THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
He nodded comprehendingly. Her terror gone, she would naturally pick up from now on.
"And I'm crazy to go home. When can we start?"
"Think you'll be strong enough two weeks from to-day?"
"Oh, yes. I'm going to get stronger every minute." She spoke boldly, but she no longer felt boldy. She had entered this room with a great resolve; and now she was afraid. Afraid of what? She did not know, unless it was that William did not look homely this morning.
"That's the way to talk," said he, briskly. "I'll see about passage to-day. Gee! but I'm a homesick pup myself."
It was the prospect of her freedom that had put this new spirit into her. Well, that was logical. But he was going to be very, very glad to walk into Burns, Dolan & Co's, and get into his working-togs again. God bless tobacco and God bless work; a man could manage to forget a good deal by the aid of these two comforts.
He sighed.
"What made you sigh like that?" she asked.
"Who, me? I didn't sigh, did I?"
"Like a house afire. What made you?" Never in all her life had she been so happy. "What made you?" she repeated.
"I can't tell you, sister."
She held out her hand, palm upward. He eyed it, his expression one of mystification. He was poles away from the true meaning of the gesture.
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