Part 8 (1/2)

”Is it permitted that I see my daughter Irma?” said the man quietly.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick scanned his face suspiciously, then called, ”Irma darlin', come here an' tell me who this is. Give the babby to Tim there, an' come away.”

A girl of between eleven and twelve, tall for her age, with pale face, two thick braids of yellow hair, and wonderful eyes ”burnin' brown,”

as Mrs. Fitzpatrick said, came to the door and looked out upon the man.

For some time they gazed steadily each into the other's face.

”Irma, my child,” said Kalmar in English, ”you know me?”

But the girl stood gazing in perplexity.

”Irma! Child of my soul!” cried the man, in the Russian tongue, ”do you not remember your father?” He stepped from the shadow to where the light from the open door could fall upon his face and stood with arms outstretched.

At once the girl's face changed, and with a cry, ”It is my fadder!”

she threw herself at him.

Her father caught her and held her fast, saying not a word, but covering her face with kisses.

”Come in, come in to the warm,” cried the kind-hearted Irish woman, wiping her eyes. ”Come in out o' the cold.” And with eager hospitality she hurried the father and children into the house.

As they pa.s.sed in, Paulina turned away. Before Mrs. Fitzpatrick shut the door, Irma caught her arm and whispered in her ear.

”Paulina, is it? Let her shtop--” She paused, looking at the Russian.

”Your pardon?” he enquired with a bow.

”It's Paulina,” said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, her voice carrying the full measure of her contempt for the unhappy creature who stood half turning away from the door.

”Ah, let her go. It is no difference. She is a sow. Let her go.”

”Thin she's not your wife at all?” said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, her wrath rising at this discovery of further deception in Paulina.

He shrugged his shoulders. ”She was once. I married her.

She is wife no longer. Let her go.”

His contemptuous indifference turned Mrs. Fitzpatrick's wrath upon him.

”An' it's yersilf that ought to take shame to yersilf fer the way ye've treated her, an' so ye should!”

The man waved his hand as if to brush aside a matter of quite trifling moment.

”It matters not,” he repeated. ”She is only a cow.”

”Let her come in,” whispered Irma, laying her hand again on Mrs. Fitzpatrick's arm.

”Sure she will,” cried the Irish woman; ”come in here, you poor, spiritless craythur.”

Irma sprang down the steps, spoke a few hurried words in Galician.

Poor Paulina hesitated, her eyes upon her husband's face. He made a contemptuous motion with his hand as if calling a dog to heel.

Immediately, like a dog, the woman crept in and sat far away from the fire in a corner of the room.