"My sight is leaving me," the old lady remarked in excuse for her lack of education, "and these spectacles don't appear to improve it."
Therefore, Kathleen opened a letter, addressed in a man's bold handwriting to "Mrs. Quirk, 26 Rainey-street, Collingwood," and forwarded from that address. It had come from the United States, and had evidently been delayed in transit, for the letter was dated three months before it was received.
"My dearest old mother," Kathleen began to read.
"It's from Denis!" cried Mrs. Quirk. "Denis, that I believed was dead! Call Mr. Quirk, my dear! Oh, this is too much joy! God is good, far too good, to an undeserving old woman like me."
Kathleen went out into the gardens and found Mr. Quirk, spade in hand, busily instructing a raw recruit how to work.
"There's no art in it," he remarked contemptuously. "'Tis merely a matter of muscle. You won't do for me!"
"Mrs. Quirk wants you in the dining-room," said Kathleen.
"Wants me? And what for?" he asked.
"She has a letter from your son."
Mr. Quirk laughed contemptuously. But he paused in his work to reply.