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Updated: June 7, 2025
Mrs. Kelcey, mother of Tom, and next-door neighbour to Brown, advanced into the room. She was laden with a big basket, which Brown, perceiving, immediately took from her. "Set it down careful, man," said she. "The crust on thim pies is that delicate it won't bear joltin'. I had the saints' own luck with 'em this toime, praise be." "That's great," said Brown. "But I haven't worried about that.
Kelcey had laid without thought, it must be admitted, of any intermediary padding such as certain mistaken hostesses consider essential three freshly and painstakingly laundered tablecloths, her own, Mrs. Murdison's, and Mrs. Lukens's best, cunningly united by stitches hardly discoverable except by a too-searching eye.
"Right ye were, an' 'tis feedin' he nades agin only not with a shpoon. I'll take him home an' fix up a bit of a bottle for him, the poor thing. An' I'll take him at wanst, an' let ye get to bed, where ye belong, by the looks of ye." "You're an angel, Mrs. Kelcey. I hate to let you take him, with all you have on your hands " "Shure, 'tis the hands that's full that can always hold a bit more.
An' a single man can't be bothered with cast-off childher, no matter how big his heart is, as we well know." And Mrs. Kelcey departed, with the baby under her shawl and a motherly look for the man who opened the door for her and stood smiling at her in the lamplight as she went away.
Kelcey to her husband. "It'll take a power of it to pay for all o' thim, an' fruit so dear." "Whist, he knows what he's about," returned Patrick Kelcey, uninclined to remonstrate with any man for giving him that unaccustomed and delightful feeling that his vest buttons must be surreptitiously unloosed or he would burst them off. He helped himself lavishly as he spoke.
Five minutes later Brown bore little Norah Kelcey into his bachelor domain, wrapped in her mother's old plaid shawl, her blue eyes looking expectantly from its folds. It was not the first time she had paid a visit to the place she remembered what there was in store for her there.
Kelcey to the kitchen and bring in the great platter for her, bearing the turkey in a garland of celery leaves, a miracle of luscious-looking brownness.
Kelcey, though she had rushed into the kitchen two minutes earlier by the back door, now entered formally with Patrick, her husband, by the front, and only the high flush on her cheek and the sparkle in her blue-black eye told of a sense of her responsibilities. The company had put on its best for the occasion, there could be no possible question of that. From the pink geranium in Mrs.
The foundations thus laid, the setting of the table had been a delightful task for Mrs. Kelcey, assisted as she was by Mrs. Murdison, who frequently differed from her in points of arrangement but who yielded most of them upon hearing, as she frequently did, Mrs. Kelcey's verbal badge of office: "Misther Brown put me in charge, Missus Murdison.
You never have anything else, I'm sure." Mrs. Kelcey shook her head in delighted protest. "The table is jist the handsomest I iver laid eyes on," she asserted, modestly changing the subject. "It is pretty nice, isn't it?" agreed Brown warmly, surveying the table with mixed emotions. When he stopped to think of what Mrs.
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