If Tom had heard Jennie she never moved. This affair must end in some
way, she said to herself. Why had she not sent him away long before? How
could she do it now when he had risked his life to save Patsy?

Then she answered firmly, still without turning her head, "No, Jennie;
there won't be time. Carl must get ready to"--

Pop laid his hand on hers.

"There's plinty o' toime, Mary. Ye'll git the ladder behint the kitchen
door, Carl. I hed it ther' mesilf this mornin'."

Carl found the ladder, steadied it against the tree, and guided Jennie's
little feet till they reached the topmost round, holding on to her
skirts so that she should not fall. 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. 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