The other window of the tiny living room looked out directly upon the
muddy road, across to the freight tracks.
It was to this window that Moira Lynch ran now, peering as far up the
road as she could see.
"Beryl's late today," she said, with an anxious note.
"Well, what if she is? Things don't run by the clock," Danny Lynch
answered testily. "You're always fussing. If it isn't the girl it's over
Dale."
Mrs. Moira ignored the edge of crossness in her Danny's voice. She went
to him, smoothed the spotless cushion at his back and put a fresh
magazine on his table.
"It's a silly, worryin' hen I am," she laughed. (But, oh, her laugh was
a tragic thing, for while her lips curved in a smile her eyes shadowed
at their mockery).
"But things seem a bit different, today," she added, apologetically.
And just as Danny Lynch's retort of derision died away Beryl burst upon
them.
Her mother needed only to give her one look to know that something _was_
different.
"And what is it, my darlin'? It's that hungry I was getting to set my
eyes on you. Two hours late you are, Beryl."
Beryl welcomed this reproach as it gave her an opportunity to impart her
good news in an impressive way.
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