TOM GROGAN
her neck. “Let go, darlint; ye're a-chokin' the wind out of me.”
“Oh, it's ye a-waitin', Mr. Babcock—me man Carl thought ye'd gone. Mr. Crane I met outside told me you'd been here. Jennie'll get the tally-sheet of the last load for ye. I've been to the fort since daylight, and pretty much all night, to tell ye God's truth. Oh, Gran'pop, but I smashed 'em!” she exclaimed as she gently removed Patsy's arm and laid him in the old man's lap. She had picked the little cripple up at the garden gate, where he always waited for her. “That's the last job that sneakin' Duffy and Dan McGaw'll ever put up on me. Oh, but ye should'a' minded the face on him, Gran'pop!”—untying her hood and breaking into a laugh so contagious in its mirth that even Babcock joined in without knowing what it was all about.
As she spoke, Tom stood facing her father, hood and ulster off, the light of the windows silhouetting the splendid lines of her well-rounded figure, with its deep chest, firm bust, broad back, and full throat, her arms swinging loose and free.
“Ye see,” she said, turning to Babcock,
