And Mrs. Brady, on the whole dissatisfied, went on her way. "If that boy—Pat, I think she called him—can do housework satisfactorily, he's the only boy that I've heard of here that can," she thought.
The next morning when the two presented themselves, Mrs. Brady, after showing Mrs. O'Callaghan where to leave her wraps, led the way at once to her bedroom. "Perhaps you will just make my bed for me before you go, Mrs. O'Callaghan," she insinuated. "It has been properly aired and is ready."
"Oh, Pat will make it for you, ma'am," was the answer, and again Mrs. Brady yielded.
"Now, Pat, on with your blouse."
The two women waited while Pat untied the bundle he carried and put on a clean cotton blouse.
"'Twas his father's blouse, ma'am. A bit loose now, but he'll grow to it. He's very loike his father."
Mrs. Brady looked at the tall, slender boy wearing his father's blouse and his mother's apron, with an old straw hat on his head for a dust protector, and then at the mother watching his every movement with loving eyes, and only anxious that he might give satisfaction. And all sense of incongruity vanished from her mind.
"Now, Pat, show the lady what you can do." And Pat obeyed as if he were five instead of fifteen. The dead father had trained his sons from their babyhood to yield implicit obedience to their mother. Deftly he set to work. He turned the mattress; he smoothed and tucked in each sheet and cover as he put it on; he beat up the pillows, and within ten minutes the bed was perfectly made. There was no need for Mrs. Brady to speak. She showed her surprise and delight in her face.
"I was thinkin' Pat could suit you, ma'am," smiled the mother. "And now, if you've more beds, maybe Pat had better make 'em before the dust of the swapin' is on him."
"I have no more this morning," responded Mrs. Brady courteously.