Ten long minutes went by before Pat spoke again, and his voice had a
muffled sound, for his face was not lifted. "Mother, are you willin'?"
he asked.

"I am, Pat, my son."

Heavier the dreadful prospect pressed upon him. He could trust his
mother, and she was willing. Then it must be right.

More minutes went by. Pat had a telltale voice. Clear and musical, it
had ever revealed to the mother the heart of her son. And its sadness
and submission smote upon her as he said at last, "You may tell her I'll
go, mother."

"I always knowed you was brave, Pat," said Mrs. O'Callaghan. Then a
rough little hand was laid on his head--the hand of an honest
washerwoman--and in a reverent tone came the words, "Your father was
brave."

The boy looked up gratefully. To be likened to his father was dear to
him.

"Yes, Pat," went on Mrs. O'Callaghan. "'Most anybody can take a noice
payin' job as suits 'em, but it's the brave wans that takes the work
they don't want to do and does it good, too."

And then the mother who had the courage to battle cheerfully for her
children, and the son who had the courage to do what seemed best in the
face of contempt and ridicule, went to their rest.