He never looked at her; his face was now too
turned toward the dying sun.
"Do ye remimber the day ye left me in the ould counthry, Mary, wid
yer own Tom; an' how I walked wid ye to the turnin' of the road?
It wuz spring thin, an' the hedges all white wid blossoms. Look
at thim two over there, Mary, wid their arms full o' flowers.
Don't be breakin' their hearts, child."
Tom turned and slipped her arm around the old man's neck, her head
sinking on his shoulder. The tears were under her eyelids; her
heart was bursting; only her pride sustained her. Then in a
half-whispered voice, like a child telling its troubles, she
said:--
"Ye don't know--ye don't know, Gran'pop. The dear God knows it's
not on account of meself. It's Tom I'm thinkin' of night an'
day--me Tom, me Tom. She's his child as well as mine. If he
could only help me! He wanted such great things for Jennie. It
ud be easier if he hadn't saved Patsy. Don't speak to me ag'in
about it, father dear; it hurts me."
The old man rose from his chair and walked slowly into the house.
All his talks with his daughter ended in this way. It was always
what Tom would have thought. Why should a poor crazy cripple like
her husband, shut up in an asylum, make trouble for Jennie?
When the light faded and the trees grew indistinct in the gloom,
Tom still sat where Pop had left her.
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