“I like both. What are your new pieces?”
“McCormack singing ‘Mother Machree---’”
“Oh, I like that! Play that!”
As the soft, haunting melody of “Mother Machree” sounded in the room Mrs. Landis came to the door of the sitting-room, dish towel in hand.
“Ach,” she said after the last verse, “I got that record most wore out a’ready. Ain’t it the prettiest song? When I hear that I think still that if only one of my nine children feels that way about me I’m more than paid for any bother I had with them.”
“Then, Mother,” said Martin, “you should feel more than nine times paid, for we all feel that way about you.”
“Listen, now!” The mother’s eyes were misty as she looked at her first-born. “Ach, play it again. I only hope poor Becky knows how much good her money’s doin’ us!”
Later Martin walked with Amanda up the moonlit road to her home. “I’ve had a lovely time, Martin,” she told him. “You do have the nicest, lively family! I wish we had a tableful like that!”
“You wouldn’t wish it at dish-washing time, I bet! But they are a lively bunch. I wonder sometimes how Mother escapes nerves. If she feels irritable or tired she seldom shows it. I believe six of us can ask her questions at once and she knows how to answer each in its turn. But Mother never does much useless worrying. That keeps her youthful and calm. She has often said to us, ’What’s the use of worrying? Worrying never gets you anywhere except into hot water--so what’s the use of it?’ That’s a pet philosophy of hers.”
“I remember that. I’ve heard her say it. Your mother’s wonderful!”