He sat upon the edge of the chair that Owen offered him, stole covert glances about the parlour and earnestly hoped that Maggie was not at home. A glance at the clock showed him that it was but shortly after eight, and he wonderingly confessed to a sense of satisfaction in the knowledge that school did not begin until nine. Owen settled his doubts by poking his head through the hangings of a doorway, and calling:
“Maggie, asthore; can ye come here for a minyute? Sure, it’s company we’re after havin’ so airly in the mornin’.”
Maggie entered the room, obediently; she flushed a little at sight of Larry, but managed to greet him in a calm, even voice that betrayed nothing of what she might feel.
She talked to him of neighbourhood events, he answering awkwardly and distantly, as he always did with her. Her father had plunged into an earnest discussion, with the others, of the coming convention, and finally swept them out of the room to look at some figures which he had compiled, bearing upon the comparative strength of the opposing factions.
There was a short silence after this; and, at length Maggie said:
“I have wanted so to speak to you lately, but you are such a stranger!”
A little thrill ran through Larry at these words. She had thought of him, then; and he fancied that he caught a note of vexation in her voice. He pondered this, confusedly, and did not reply. She continued:
“I wanted to tell you how sorry I was at your great loss. Mary was a sweet and good girl.”
“That’s right,” said he, eagerly. “There ain’t many like her, is there?”
“No!” answered Maggie, gently.