"Ma, don't you really know how Janet got that black eye?"
Mrs. O'Brien dropped her darning in surprise. At every turn life seemed to hold a fresh surprise for Mrs. O'Brien.
"Why, Rosie! What a question to ask your poor ma! Do I look like I was born yesterday?"
Mrs. O'Brien did not; but, even so, Rosie insisted upon a direct answer.
"Well, then, if you really must know, Rosie dear, I'll be glad to tell you. That brute of a Dave McFadden has been knockin' her down again."
Rosie clucked her tongue impatiently. "Maggie O'Brien, there's one thing I'd like to ask you. When Janet knew how she got that black eye, and you knew how she got it, and she knew perfectly well that you knew, why in the world did you both go pretending something else?"
Mrs. O'Brien looked at her daughter in patient despair.
"My, my, Rosie, what a child ye do be! Wouldn't it be awful of me to go insultin' poor little Janet by saying: 'Ho, ho, Janet, that's a fine black eye yir da has given you!'"
Rosie squirmed in exasperation. "But why do you got to say anything? Why do either of you got to say anything?"
"Why do I got to say anything?" In Mrs. O'Brien, surprise had now turned to amazement. "Why, Rosie dear, what's this ye're askin' me? Haven't I always got to say somethin'? Wasn't it for talkin' purposes that the Lord put a tongue in me head?"