But those were happy hearts he left behind him, and sweet were the dreams they dreamed that night. Mary, the summation and perfect example of Irish housewives, dreamed of a little home in the suburbs, with an orchard and garden, and a yard for chickens, and a house for the cow, and a pen for the pigs, where she could be busy and happy all day long, working for her loved ones. Jack dreamed of a new gown his wife should have, and of new dresses for Mamie, and some new books for Allan, and a new pipe for himself,—for Jack had only a limited idea of what twenty-five hundred dollars would accomplish. And Allan dreamed of the day when he, too, could come in as Jed Hopkins had done, and leave behind him a princely gift.
“Jack,” said Mary, at the table next morning, the memory of her dream still strong upon her, “I’ve been wishin’ we could move t’ some little place where we could kape chickens an’ a cow.”
“I wish so, too, Mary,” said Jack. “Mebbe some day we kin.”
“It ’d be jest th’ place fer Mamie,—she don’t git enough outdoors.”
“Why, what’s th’ matter with her?” asked Jack, with a quick glance at the child.
“Nothin’ at all,” Mary hastened to assure him; “but she ought t’ have a big yard t’ play in—an’ th’ tracks is mighty dangerous.”
“Yes, they is,” Jack agreed. “I wish we could git away from them.”
“Well, I’ll look around,” said Mary, and wisely let the subject drop there.
She did look around, and to such good purpose that two days later, which was Sunday, she led Jack triumphantly to a little house standing back from the road in a grove of trees, just outside the city limits.