There seemed to be a long pause. Then the old woman said, “Ah, well, I must get my work done, and Mary will stop here and keep you company, Mr. O’Breer.” The arrangement seemed satisfactory to all parties, for there was nothing more said for a while. (Mitchell nudged me again, with emphasis, and I kicked his shin.)
Presently Alf said: “Mary!” And a girl’s voice said, “Yes, Alf.”
“You remember the night I went away, Mary?”
“Yes, Alf, I do.”
“I have travelled long ways since then, Mary; I worked hard and lived close. I didn’t make my fortune, but I managed to rub a note or two together. It was a hard time and a lonesome time for me, Mary. The summer’s awful over there, and livin’s bad and dear. You couldn’t have any idea of it, Mary.”
“No, Alf.”
“I didn’t come back so well off as I expected.”
“But that doesn’t matter, Alf.”
“I got heart-sick and tired of it, and couldn’t stand it any longer, Mary.”
“But that’s all over now, Alf; you mustn’t think of it.”
“Your mother wrote to me.”
“I know she did”—(very low and gently).
“And do you know what she put in it, Mary?”
“Yes, Alf.”
“And did you ask her to put it in?”
“Don’t ask me, Alf.”
“And it’s all true, Mary?”
