Mrs. O'Brien stood up. "Make your mind easy, Jarge. Rosie'll be ready on time. I'll go in this minute and do that washin' now, and the things'll be all dry and ready for ironin' by early mornin'."
Rosie gasped. "Why, Ma, it's going on ten o'clock!"
"Rosie dear, I don't care what o'clock it's going on. If it's the last mortal thing I ever do for you, I'm going to do that washin' tonight, for, if I do say it, ye're the best child that ever trod shoe-leather."
Jamie O'Brien's tilted chair came down on the porch floor with a thud, while Jamie remarked solemnly: "You're right, Maggie; she is!"
Mrs. O'Brien moved toward the door. "Come on, Rosie dear, and help me gather the things."
Rosie started up, then paused to glance from one to another of them. In the soft glow of the summer night she could see that they were all looking at her with the same expression of love and tenderness. Rosie choked. "I don't see why—everybody's—so kind—to me!"
She turned back to George. "And I've been just horrible to you, Jarge! You'll forgive me, won't you? I guess it was the weather."
"Aw, go on!" George spoke with a gruffness that deceived nobody. "I guess it's been the weather with all of us!"