"But couldn't you talk about something else besides that black eye?"
"I could not. Take me word for it, Rosie, that black eye was the one thing of all to talk about. Don't you see, dear, 'twas that was taking up Janet's entire attention, for it was on her mind as well as on her face. So not to make it awkward for the poor child, I simply had to talk and let her talk."
Rosie still shook her head obstinately. "Even if it was on her mind, I don't see why she had to go make up that silly story that nobody believes, and that she don't believe herself. She always does."
Mrs. O'Brien's face broke into a smile of understanding.
"Ah, Rosie, I see now what's troublin' you. You don't see why poor Janet wants to cover up that brute of a Dave."
This was exactly what was troubling Rosie, as she agreed readily enough.
"And, Ma," she continued, "do you suppose if my father beat me, I'd go around pretending he was the best ever? Well, I wouldn't!"
"Your poor da, did you say, Rosie? May God forgive you for havin' such a thought! Why, that poor lamb wouldn't hurt a fly—he's that gentle! Ah, Rosie, it's on yir knees ye ought to be every night of yir life, thankin' God for the kind o' father I picked out for you!"
"I am thankful, but I wouldn't be if he was like Dave McFadden. And I wouldn't pretend I was, either."
"Ah, it's little ye know about that, Rosie, for just let me tell ye—ye'd be exactly like Janet if ye were in Janet's shoes."