Part 7 (1/2)
”What kind of work will you do in New York? I don't believe we've got any linen mills. I think we get Irish linen table-cloths, and so on.”
”Oh, I'm going out to service. I can't do heavy work, but I can do chambermaid's work.”
All this time Sylvia was turning a quarter over in her pocket. It was the only American coin she had carried with her through Europe, and she now took it out slowly, and said:
”You'll accept a little something for your kindness in saving my hat.”
”I'm much obliged, miss, but I'd rather not I'd rather have your kind words than any money. It's very lonesome I've been since I left Drogheda.”
She put the quarter back into her pocket with something like shame; then she fumbled her rings in a strange embarra.s.sment. She had made a mess of it, she thought. At the same time she was glad the girl had so much pride.
”What is your name?” she asked.
”Margaret Byrne.”
”You must let me help you in some way,” said Miss Thorne at last.
”I wonder what kind of people they are in New York, now,” said Margaret, looking at Sylvia wistfully. ”It seems dreadful to go so far away and not know in whose house you'll be livin'.”
Sylvia looked steadily at the girl, and then went away, promising to see her again. She smiled at Walter Kirk, who had finished his game of shuffleboard and was looking all up and down the deck for Miss Thorne.
She did not stop to talk with him, however, but pushed on to where her mother and father were sitting not far from the taffrail.
”Mamma, I've been out in the steerage.”
”You'll be in the maintop next, I don't doubt,” said her father, laughing.
”I've been talking to the Irish girl that caught my hat yesterday.”
”You shouldn't talk to steerage people,” said Mrs. Thorne. ”They might have the smallpox, or they might not be proper people.”
”I suppose cabin pa.s.sengers might have the smallpox too,” said Mr.
Thorne, who liked to tease either wife or daughter.
”I offered the Irish girl a quarter, and she wouldn't have it.”
”You're too free with your money,” said her mother in a tone of complaint that was habitual.
”The girl wouldn't impose on you, Sylvia,” said Mr. Thorne. ”She's honest. She knew that your hat wasn't worth so much. Now, if you had said fifteen cents----”
”O papa, be still,” and she put her hand over his mouth. ”I want to propose something.”
”Going to adopt the Irish----” But here Sylvia's hand again arrested Mr.
Thorne's speech.
”No, I'm not going to adopt her, but I want mamma to take her for upstairs girl when we get home.”
Mr. Thorne made another effort to push away Sylvia's hand so as to say something, but the romping girl smothered his speech into a gurgle.