Opening from this room was the kitchen, resplendent in bright pans
and a shining copper wash-boiler. The girl passed constantly in
and out the open door, spreading the cloth and bringing dishes for
the table.
Her girlish figure was clothed in a blue calico frock and white
apron, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, showing some faint
traces of flour clinging to her wrists, as if she had been
suddenly summoned from the bread-bowl. She was fresh and sweet,
strong and healthy, with a certain grace of manner about her that
pleased Babcock instantly. He saw now that she had her mother's
eyes and color, but not her air of fearlessness and
self-reliance--that kind of self-reliance which comes only of many
nights of anxiety and many days of success. He noticed, too, that
when she spoke to the old man her voice was tempered with a
peculiar tenderness, as if his infirmities were more to be pitied
than complained of. This pleased him most of all.
"You live with your daughter, Mrs. Grogan?" Babcock asked in a
friendly way, turning to the old man.
"Yis, sor. Whin Tom got sick, she sint fer me to come over an'
hilp her. I feeds the horses whin Oi'm able, an' looks after the
garden, but Oi'm not much good."
"Is Mr. Thomas Grogan living?" asked Babcock cautiously, and with
a certain tone of respect, hoping to get closer to the facts, and
yet not to seem intrusive.
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