TOM GROGAN
about it. You know I'm solid with the Union and can help yer mother, and if ye'll let me speak to Father McCluskey next Sunday”—
The girl sprang from her chair.
“I won't have you talk that way to me, Dennis Quigg! I never said a word to you, and you know it.” Her mother's spirit was now flashing in her eyes. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself to come here—and”—
Then she broke down.
Another woman would have managed it differently, perhaps,—by a laugh, a smile of contempt, or a frigid refusal. This mere child, stung to the quick by Quigg's insult, had only her tears in defense. The Walking Delegate turned his head and looked out of the window. Then he caught up his hat and without a word to the sobbing girl hastily left the room.
Tom was just entering the lower gate. Quigg saw her and tried to dodge behind the tool-house, but it was too late, so he faced her. Tom's keen eye caught the sly movement and the quickly altered expression. Some new trickery was in the air, she knew; she detected it in every line of Quigg's face.
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