“Then I have nothing to say,” he answered, with a smile, “at least to you; but, Molly, I shall have something to talk to you about presently.”
“It was very good of you to meet us, father. Was mother terribly angry?”
“What could you expect her to be? You have behaved very badly.”
“I don't think so. I did the only possible thing to save Nora's heart from breaking.”
“It seems to me,” said Mr. Hartrick slowly, “that you all think of nothing but the heart of Nora. I am almost sorry now that I ever asked her to come to us in England.”
“Oh, it's home again; it's home again!” cried the Irish girl as she paced up and down the platform. “Molly, do listen to the brogue. Isn't it just delicious? Come along, and let's talk to this poor old Irish beggar.”
“Oh, but he doesn't look at all pleasant,” said Molly, backing a little.
“Bless the crayther, but he is pleasant,” said Nora. “I must go and have a chat with him.” She caught hold of Molly's hand, and dragged her to the edge of the pavement, where an old man, with almost blind eyes, was seated in front of a large basket of rosy apples.
“And how are you this morning, father?” said Nora.
“Oh, then, it's the top of the morning to yez, honey,” was the instant reply. “And how is yourself?”