mother heard of good saintly names like Patrick or Sean?”
“And who says I’m a fine Christian lad?” This little piece of baggage had a mouth on her!
“You’re Irish, aren’t you? Or are you?” Callie turned and eyed him quizzically. “You speak with a fair lilt of the auld sod, but there’s something else besides.”
“I’m here in Dublin visiting friends,” he answered smoothly.
“Here!” Callie drew up short, swaying her shoulder into his tall frame. “You’re not English, are you?” she demanded. Not for anything would she associate with an Englishman.
“No. American. My father is Irish. I’m here in Dublin waiting passage back to Liverpool. Then I’m bound back to America.”
“Well, at least I know you’re not lying to me. No one in this world would admit to family and friends in Ireland during these hard times if it weren’t so.” And then she smiled, and Byrch Kenyon thought the fair sun of summer had lit the dark streets.
“If you won’t tell me your name, at least tell me something about yourself,” he said, hefting the basket onto his hip as though it were no heavier than a lady’s handkerchief.
“Callie.”
“Callie what?”
“That’s all you’ll get from me, Mr. Kenyon. Why don’t you tell me about yourself instead? Then I can tell my mother all about you.”
“So, you have a mother. Back there in the alley I thought you were responsible for your brothers and sisters all alone:”
“I didn’t mean to make you think that, but you never asked about my mother. Hey! Watch where you walk! You’ve spattered mud on my dress!”
They were under a gaslight near the corner, and Byrch turned to look down at her. “You’re a lovely child, Callie. Do you know that?”
She shrugged. “So I’ve been told. But listen here, you try any funny stuff; and you’ll feel the toe of my boot crack your shins!”
Byrch smiled and made a courtly, mocking bow. She was a tough little scrapper, but he was beginning to suspect it was all a show. Probably she really was afraid he’d try something with her. As though his tastes ran to children! As though this little mite would stand a chance against him!
“Are you going to tell me what you do in America? We’ve only a little ways to go now.” Callie deliberately softened her tone. Perhaps she shouldn’t have said anything about him trying something. She was sensitive enough to know she’d hurt his feelings and upbraided his gallantry.
“I run a newspaper in New York City,” Byrch told her, “and I’m trying to make my mark in politics there. So many Irish have come to America, and most of them have settled around New York. I intend to help them, to be their voice in government.”
Callie stopped dead in her tracks and turned to face him. If he expected to see admiration in her eyes, he was mistaken. She had turned on him with a temper so fierce he felt as though an icy wind had blown him down.
“So, a voice of the people, is it? And what of the Irish here in Ireland, starvin’ and sweatin’ to earn a day’s wages to buy bread for the table? The English know we’re hungry for any kind of wage, and so it’s not even a fair pay they offer us to slave in their mills and dig for their coal. To my mind, those Irish who left their country have no need of a voice in the land of milk and honey where the streets are paved with gold!”
“Times are hard for the Irish over there too, Callie. There’s no milk and no honey and no gold for the Irishman. It isn’t what it’s cocked up to be, believe me. I’m doing what I know best and where I think I can help the most.”
“Are you now?” Callie said hotly. “Don’t be wasting your time and energy on me, Mr. Kenyon. Go back to your Irish in America and help them!”
She snatched the basket from his arms and ran off, leaving him standing there with an incredulous expression on his face. What had he said to make her take off like that? Then he realized they must have come close to where she lived, and it was the easiest and simplest way to rid herself of him. A smile broke on his face, and he laughed. “You’re a fine girl, Callie. I hope we meet again.”
Darting down an alley, taking the shortest route home, Callie hefted her basket and giggled. That was a stroke of genius, she congratulated herself. She’d gotten rid of Byrch Kenyon fast and easy. Confident now that she was safe from the hands of the law, she walked jauntily, and somehow the basket seemed lighter and lighter the closer she came to home.
Just as dawn was beginning to crack the sky, Callie turned down a pathway and could see the doorway to her home. A twinge of conscience panged her, knowing that Peggy would most certainly be lying on her bed, worrying about her. Peggy never liked the fact that Callie preferred to work in the mill from five in the afternoon to three in the morning instead of working the day shift, which ran from three in the morning to five in the afternoon. But she understood when Callie complained of slaving on the day shift and never seeing the light of day. Leaving before the sun was up and returning as it was going down made her feel like a night creature who never felt the warmth of the sun upon its face.
For the first time since seeing the unattended basket outside the market, Callie began to think of what her mother would say. Peggy James prided herself on doing the best she could for her children, raising them to have a decent sense of values. No matter how welcome the basket would be in the James’s household, Callie knew Peggy would cast a dark frown her way when she questioned her about this magnificent windfall.
Callie tried to formulate a likely story of where she’d come by her goods, but soon gave up. Mum may be trying to raise us the right way, she thought, but it won’t do her any good if the babies die from hunger before she has the chance to teach them to be fine and upstanding. Holding her head high, a twinge of shame and misery buried in her heart, Callie carried her basket into the damp chill of the two-room shack that housed her family.
“Mum, I’m home,” she called softly, hoping to awaken her mother and get the scolding over with in some degree of privacy. If she was going to get her ears boxed, she didn’t want it done under the confused eyes of the younger children or the sympathetic gaze of her grandfather.
“Mum!” she called again, tiptoeing to the meager bed beside the woodstove in the front room. Looking down with distaste at Peggy and Thomas entangled in one another’s arms, she nudged her mother’s shoulder, bringing her awake.
Peggy James wrested herself from her husband’s arm and rose from the bed with difficulty. Glancing down at Thomas to be certain she hadn’t disturbed him, she tucked the thin coverlet closer to his chin with loving hands.
“Where have you been, Callie? Do you see what time it is? The sun’s already come up.” Peggy rubbed the small of her back. Her time was coming close now, and sleeping was often difficult.
“I’ve brought you something, Mum. But you’ve got to promise me it won’t be tossed out!” It had only just occurred to her that Peggy might refuse her ill-gotten luxuries.
“Tossed out?” Peggy whispered. “Now what have you brought home this time? Puppy? Kitten? Good Lord, child, we’ve all we can do to manage as it is.”
“No, Mum, nothing like that. I haven’t
