The traveler rose so suddenly from her stooping posture that her stiff, old-fashioned bonnet slipped to the back of her neck and imparted a wild, rakish effect to her peculiar attire. The bonnet was so big and deep, of that shape known as “poke,” and the face it framed was so wizened and small that Jessica could think of nothing but some fairy-tale witch.
“Oh! but Sissy, me dear! Sure ’tis the kind child you are! Arrah musha! But I’ve lost me fine new gum shoes, what Barney, me son, gave me this very day whatever. ‘With your rubbers and umberell, mother,’ says he, ‘sure you’ll be makin’ the trip in fine style, and be all forehanded again’ the bad sort of weather you’ll be meetin’ th’ other side this big counthry,’ says he. And now I’ve lost them entire, and the umberell—Here ’tis. Now ain’t that a fine one, Sissy dear?”
“Why, yes. I guess so. I don’t know much about umbrellas we need them so seldom in California. But the rubbers—I’ll look under the seat. I can, easier than you. I’m young—smaller, I mean.”
“Not so much smaller, me dear, though younger by some fifty-odd year I’ve no doubt. Bless your bonny face! Found them ye have. Thank you, me child, and wait—here’s a reward for your goodness, be sure. Sit by till you eat it. ’Twould do me old heart good, so being it aches like a grumblin’ tooth the now. Leavin’ Barney and the nice wife and the bairns, as I have. Crossin’ this big counthry all by my lone; and after that the ocean; an’ all that long way just to look upon old Ireland once more and them in it I hold so dear. Barney’s but one; in Ireland are three. One is a nun and cannot; one is a priest and will not; and one is a wife and must not come over to me in this purty land of Ameriky. Was ever in old Ireland, me dear?”
Almost unconsciously Jessica had obeyed the old lady’s invitation to share the wide seat with herself and had smilingly accepted the half of a mint drop which her new acquaintance offered.
“Eat it slow and it’ll last you a long time, me dear. I always carry a few sweeties in my pocket for the childher; but mayhap ’twould do no harm were you to have the other bit, seein’s you was so good as to help an old body.”
So saying, and with a smile that softened the rugged old face, Barney’s mother carefully deposited the second half of the mint on Jessica’s knee.
“Thank you. It is very nice,” said the girl, smiling herself at thought of Ned’s disgust in being offered but one piece of candy, and that with such an air of generosity.
“You’re a fair lookin’ little maid, me dear, an’ what might your name be?”
“Jessica Trent.”