There wasn't much said until after the meal was over, and Bradley had lighted his pipe and pushed back his chair; with Mrs. MacQuigan lingering at the table, kind of wistfully it seemed, kind of listening, kind of hanging back from putting away the dishes and taking the two empty plates off the table—and then she smiled over at Bradley as though there wasn't anything on her mind at all.
"Faith, Martin," she said, "sure I don't know at all, at all, what I'd be doing not seeing you around the house; but it's wondered I have often enough you've not picked out some nice girl and made a home of your own."
The words in their suddenness came to Bradley with a shock; and, his face strained, he stared queerly at Mrs. MacQuigan.
A little startled, Mrs. MacQuigan half rose from her chair.
"What is it, Martin?" she asked tremulously.
For a moment more, Bradley stared at her. Strange that she should have spoken like that to-night when there seemed more than ever a sort of grim analogy between her life and his, that seemed like a bond to-night drawing them closer—that seemed, somehow, to urge him to pour out his heart to her—there was motherliness in the sweet old face that seemed to draw him out of himself as no one else had for more years than he cared to remember—as even she never had before.
"What is it, Martin?" she asked again.
And then Bradley smiled.
"I've picked her out," he said, in a low voice. "I'm waiting for a little girl that's promised some day to keep house for me."
"Oh, Martin!" cried Mrs. MacQuigan excitedly. "And—and you never said a word!"