“I never thought,” admitted Scorch, shaking hands awkwardly with both visitors.
“Bring thim inter the house, P. Sarsfield,” said Norah. “Have ye no manners?”
“There’s too many kids,” said the tousled Scorch, who had evidently been playing with the younger children, too.
“I’ll shoo ’em out into the yard,” promised Norah, and went away upon this errand while Scorch ushered his visitors into the tiny front room, which was evidently kept shut up save when the priest came, or some special visitor.
The girls sat down on the stiffly-placed chairs and looked about at the portraits of Mr. and Mrs. O’Brien when they were first married—he very straight and stern-looking in his policeman’s uniform, with very yellow buttons, and Mrs. O’Brien with very red cheeks and much yellow jewelry painted into the picture by the artist at the bride’s request. Mrs. O’Brien had never owned any trinket of more value than her wedding ring!
There was a wreath of everlastings in a glass case, which had lain on the good man’s coffin. And there was a framed “In Memoriam” card on the wall, together with a “Rock of Ages” worked on cardboard in red worsted by Norah herself, no doubt.
Everything was as clean as could be, however. And Nancy, on her part, was much more interested in the change she saw in Scorch, than in anything else.
“Why, Scorch! how you’ve grown!” she exclaimed.
“That’s in spite of the way they overwork me at the office,” he replied, grinning.
“And you’ve had that tooth put in!”