Above their heads
the branches twined and interlaced, shedding their sweetest
blossoms over their happy upturned faces. The old man's eyes
lightened as he watched them for some moments; then, turning to
Tom, his voice full of tenderness, he said:--
"Carl's a foine lad, Mary; ye'll do no better for Jinnie."
Tom did not answer; her eyes were on the cedars where the crows
were flying, black silhouettes against the yellow sky.
"Did I shtop ye an' break yer heart whin ye wint off wid yer own
Tom? What wuz he but an honest lad thet loved ye, an' he wid not
a pinny in his pocket but the fare that brought ye both to the new
counthry."
Tom's eyes filled. She could not see the cedars now. All the
hill was swimming in light.
"Oi hev watched Carl sence he fust come, Mary. It's a good mither
some'er's as has lost a foine b'y. W'u'dn't ye be lonely yersilf
ef ye'd come here wid nobody to touch yer hand? "
Tom shivered and covered her face. Who was more lonely than
she--she who had hungered for the same companionship that she was
denying Jennie; she who had longed for somebody to stand between
her and the world, some hand to touch, some arm to lean on; she
who must play the man always--the man and the mother too!
Pop went on, stroking her strong, firm hand with his stiff,
shriveled fingers.
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