There was no quality of human goodness, or bravery, or excellence of any kind, that he did not ascribe to Tom. He would sooner have disbelieved all of his four remaining senses than have believed that Tom would say an unkind word to Mommie or to him, or be guilty of a mean act towards any one.
Bennie’s faith in Tom was fully justified. No nineteenth century boy could have been more manly, no knight of old could have been more true and tender, than was Tom to the two beings whom he loved best upon all the earth.
“But the father, laddie,” said Jack, still charmed and curious; “whaur’s the father?”
“Dead,” answered Bennie. “He came from the old country first, an’ then he sent for Mommie an’ us, an’ w’en we got here he was dead.”
“Ah, but that was awfu’ sad for the mither! Took wi’ the fever, was he?”
“No; killed in the mine. Top coal fell an’ struck him. That’s the way they found him. We didn’t see him, you know. That was two weeks before me an’ Tom an’ Mommie got here. I wasn’t but four years old then, but I can remember how Mommie cried. She didn’t have much time to cry, though, ’cause she had to work so hard. Mommie’s al’ays had to work so hard,” added Bennie, reflectively.
The man began to move, nervously, on the bench. It was apparent that some strong emotion was taking hold of him. He lifted the lamp from his cap again and held it up close to Bennie’s face.
“Killed, said ye—i’ the mine—top coal fell?”
“Yes, an’ struck him on the head; they said he didn’t ever know what killed him.”