll just have to wait like everybody else."
"But, Ellen dear,"—Mrs. O'Brien stretched out an appealing, indefinite hand—"what's this you're saying when you've got the money right there? It's only Tuesda' now and if you start out bright and early tomorrow hunting a new job, what with your fine looks and your fine education, you'll be sure to land one by the end of the week. And then, don't you see, there won't be any break in your payroll at all."
Ellen waved her mother airily aside. "Say, Ma, you don't know anything about it. If you think I'm going to start out again tomorrow morning, you make a mighty big mistake. I'm going to take a couple of days off, I am. I think I deserve them. I guess I've earned my living for this week. Besides,I've got some shopping to do. I need a new hat and a lot of things."
"A new hat, Ellen? What's this ye're sayin'? Why, ye've not been wearing this last one a day longer than two weeks. It's a beautiful hat if ye'd not abuse it." Mrs. O'Brien lifted it carefully from the floor where it still lay and held it up for general inspection. "Why, Ellen, ye don't know how becomin' it is to you. Just the other morning, while I was shelling peas, Jarge Riley says to me——"
"Just cut out George Riley!" Ellen interrupted sharply. "I don't care what George Riley says! I'm going to get some decent clothes and that's all there is about it!"
Terry grunted derisively. "Say, Rosie, ain't we winners?"
Ellen flushed, conscious for the first time of Terry's disapproval. She looked at him angrily, then turned to her mother. "Now, Ma, just listen to that! He's always nagging at me and you never say a word!"
"Terry, Terry," Mrs. O'Brien murmured wearily, "why do ye be talkin' that way of your own sister? The next time she gets a job, I'm sure she'll begin payin' board the first thing, won't you, Ellen dear?"
"Say, Ma, you and Ellen are a team." Terry eyed his mother meditatively. "You take her guff every time. Not a day goes by that she don't pay you dirt, but you keep on trusting her just the same."
"Ah, Terry lad, how can you talk so? Perhaps Ellen has made a few mistakes, but you oughtn't to forget she's your own sister."
"I don't." Terry spoke shortly and rose from his chair. "Come on, Rosie, no use hanging around here any longer."
Rosie hesitated. "I think I'll wait to do the dishes first. Ma's all tired out."
"Indeed, and you'll do no such thing!" Mrs. O'Brien declared. "You're company for today, Rosie, so make the most of it."
"Ellen will do the dishes, won't you, Ellen dear?" Terry spoke facetiously with his mother's intonation.
"Of course Ellen will," Mrs. O'Brien said. "I'm sure she will, for if she's not working tomorrow she'll not be having to save herself."
Rosie, willing to accept this assurance, allowed Terry to draw her away from the kitchen and out to the little front porch. "But you know, Terry, of course she won't."
Terry laughed a little grimly. "Of course not!" He paused a moment in thought. "Say, Rosie, don't it beat all the way she goes along doing just as she pleases? Hardly any one calls her bluff. I can see just how it was in that office today. She put up such an ugly fight that they were glad to shell out an extra five spot that she hadn't begun to earn just to get rid of her. And look at her here at home. She wouldn't hand out a nickel to the restof us if we were starving. She'd spend it on an ice-cream soda for herself."
Rosie sighed. "I don't mind about us. We can take care of ourselves. But poor old Jarge Riley, Terry. Living right here with us wouldn't you suppose he'd get to know her?"
"Well,"—Terry spoke in a tone somewhat didactic—"you forget one thing, Rosie: Jarge is in love."
"But why is he in love?" Rosie persisted.
Terry shook his head gloomily. "Search me."
"Whyis he in love?"
The question kept repeating itself to Rosie as she sat on the porch steps while day slowly faded and twilight deepened into night. Mrs. O'Brien and Jamie came out after a time and Rosie talked to them about the country, telling them of all the marvels of farm and roadside. But through it all her mind kept reverting to the problem which had met her so promptly on her return.
"When you know Mis' Riley," she told her mother, "then you understand Jarge from start to finish. She's jolly and kind and she'll do anything in the world for you if she likes you. And, my! how she works! Jarge's father is all right, but all he does is talk. No matter what there is to do, he always wants to stop and talk. In the mornings he just nearly used to drive Mis' Riley and me crazy. I can tell you we were always busy and he ought to have been, too, and he did used to get real tired just talking about all he had to do. Of course Grandpa Riley was awful good to me and Geraldine and I don't like to say anything about him, but I understand now why Jarge has to save so hard andwhy poor Mis' Riley has to work so hard. And I know one thing: when Jarge does go back to the farm and take hold of things, he and his mother'll make that old farm pay. They're not afraid of hard work, either of them, and they've both got good sense, too.... Say, Dad, what do you think of Ellen the way she treats Jarge?"
"Ellen?" Jamie O'Brien's tilted chair came down with a thud and Jamie cleared his throat to answer. "How would you want her to be treating him?"
"Well, I don't want her to treat him like a dog! Jarge is too good!"
"Don't you be worryin' about Jarge," Jamie advised. "It's just as well for him that Ellen does treat him so." To Rosie this seemed a subject for further discussion, but not to Jamie. He balanced back his chair and relapsed into an abstracted silence from which Rosie's protests were unable to arouse him.
It had been a long and exciting day and Rosie was tired. If she had not felt that George would be expecting to see her when he got in from his run, she would have said good-night early and slipped quietly off to bed. But George would be expecting her. In the morning they had had very few words together and Rosie knew that there were a hundred things about the farm and about his mother that George wished to hear. So she stifled her yawns and waited.
Talk flickered and went out. At last Jamie O'Brien tapped his pipe on the porch rail and, going in, said: "Good-night, Rosie. It's mighty fine to have you back." In a few moments Mrs. O'Brien followed Jamie and Terry followed her.
One by one the street noises grew quiet. Mothers' voices called, "Johnny!" "Katie!" "Jimmie!" and children's voices answered, "All right! I'm a-comin'!"; doors slammed; lights began to twinkle in bedroom windows. Rosie's little world was preparing for sleep. Every detail of that world was familiar to her as her mother's face. Like her mother's face, heretofore she had taken it for granted. Tonight, coming back after a short absence, she saw it anew with all the vividness of fresh sight and all the understanding of lifelong acquaintance. It was her world and, with a sudden rush of feeling, she knew that it was hers and that she loved it. Now that she was back to it, already her weeks in the country seemed far off and vague.... Had she ever been away?
George came at last. He looked thin and worn and he seated himself quietly with none of his old-time gaiety.
"Well, Rosie," he began, "how does it seem to be back?"
Rosie sighed. "I had a beautiful time in the country, Jarge, but I'm glad to be back—honest I am."
"But don't you miss the quiet of the country?I don't believe you'll be able to sleep tonight with all the noise."
Rosie laughed. "Jarge, you're like all country people. You think the country's quiet and it's not at all. It's fearfully noisy! It's like living on a railroad track! Why, do you know, the first night I was there, I was hours and hours in going to sleep—I was so scared!"
"Scared, Rosie? What were you scared about?"
"The racket that was going on. I didn't know what it was at first. Then Grandpa Riley came out and told me it was only the locusts and the tree-toads and the frogs. For a long time, though, I didn't see how it could be."
George lay back and laughed with something of his old abandon. "If that don't beat all! So they scared you, Rosie?"
"And chickens, Jarge! Why, chickens are the noisiest things! If they are not squabbling with each other, they're talking to themselves! And ducks—ducks are even worse! Jarge, do you know, I call a street like this quiet compared to the country!"
George's laugh grew heartier. "If that ain't the funniest thing I ever heard!"
"It's true, Jarge!" Rosie was very serious but her seriousness only added to George's mirth.
"All right, kid, have it your own way. But it's kind of a new idea: the city's quiet and the country's noisy, is that it?"
"Oh, I don't say the city's exactly quiet." Rosie picked her words carefully. "All I mean is, you don't notice the noises in the city like you do the noises in the country. The city noises are not such strange noises."
"Oh! That's it, is it? I see!" and George slapped his knee in lusty amusement.
"Jarge," Rosie began slowly, "there's something I want to talk to you about."
"Well, here I am. There'll never be a better time."
"It's about Ellen, Jarge."
George's laugh stopped abruptly.
"I don't like to say anything about her, Jarge, because she's my own sister...." Rosie paused and sighed. "You're in love with her, Jarge, aren't you?"
"Yes, Rosie, I'm afraid I am. And I'm afraid I've got it bad, too."
"Jarge dear, tell me one thing: why are you in love with her?"
George shook his head. "Search me. I don't know."
"But, Jarge, she ain't the kind of girl you ought to be in love with."
"That so?" George's voice showed very little interest.
"Why, you ought to be in love with a nice girl, Jarge—I mean a girl that would love you andpet you and save your money and take good care of you. That's the kind of girl you want, Jarge."
"Is it?" George's tone was still apathetic.
"Sure it is. Now, Jarge, look at the whole thing sensibly. What do you want with a girl like Ellen? She doesn't think of any one but herself and all she's after is getting beaux and spending money. What would you do with her if you had her? Why, she'd clean out your savings in two weeks, and then where would you be and where would your mother be and where would the farm be?"
George sighed heavily. "I suppose you're right, Rosie, but that don't seem to make any difference. I don't know why I want her, but I do. I want her so bad I lay awake nights and I ain't never laid awake before in my life. No use talking, Rosie, it's Ellen or no one for me."
"But, Jarge dear, why can't you be sensible? You're sensible in other things."
"See here, Rosie, you don't know what you're talking about!" George spoke sharply but not unkindly. "A fellow don't fall in love with a girl because he wants to or because he ought to or because she'd make him a good wife. I don't understand why he does; I don't know a thing about it. He just does and that's all there is to it!"
"But, Jarge," Rosie persisted, "if he knows it ain't best for him, I should think he just wouldn't let himself fall in love."
"Didn't I just tell you a fellow himself has nothingto do with it!" For a moment George lost his temper, then he laughed a little sheepishly. "I don't blame you, Rosie, for not understanding. It sounds terrible foolish and I guess it is foolish. But it's how we're made and that's all there is about it. Some of these days you'll get caught yourself and then you'll understand."
George reached over and gave Rosie's hand a confidential little squeeze. Rosie did not return the pressure. She even drew her own hand away a little coldly.
"It's all very well, Jarge Riley, for you to pretend that falling in love is so terribly mysterious, but I want to tell you one thing. I know better! It's as common as onions! Why, everybody does it! I guess I've seen 'em—out in the parks and on the street and in the cars and everywhere! And, besides that, I can tell you something else: if they'd only use a little common sense when they are in love they wouldn't make such fools of themselves. Yes, Jarge Riley, and you're just the very person I mean! There you are, wanting to make love to Ellen and what do you do? The very things that make her laugh at you! If you'd use one grain of common sense you'd get on with her as well as the rest of the fellows. But no, says you, a man can't possibly use common sense in love! Jarge Riley, you're as silly as a chicken and what's more, since I've been in the country, I know exactly how silly chickens are!"
"Why, Rosie!" George was too much taken back by Rosie's tirade to do more than gape in helpless astonishment.
"I mean just what I say!" Rosie assured him severely. "I was sorry for you at first, but now I don't pity you at all. If you're going to be stubborn, you don't deserve to be pitied."
"Well, Rosie, what do you want me to do?"
George's tone was so conciliatory that Rosie's manner softened. "All I ask you, Jarge, is to be sensible."
George sighed and laughed. "Sounds easy, don't it? Now you think it would be sensible for a farmer like me not to think any more about a girl like Ellen. That's it, ain't it?"
Rosie answered promptly: "Yes, Jarge, that would certainly be the most sensible thing you could do."
"Rosie, that's the one thing I can't do, whether I'd like to or not. I'm sorry, though, because I don't want you to think I'm only stubborn."
It was Rosie's turn to sigh. "You're an awful hard person to help, Jarge. You pretend you're perfectly willing to be sensible, yet the minute I tell you how you draw back." Rosie sighed again.
"But at least, Jarge, you might be sensible in other things." She turned on him with sudden energy. "And do you know, Jarge, if you were sensible in other things, I think you might easy enough make Ellen like you! Why not?"
"Ain't I sensible in other things?" George spoke a little plaintively.
"I should say not! Everything you do gives Ellen another chance to laugh at you and make fun of you. Take the other night at the Twirlers' dance. Now if you had gone about that thing right you could have made Ellen and all the other girls just crazy about you. You needn't think Ellen wouldn't like to have a beau that can lick everybody in sight. She would. Any girl would. But all you did was make her mad."
George groaned. His prowess at the Twirlers' was not a pleasant memory. When he spoke, his tone was a little sullen. "What is it you want me to do?"
"I only want you to act sensible."
"Well, then, tell me this: how's a born fool to act sensible?"
"When he don't know how to act sensible himself," Rosie answered, "there's only one thing for him to do and that is to take the advice of some one who does know."
George laughed. "Meaning yourself, Rosie?"
"Sure I mean myself. I don't mind saying that I consider myself very far from a born fool. I'm not a bit ashamed of being sensible. Janet McFadden always says that I'm not very smart but that I've got lots of common sense. Danny Agin thinks so, too. He often consults me about things." Rosie nodded complacently.
George chuckled. "I'm with Janet and Danny all right. I always did swear by you, Rosie!"
"Then why don't you do as I tell you?" Rosie faced him squarely. "It would be very much better for you!"
For a moment George looked at her in affectionate amusement. Then his face grew serious as her own. "All right, Rosie, I will. You're right: I have made a bad mess of things with Ellen. It couldn't be worse. So here's my promise: for the rest of the time I'm here, I'll do just exactly as you say."
Rosie beamed her approval. "And I promise you, Jarge, you won't be sorry!"
In all formality they shook hands over the bargain.
"Now then," George began briskly, "what's the first thing I'm to do?"
Rosie hesitated. "I haven't exactly thought it out yet."
"Huh! So it ain't so awful easy even for you to be sensible!" He peeped at her slyly.
"I want to think things over carefully," Rosie explained, "and I want to ask Danny Agin's advice." George gave a grunt of protest, so Rosie hastened to add: "Of course I won't use your name. I'll just put the case to Danny in a sort of general way and, before he guesses what I really mean, he'll be telling me what I want to know. Oh, I wouldn't mention your name for anything!"
George chuckled. "I'm sure you wouldn't!" He stood up. "Well, good-night, kid. It's time for both of us to get to bed. And say, Rosie, I'm awful glad you're back. I've had a bad time since you've been gone. Everything's went wrong. Now you're back, I feel better already.... Good-night."
They were all glad she was back! In the sunshine of so much appreciation, Rosie's heart felt like a little flower bursting into bloom.
Nightbrought back to Mrs. O'Brien her usual serenity. Given a little time she always worked around to serenity, even after blows such as Ellen's lost job. The next morning, while George Riley ate his breakfast, she was able to talk about it without a trace of her first despair.
"Have you heard, Jarge, the frightful experience poor Ellen had at that office? Her boss was one of them unreasonable fussy old men that would worry any poor girl to death. Ellen stood it for two days and then she told him she'd just have to give up. They were so awfully sorry to lose her that they paid her a whole week's wages. I tell her she done quite right not trying to stick it out under such conditions. 'Twould make an old woman of her in no time. As I says to her, 'The game ain't worth the candle. And what's more,' says I, 'what with your fine looks and your fine education you won't be any time getting another job.' And she won't. I'm sure of that. She was awfully afraid we'd be blaming her, but 'Make your mind easy,' I says to her. 'You've done just exactly what your poor da and I would have advised you to do.' Oh,I tell you, Jarge, in these days a poor girl has to mind her P's and Q's or they'll impose on her! You know that's so, Jarge."
Rosie sighed. Three weeks had made no change in her mother's character. Whatever Ellen or any of her children might be guilty of, within twenty-four hours Mrs. O'Brien would be sure to find them blameless and even praiseworthy.
Rosie was glad to see that George Riley, in spite of his infatuation, was not entirely taken in. He smiled to himself a little grimly. "So she's lost her job already, has she?"
Mrs. O'Brien demurred: "'Tain't quite fair to the poor girl to say she lost her job. What Ellen done was this: she resigned her position."
George glanced at Rosie and she, to make sure he understood, wrinkled her nose and shook her head. "I'll tell you about it sometime," she remarked carelessly.
"She's off shopping this morning," Mrs. O'Brien continued. "I told her not to go back to them offices for a couple of days. She needs a little rest and once she gets a good steady job goodness knows when she'll ever again have a moment to herself. So I'm wanting her to get her shopping done while she can."
"You see, Jarge," Rosie explained; "she needs a lot of new clothes and now that she's making money she can buy them herself. She's going to get a new hat, too. She doesn't like that last newhat." Rosie tried to use a tone that would sound guileless to her mother and yet tell George all there was to tell.
With her mother at least she was successful. "You must remember," Mrs. O'Brien went on, "a girl in her position has got to dress mighty well or they'll be taking advantage of her. So I says to her, 'Now, Ellen dear, just get yourself a nice new hat and anything else you need. Don't mind any board money this week.' You know, Jarge, she's going to begin paying three dollars a week regular. Don't you call that pretty fine for a poor girl who is just starting out in life? You mustn't forget, Jarge, that all you pay yourself is five dollars a week."
"Yes, but the difference is he really pays it!" Rosie could not resist stating this fact even at risk of hurting her mother's feelings.
The risk was a safe one. Mrs. O'Brien only smiled blandly. "'Tis no difference at all, Rosie dear. Come next week, Ellen'll be really paying it, too. She gave me her word she would."
A mother's faith in her offspring is touching and very beautiful. It is even more: it is as it should be. Nevertheless it is usually wearisome to outsiders. In this case, Rosie's point of view was that of an outsider. She stood her mother's eulogy of Ellen as long as she could and then, to avoid an outburst, she fled. She ventured back once or twice but not to stay, as Ellen continued to be the themeof her mother's conversation and George, poor victim, seemed not to realize how bored he was.
Rosie began to think that her second day home was in a fair way of being spoiled. As the morning wore away she found another grievance.
"Terry," she said, "I don't know what has become of Janet. She promised to be here first thing this morning. I suppose her father's been beating her up again."
"Did you know," Terry asked, "that Dave McFadden got pulled in while you were away? He was fined ten dollars."
"Wisht he'd been sent up for ten years!" Rosie declared. "Mis' McFadden and Janet would be much better off without him!"
Dear, dear! Taken by and large this poor old world is pretty full of trouble! Rosie sighed deeply, wondering how she was going to bear the burden of it all.
She waited for Janet until afternoon, when it was time for her to go about her business as paper-carrier. She was sure now that something serious had happenedtoJanet. To the child of a man like Dave McFadden something serious might happen almost any time. On the first part of her route Rosie gave herself up to all sorts of horrible imaginings. Then, in the excitement of a long talk with Danny Agin on the subject of George Riley, she forgot Janet and did not think of her again until she reached home.
Janet was there on the porch awaiting her.
"Poor Janet's in trouble," Mrs. O'Brien began at once.
This was evident enough from the expression of Janet's face.
"What is it, Janet? What's happened?" Rosie put a sympathetic arm about Janet's shoulder and peered anxiously into her somber eyes.
"Her poor ma's been took sick," Mrs. O'Brien continued.
"Oh, Janet, I'm sorry! Is it serious?"
"Horspital," Mrs. O'Brien announced.
"Hospital!" Rosie repeated. Then it was serious! "When did it happen, Janet?"
"This morning." Janet spoke quietly in a tired colourless voice.
"Were you at home, Janet?"
"No. On the street."
"Did they send for an ambulance?"
"Yes."
"Did they take you to the hospital, too?"
"Yes."
"Well, Janet, what did the doctor say?"
"He said lots of things."
"Didn't he say your mother would be all right soon?"
"He said that depends."
"What does it depend on, Janet?"
Janet laughed, a weak pathetic little laugh that had no mirth in it. "He said she might get wellagain if she didn't have to work or worry any more. Huh! It's easy to say a thing like that to a poor woman that's got to work or starve, but it would be a good deal more sensible if they'd say right out: 'You better go drown yourself!'"
"Why, Janet!" Mrs. O'Brien's hands went up in shocked amazement.
"I mean it!" Janet insisted fiercely. "Do you suppose my mother works like she does because she wants to? I'd like to see that doctor married to a drunk and have some one say to him: 'Now don't work or worry and you'll be all right.'"
Mrs. O'Brien was much distressed. "Why, Janet dear, you surprise me to be talkin' so about that poor doctor."
"The doctor!" Janet turned on Mrs. O'Brien passionately. "I'm not talking about the doctor! I'm talking about my father!" She paused an instant, then flung out a terrible epithet which even in the mouth of a rough man would have been shocking.
Instinctively Rosie shrank and Mrs. O'Brien raised a startled, disapproving hand.
Janet tossed her head defiantly. "I don't care!" she insisted. "It's all his fault, the drunken brute, and if my mother dies tonight, it'll be him that's murdered her!" She ended with a sob and hid her face on Rosie's shoulder.
Mrs. O'Brien, still scandalised, opened her mouth to speak. But the right word which would expressboth reproof and commiseration was slow in coming, and at last she was forced to meet the difficulty by fleeing it. "I—I think I must be going in. I think I hear Geraldine. Sit still, Rosie dear." And then, her heart getting the better of her, she ended with: "Poor child! She's not herself today! Comfort her, Rosie!"
Rosie scarcely needed her mother's admonition. "There now, Janet dear, don't cry! Your mother's going to be all right—I know she is! She's been sick before and got over it."
Janet was not a person of tears. She swallowed her sobs now and slowly dried her eyes. "I'm sorry I used such strong language, Rosie, honest I am. And before your mother, too! You've got to excuse me. I know it wasn't ladylike."
"That's all right, Janet. You really didn't mean it."
"Yes, I did mean it," Janet declared truthfully. "If you only knew it, Rosie, there are lots of times I don't feel a bit ladylike! I often use cuss words inside to myself. Don't you?"
No, most emphatically, Rosie did not! She was saved, however, the necessity of having to acknowledge so embarrassing an evidence of feminine weakness by Janet's further pronouncement:
"I tell you what, Rosie, when you come to a place where you want to smash things up, a good big cuss word just helps an awful lot! Don't you think so?"
Rosie cleared her throat a little nervously. "Yes, Janet, I suppose it does."
"You bet it does! And what's more, women have got just as much right to use it as men, haven't they?"
Rosie wanted to cry out: "I don't think they want to! I know I don't!" but, under Janet's fiery glance, the words that actually spoke themselves were: "Yes, of—of course they have."
With the hearty agreement of every one present, there was no more to be said on that subject. Janet turned to another.
"Rosie, will you do something for me? Come and stay all night with me. I'll be so lonely I don't know what I'll do."
Rosie's heart sank. If she spent the night with Janet, she'd have no chance to talk to George Riley, for she'd be gone long before he got home. Besides, there was Dave McFadden, and the thought of sleeping near him was almost terrifying.
"But, Janet dear, how about your father?"
"Oh, I suppose he'll come in soused as usual. But you won't be bothered. I'll get him off to bed before you come and he'll be safe till morning. Please say you'll come, Rosie. I need you, honest I do."
That was true: Janet did need her. George Riley would have to wait.
"All right, Janet. I'll come."
"Thanks, Rosie. I knew you would." Janetpaused. "And, Rosie, do you think you could lend me a quarter? I've got to have some money for breakfast. Mother had a dollar in her pocket but I forgot about it at the hospital."
"I haven't a cent, Janet, but I'll raise a quarter somewhere, from Terry or from dad, and I'll bring it with me tonight."
Janet stood up to go. "Come about eight o'clock, Rosie."
Rosie looked at her friend compassionately. "Why don't you stay here for supper?"
Janet shook her head. "I'd like to but I don't think I'd better. He probably won't come home, but he might come and I better be on hand."
Janet started off slowly and reluctantly. Twice she turned back a face so woebegone and desolate that it went to Rosie's heart and, after a few moments, sent her flying for comfort to her mother's ample bosom.
Mrs. O'Brien gathered her in as if were the most natural thing in the world. "What is it, Rosie darlint? What's troublin' you?"
"Ma," she sobbed, "you're well, aren't you?"
"Me, Rosie dear, am I well, do you say?" Mrs. O'Brien looked into Rosie's tearful eyes in astonishment.
"Yes, Ma, you! I want you to be well—always—all the time! You see, Ma, Janet's poor mother——"
"Ah, and is it that that's troublin' you?" Mrs.O'Brien crooned, rocking Rosie from side to side as though she were Geraldine. "Don't you be worryin' your little head about your poor ma. I'm fine and well, thank God, and your poor da is well, and Terry's well, and Jackie's well, and poor wee Geraldine is well, and dear Ellen's well, and we're all——"
"Ellen!" snorted Rosie, her tears abruptly ceasing to flow and her body drawing itself away from her mother's embrace.
"Dear Ellen's well, too," Mrs. O'Brien in all innocence repeated.
"Oh, I know she's well all right!" Rosie declared in tones which even her mother recognised as sarcastic.
"Why, Rosie," Mrs. O'Brien began, "I'm surprised——"
But Rosie, without waiting to hear the end of her mother's reproach, marched resolutely off with all the dignity of a high chin and a stiff military gait.
Promptlyat eight o'clock Rosie reached the tenement where the McFaddens lived. Janet was on the front steps waiting for her.
"Shall we sit out here awhile?" Janet said, making place for Rosie beside herself.
Rosie hesitated a moment. "Is your father home?"
"Yes. He came in an hour ago. I got him off to bed as soon as I could. He's asleep now."
"Are—are you sure he won't wake up and make trouble?"
Janet laughed. "Yes, I'm sure. We won't hear anything from him till morning except snorts and groans. I guess I know."
On the steps of the neighbouring tenements there were groups of people laughing, talking, wrangling. The electric street lamps cast great patches of quivering jumping light and heavy masses of deep pulsating shadow. Janet and Rosie, seated alone, were near enough their neighbours not to feel cut off from the outside world and yet, in the seclusion of a dark shadow, far enough away to talk freely on the subject uppermost in their thoughts.
"You've never heard me say anything about my father before, Rosie, you know you haven't." Janet paused to sigh. "Mother never has, either. We've both always let on that he's all right and we've covered him up and lied about him and done everything we could to keep people from knowing how he really treats us. If this hadn't happened to mother, I wouldn't be talking yet. Say, Rosie, ain't women fools? That's the way they always act about their own men folks. They're willing to shoot any other man for nothing at all, but they let on that their own men are just angels. You know—the way I've always done about dad. But, since today, seems like I don't care any more. And I've made up my mind to one thing: he's going to hear the truth from me tomorrow morning if he kills me for it."
"Janet!" Rosie did not relish at all the thought of being present at a family conference of so private a nature.
"Yes, and you're going to hear it, too, Rosie. If we were alone, he might pay attention or he might not. But with an outsider hearing things he'll know quick enough that I mean business."
"Janet, I don't know how you can talk that way. He's your father, you know."
Janet nodded grimly. "Yes, he's my father all right. You know it and I know it, but he seems to have forgotten it. I'll remind him of it tomorrow."
Rosie reached out a little timidly. "I don't liketo interfere, Janet, but it seems to me you're only making things harder for yourself. Don't you know it makes you kind o' sick inside to let yourself get so mad at any one?"
Janet sighed wearily. "Yes, I suppose it does, but I've been that way so long I don't know how it feels to be any other way."
Presently Rosie said: "Tell me, Janet, has he always boozed like this?"
Janet shook her head. "No, not always. I can remember when things were different. I was a pretty big kid, too. We had a little house like yours and good furniture. You know he's a fine machinist and makes good money. He used to make four dollars a day. He can always get work yet but he don't keep it like he used to."
"And didn't he booze then, Janet?"
"Yes, a little but not very much. Ma says he'd come home full maybe once a month and smash things around, but after that he'd sober up and be all right for a long time. Oh, we were comfortable then and ma and me had good clothes and if ma didn't feel very well she'd hire some one to do the washing. I remember I had a pretty jumping rope and a big ball. It wasn't more than five or six years ago. And look at us now!"
Rosie sighed sympathetically. "I wonder what it was that started him that way?"
Janet was able to tell. "You know, Rosie, that's a funny thing. Miss Harris from the Settlementwas in here one day asking ma and I heard what ma said. Dad fell and broke a leg and was laid up for a long time. Then they found it hadn't been set right and they broke it over again. So that kept him out of work ever so many more weeks. They had always been spenders, both of them, and they hadn't so very much money put by, so, just to keep things together while dad was idle, ma began going out to work. She's a fine cleaner and laundress, so of course she could always get good places. Then, after dad got well, she kept on working because they were in debt and then—I don't know how it happened—the first thing ma knew dad was drinking up his money and she's been working ever since. He used to pay the rent but he don't even do that any more."
Janet talked on as she had never talked before. Not much of what she said was new to Rosie, for the private life of the poor is lived in public, and Mrs. Finnegan has no need to explain to the neighbours the little commotion that took place in her rooms the night before, since the neighbours have all along known as much about it as herself. What Rosie had not known before was Janet's real attitude toward her father. Janet's likes had always seemed to Rosie a little fearsome in their intensity; her hate, as Rosie saw it now, was appalling. Compared to Janet's feelings, Rosie's own appeared childish, almost babyish. If brought to trial, she would, no doubt, have fought for them, but likea kitten rather than a tiger. In Janet the tiger was already well grown.
Listening to Janet, Rosie shuddered. "I wish you wouldn't talk that way, Janet. It's kind of murderous!"
"Murderous?" Janet repeated. "What if it is? That's just how I feel sometimes. Right now when I think of ma lying there in the hospital, for two cents I'd go upstairs and choke him to death! What would it matter, anyway, if he never woke up? Just one less drunkard in the world—that's all. I guess there'd be plenty enough of them left."
Rosie held out imploring hands. "Janet, if you keep on talking like that I'll have to go home! I'll be too scared to sleep with you!"
Janet was contrite. "Aw, now, Rosie, don't say that. I'm only talking, and I won't even talk any more tonight. Anyhow, it's time for bed."
The McFadden home consisted of two rooms: a front living room and a small back bedroom. The living room was everything its name implied: it had in it sink, wash-tub, stove, eating table, and the bed where Janet and her mother slept. The little back room, lighted and ventilated from a shaft, was where Dave slept.
The sound of him and the smell of him filled both rooms and seemed to rush out into the hallway as Janet and Rosie pushed open the door.
"Ugh!" Rosie gasped, and Janet, who had struck a match and was reaching for a candle, paused tosay, over her shoulder: "If you want me to, I'll shut his door."
Rosie would have liked nothing better but a humanitarian consideration restrained her. "Wouldn't he smother in there with the door shut?"
"Maybe he would."
Janet spoke so indifferently that Rosie felt that she herself must bear the whole burden of responsibility.
"Guess you had better leave it as it is, Janet. I suppose I'll be able to stand it once I get used to it."
Rosie said this, but in her own mind she was perfectly sure she could never sleep in such an atmosphere. She repeated this to herself many times and very emphatically, while she was undressing and afterwards when she was in bed.
"If you're careful," Janet instructed her, "and lie over just a little bit near the edge, you won't hit the broken spring. Now good-night, dear, and sleep tight."
Sleep tight, indeed, with that brute in there snorting like an engine and one's back nearly broken in two stretching over sharp peaks and yawning precipices! My! what would Rosie not have given to be at home in her own bed! Not that her own bed was any marvel of comfort. It was not. But it was her own—that was the great thing. People like their own things—their own beds, their own homes, their own families. How Rosie loved hers! Therewas her father for whom her heart overflowed in a sudden gush of tenderness. Jamie O'Brien was so quiet and unobtrusive that Rosie often forgot him. It needed the contrast of a Dave McFadden to awaken in her a realization of his gentle worth. And, if you only knew it, there wasn't a more generous-hearted soul on earth than Maggie O'Brien. And where was there a prettier or a sweeter baby than Geraldine? And Jackie was a nice kid, too. He was! And Terry—— Terry's nobility of character could only be expressed orally with a sigh, graphically with a dash.... Of course there was Ellen.... I suppose every family has to have at least one disagreeable member.... Wouldn't it be a great idea if all families just bunched together their disagreeable members and sent 'em off somewhere alone where they wouldn't be of any further nuisance? To the Great American Desert, for instance! To such a scheme Rosie would gladly contribute Ellen and Janet might contribute her father. The longer Rosie considered the plan, the more sensible it seemed to her. She was surprised she hadn't thought of it sooner. She would discuss it with Janet in the morning.... Yes, morning—morning. Then dream and waking flowed together and she felt Janet patting her arm and she heard Janet's voice saying, "Morning! It's morning, Rosie! Wake up!"
Rosie opened her eyes with a pop. "Why, I've been asleep, haven't I?"
"I should think you had!" Janet told her. "You've been laughing and talking to yourself to beat the band. It's time to get up now. I want you to go to the grocery and, while you're out, I'll get him up."