Thrasher sprang up, and stretching out his arms, received her head on his bosom.
Little Rose stood in silent fear, watching them. After a moment she went close to Thrasher, and pulled at his coat.
"Let me hold mother—I don't want you there."
Thrasher pushed her away with one hand. The woman lay as if she were dead against his heart, which beat with iron heaviness, like the trip-hammer of a foundry.
Again the child pulled at his skirts. She was crying now.
"What is dead? I say, man, what is dead? I want to know!"
"See!" answered Thrasher, lifting the woman's white face from his bosom. "See!"
"And is that it?" whispered the child, through her hushed tears. "Mother! mother!"
The shock and suddenness of Thrasher's tidings had overcome Mrs. Mason, but she was not entirely unconscious. When the child called out in her sweet, pathetic voice, she staggered from Thrasher's hold, and falling back into her chair, held out both arms for Rose. The little thing sprang to her lap with a cry of joy, and instantly covered the troubled face with kisses.
"Now," she said, turning her face toward Thrasher; "now tell me about him, my dear, dear pa."