"
While she was speaking, Mrs. Watson's eyes were busy with
the room, the pictures on the wall, the cosey window-seat
with its numerous cushions; the warmth and brightness of
it all brought a glow to her tired face.
"Yes, ma'am," she said, "thank ye kindly, ma'am. It is
very kind of ye to be thinkin' o' the likes of me."
"Oh, we should always think of others, you know," Mrs.
Francis replied quickly with her most winning smile, as
she seated herself in a rocking-chair. "Are the children
all well? Dear little Danny, how is he?"
"Indade, ma'am, that same Danny is the upsettinest one
of the nine, and him only four come March. It was only
this morn's mornin' that he sez to me, sez he, as I was
comin' away, 'Ma, d'ye think she'll give ye pie for
your dinner? Thry and remimber the taste of it, won't ye
ma, and tell us when ye come home,' sez he."
"Oh, the sweet prattle of childhood," said Mrs. Francis,
clasping her shapely white hands. "How very interesting
it must be to watch their young minds unfolding as the
flower! Is it nine little ones you have, Mrs. Watson?"
"Yes, nine it is, ma'am. God save us. Teddy will be
fourteen on St. Patrick's Day, and all the rest are
younger."
"It is a great responsibility to be a mother, and yet
how few there be that think of it," added Mrs. Francis,
dreamily.
"Thrue for ye ma'am," Mrs. Watson broke in. "There's my
own man, John Watson. That man knows no more of what it
manes than you do yerself that hasn't one at all at all,
the Lord be praised; and him the father of nine.
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