Patrick was a fine old Irishman, there was no doubt whatever
about that, faithful and conscientious to the last degree. Every morning he
would drive over in his old buggy from his little farm in the Raritan Valley,
in abundant time to begin work on the minute of seven, and not until the
minute of six would he lay aside spade or hoe and turn his steps towards his
old horse tied under the tree, behind the barn. But the most attractive thing
about Patrick was his genial kindly smile, a smile that said as plainly as
words, that he had found life very comfortable and pleasant, and that he was
still more than content with it notwithstanding that his back was bowed with
work month in and month out, and the years were hurrying him fast on into old
age.
And so Tattine was fond of Patrick, for what (child though she was) she knew
him to be, and they spent many a delightful hour in each other's company.
"Patrick," said Tattine, on this particular morning, when they were raking
away side by side, "does Mrs. Kirk ever have a day at home?" and she glanced
at Patrick a little mischievously, doubting if he would know just what she
meant.
"Shure she has all her days at home, Miss Tattine, save on a holiday, when we
go for a day's drive to some of our neighbors', but I doubt if I'm catching
just what you're maning.
Pages:
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45