"It is that voice below-stairs," muttered he. "It alters everything." A feeling of hatred crept in Andy's heart against this man who had suddenly assumed so close a relationship to him.
"What will mother do?" he questioned as he changed his clothing, and put on the decent Sunday-suit that was hanging from the pegs. "What will she do?" And in his heart Andy knew what she would do, what, at least, she would want to do. He had seen it shining back of the trouble in her eyes when she first spoke to him. The want had brought the look of beauty with it, and had banished the marks of the lonely years.
"But a Britisher!" moaned the boy, smoothing his hair, "a Britisher for Janie and Andy McNeal! I might forgive him for all else—for mother's sake, but not that, not that!"
"Andy, lad, is it you?" Andy started. His mother was coming up the stairs!
"Yes, mother." She stood before him now. The coarse cotton gown that was familiar to Andy's boyhood was gone. A dull, bluish linen with white cuffs and collar had replaced it, and above the becoming dress shone the face of a new Janie.
A jealous pang struck Andy's heart, and he shivered in spite of himself.
"I thought I heard you, lad. You are safe?"
"Quite safe, mother."
"But sair tired?" she dropped into the Scotch unconsciously.
"Not overtired. I did my errand well."