the only boy that I've heard of here that can," she thought.

The next morning when the two presented themselves, Mrs. Brady, after
showing Mrs. O'Callaghan where to leave her wraps, led the way at once
to her bedroom. "Perhaps you will just make my bed for me before you go,
Mrs. O'Callaghan," she insinuated. "It has been properly aired and is
ready."

"Oh, Pat will make it for you, ma'am," was the answer, and again Mrs.
Brady yielded.

"Now, Pat, on with your blouse."

The two women waited while Pat untied the bundle he carried and put on a
clean cotton blouse.

"'Twas his father's blouse, ma'am. A bit loose now, but he'll grow to
it. He's very loike his father."

Mrs. Brady looked at the tall, slender boy wearing his father's blouse
and his mother's apron, with an old straw hat on his head for a dust
protector, and then at the mother watching his every movement with
loving eyes, and only anxious that he might give satisfaction. And all
sense of incongruity vanished from her mind.

"Now, Pat, show the lady what you can do." And Pat obeyed as if he were
five instead of fifteen. The dead father had trained his sons from their
babyhood to yield implicit obedience to their mother. Deftly he set to
work. He turned the mattress; he smoothed and tucked in each sheet and
cover as he put it on; he beat up the pillows, and within ten minutes