Had it not been
for his dress, he might have passed for an English curate on half
pay.
"Me name's Richard, sor--Richard Mullins," said the old man. "I'm
Mary's father. She won't be long gone now. She promised me she'd
be home for dinner." He placed a chair for Babcock, and remained
standing.
"I will wait until she returns," said Babcock. He had come to
discover something more definite about this woman who worked like
a steam-engine, crooned over a cripple, and broke a plank with her
fist, and he did not intend to leave until he knew. "Your
daughter must have had great experience. I have never seen any
one man handle work better," he continued, extending his hand.
Then, noticing that Mullins was still standing, "Don't let me take
your seat."
Mullins hesitated, glanced at Jennie, and, moving another chair
from the window, drew it nearer, and settled slowly beside
Babcock.
The room was as clean as bare arms and scrubbing-brushes could
make it. Near the fireplace was a cast-iron stove, and opposite
this stood a parlor organ, its top littered with photographs. A
few chromos hung on the walls. There were also a big plush sofa
and two haircloth rocking-chairs, of walnut, covered with cotton
tidies. The carpet on the floor was new, and in the window, where
the old man had been sitting, some pots of nasturtiums were
blooming, their tendrils reaching up both sides of the sash.
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