, 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. 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.

"Oh, yis, sor: an' moight be dead fer all the good he does. He's in
New Yorruk some'er's, on a farm"--lowering his voice to a whisper and
looking anxiously toward Jennie--"belongin' to the State, I think, sor.
He's hurted pretty bad, an' p'haps he's a leetle off--I dunno. Mary has
niver tould me."

Before Babcock could pursue the inquiry further there was a firm tread
on the porch steps, and the old man rose from the chair, his face
brightening.

"Here she is, Gran'pop," said Jennie, laying down her dish and springing
to the door.

"Hold tight, darlint," came a voice from the outside, and the next
instant Tom Grogan strode in, her face aglow with laughter, her hood
awry,