Jack affected white, with a superb disregard of laundry bills. It set off her lithe, straight figure, the small uplifted head with the abundant coils of dark hair, and the pretty piquant face with the firm yet tender mouth. From top to toe she was spotless and neat and trim and dainty. Her conversation was a tonic in itself. She was direct of speech, frank, and often slangy when slang best expressed her meaning. There were many odd “characters” dependent upon the open-handed bounty of William Crooks, and from them she had heard strange philosophies born of twisted lives, odd expressions which occasionally crept into her speech, and scraps of forgotten song. She had listened by the hour to old Micky Keeliher who tended the garden; to the widowed Mrs. Quilty who came once a week to do the washing; to crippled Angus McDougal, once a mighty riverman, whose strength had departed, and to a dozen others. Not one of them but would have died for William Crooks’s daughter. To her they sang the songs of their youth in cracked, quavering voices; for her they unlocked the storehouses of their experience and gave of it freely. She absorbed their songs, their sayings, their tales; and as nearly as her youth would permit she understood their viewpoint of life.
Joe, buried in his chosen chair, listened to the queer tunes she lilted—tunes which had stirred the hearts of by-gone generations in other lands—and by turns stared at the bright out-of-doors and slept. And Jack, on her part, felt a strange happiness, as if the room held all that was best and most to be desired. She did not analyze the feeling; she was content that it was hers. Bending over her sewing one bright afternoon during the last days of Joe’s convalescence she crooned:
“Is it far away ye’re goin’, Danny, dear?
Is it lavin’ me ye arre, widout a tear?
Sure the ship’s white sails is swellin’,
But it’s this to ye I’m tellin’—
Ye shall love an’ seek me out widin the year,
“By the spell that’s laid upon ye ye shall come agin to me,
The dear, bould, handsome head of ye shall drop upon me knee.
While ye sleep or while ye wake,
It’s the heart of ye shall ache
Wid love o’ that poor weepin’ gyurl ye left beside the sea!”
“That’s a cheerful song,” said Joe ironically from his chair. “Did he come back?”
“Of course,” laughed Jack. “Unfortunately, he died as his head touched her knee, and naturally she was inconsolable. Like to hear her lament?” She drew her face into lines of sorrow and threw back her head in a preliminary wail, as a dog howls.
E-e-yah-h-h! Oh, why did he die?
Oh-h-h-h, why did——
“Stop!” cried Joe. “Look here, Jack, remember I’m an interesting invalid. I want something cheerful.”
“Well, that is comparatively cheerful. Now, if I sang you a real Hielan’ lament——”
“Don’t you dare,” Joe interrupted. “I am still far from strong.”
Jack laughed. “You smoked yesterday. Doctor Eberts says that a man who can enjoy a smoke is well enough to work.”