Part 33 (1/2)

So Phil went down, and Bridget, on hospitable thoughts intent, drew her only rocking-chair near the stove, and forced Phil to sit down in it.

Then she told him, with evident enjoyment, of the trick which Pietro had tried to play on her, and how he had failed.

”He couldn't chate me, the haythen!” she concluded. ”I was too smart for the likes of him, anyhow. Where do you live when you are at home?”

”I have no home now,” said Phil, with tears in his eyes.

”And have you no father and mother?”

”Yes,” said Phil. ”They live in Italy.”

”And why did they let you go so far away?”

”They were poor, and the padrone offered them money,” answered Phil, forced to answer, though the subject was an unpleasant one.

”And did they know he was a bad man and would bate you?”

”I don't think they knew,” said Phil, with hesitation. ”My mother did not know.”

”I've got three childer myself,” said Bridget; ”they'll get wet comin'

home from school, the darlints--but I wouldn't let them go with any man to a far country, if he'd give me all the gowld in the world. And where does that man live that trates you so bad?”

”In New York.”

”And does Peter--or whatever the haythen's name is--live there too?”

”Yes, Pietro lives there. The padrone is his uncle, and treats him better than the rest of us. He sent him after me to bring me back.”

”And what is your name? Is it Peter, like his?”

”No; my name is Filippo.”

”It's a quare name.”

”American boys call me Phil.”

”That's better. It's a Christian name, and the other isn't. Before I married my man I lived five years at Mrs. Robertson's, and she had a boy they called Phil. His whole name was Philip.”

”That's my name in English.”

”Then why don't you call it so, instead of Philip-O? What good is the O, anyhow? In my country they put the O before the name, instead of to the tail-end of it. My mother was an O'Connor. But it's likely ivery country has its own ways.”

Phil knew very little of Ireland, and did not fully understand Mrs.

McGuire's philosophical remarks. Otherwise they might have amused him, as they may possibly amuse my readers.

I cannot undertake to chronicle the conversation that took place between Phil and his hostess. She made numerous inquiries, to some of which he was able to give satisfactory replies, to others not. But in half an hour there was an interruption, and a noisy one. Three stout, freckled-faced children ran in at the back door, dripping as if they had just emerged from a shower-bath. Phil moved aside to let them approach the stove.

Forthwith Mrs. McGuire was engaged in motherly care, removing a part of the wet clothing, and lamenting for the state in which her st.u.r.dy offspring had returned. But presently order was restored, and the bustle was succeeded by quiet.