TOM GROGAN
as the work lasted through the year, she could adjust the hauling of her other business without much extra expense. She discussed the situation with no one outside her house. If Schwartz wanted her to carry on the work, she would do it, Union or no Union. Mr. Crane was on her bond. That in itself was a bracing factor. Strong and self-reliant as she was, the helping hand which this man held out to her was like an anchor in a storm.
That Sunday night they were all gathered round the kerosene lamp,—Pop reading, Cully and Patsy on the floor, Jennie listening absent-mindedly, her thoughts far away,—when there came a knock at the kitchen door. Jennie flew to open it.
Outside stood two women. One was Mrs. Todd, the other the haggard, pinched, careworn woman who had spoken to her that morning at her room-door in the tenement.
“They want to see you, mother,” said Jennie, all the light gone out of her eyes. What could be the matter with Carl, she thought. It had been this way for a week.
“Well, bring 'em in. Hold on, I'll go meself.”
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