lunch, all right, and tell no lie."

Mrs. McCaskey slipped her arm inside her husband's and took his rough
hand in hers.

"Listen at the cryin' of poor Mrs. Murphy," she said. "'Tis an awful
thing for a bit of a bye to be lost in this great big city. If 'twas our
little Phelan, Jawn, I'd be breakin' me heart."

Awkwardly Mr. McCaskey withdrew his hand. But he laid it around the
nearing shoulder of his wife.

"'Tis foolishness, of course," said he, roughly, "but I'd be cut up
some meself if our little Pat was kidnapped or anything. But there
never was any childer for us. Sometimes I've been ugly and hard with
ye, Judy. Forget it."

They leaned together, and looked down at the heart-drama being acted
below.

Long they sat thus. People surged along the sidewalk, crowding,
questioning, filling the air with rumours, and inconsequent surmises.
Mrs. Murphy ploughed back and forth in their midst, like a soft
mountain down which plunged an audible cataract of tears. Couriers
came and went.

Loud voices and a renewed uproar were raised in front of the
boarding-house.

"What's up now, Judy?" asked Mr. McCaskey.