"We'll do it!" said he. "I'll help you dig the holes for the posts and all. We'll begin to-morrow evenin'. I know Mrs. Brady will let me come when my work's done."
CHAPTER X
The next morning Pat went about with a preoccupied air. But all his work was done with his accustomed dispatch and skill, nevertheless.
"What is on my boy's mind?" thought Mrs. Brady. Yes, that is what she thought—"my boy."
And just then Pat looked into the sitting-room with his basket on his arm. "I'll just be doin' the marketin' now, ma'am," he said.
"Very well," smiled Mrs. Brady. "Here's a rose for your buttonhole. You look very trim this morning."
Pat blushed with pleasure, and, advancing, took the flower. The poor Irish boy had instinctively dainty tastes, and the love of flowers was one of them. But even before the blossom was made fast, the preoccupied look returned.
"Mrs. Brady, ma'am, would you care if I stopped at the lumber yard while I'm down town? I'd like to be gettin' some of their cheapest lumber sent home this afternoon."
"Why, no, Pat. Stop, of course."