Patient, humble, silent, one
could hardly recognize in this Teddy Ginniss that other Teddy, whose
cheery voice, frequent laugh, positive opinions and wishes, and
good-humored self-satisfaction, had been the leading features of his
modest home.
Poor Mrs. Ginniss longed to be contradicted or instructed or laughed
at once more, and fought against her son's submissive respect as
another mother might have done against disobedience or insolence.
"Can't ye be mad nor yet be merry at nothin', Teddy?" asked she
impatiently one day.
"I'm thinking I'll never be merry again, mother," said Teddy sadly,
as he left the room.
It was in the afternoon of the same day, that Mrs. Ginniss, sitting
at her sewing in melancholy mood enough, heard a little tap at her
door, and, opening it, found upon the threshold a lady, elegant in
her simple dress of gray, who asked,--
"Are you Mrs. Ginniss?"
"Yes, ma'am; I'm that same," said the laundress, staring strangely
at the lovely face framed in a shower of feathery golden ringlets,
and lighted by large violet eyes as sad as they were sweet.
"Will ye be plazed to walk in, ma'am?" continued she. "It's but a
poor place for the likes uv yees."
The lady made no reply, but, gliding into the room, stood for a
moment looking about it, and then turning to the Irish woman, who
still regarded her in the same awestruck manner, said piteously,--
"I am her mother!"
"Sure an' I knowed it the minute I sot eyes on ye; for it's the same
swate face, an' eyes that's worse nor cryin, ye've got; an' the same
way of a born lady, so quite an' so grand.
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