Two days after Tom had signed the highway contract, Babcock sat in his private office in New York, opening his mail. In the outside room were half a dozen employees—engineers and others—awaiting their instructions.  
The fine spring weather had come and work had been started in every direction, including the second section of the sea-wall at the depot¹, where the divers² were preparing the bottom for the layers of concrete. Tom's carts had hauled the stone.
 
Tucked into the pile of letters heaped before him, Babcock's quick eye caught the corner of a telegram. It read as follows:—
 
     Mother hurt.  Wants you immediately.  Please come.
 
                                  JENNIE GROGAN.
For an instant he sat motionless, gazing at the yellow slip. Then he sprang to his feet. Thrusting his unopened correspondence into his pocket, he gave a few hurried instructions to his men and started for the ferry. Once on the boat, he began pacing the deck. “Tom hurt!” he repeated to himself. “Tom hurt? How—when—what could have hurt her?” He had seen her at the sea-wall, only three days before, rosy-cheeked, magnificent in health and strength. What had happened? At the St. George landing he jumped into a hack³, hurrying the cabman.
 
Jennie was watching for him at the garden gate. She said her mother was in the sitting-room⁴, and Gran'pop was with her. As they walked up the path she recounted rapidly the events of the past two days.
 
Tom was on the lounge by the window, under the flowering plants, when Babcock entered. She was apparently⁵ asleep. Across her forehead, covering the temples, two narrow bandages bound up her wound. At Babcock's step she opened her eyes, her bruised⁶, discolored face breaking into a smile. Then, noting his evident anxiety, she threw the shawl from her shoulders and sat up.
 
“No, don't look so. It's nothin'; I'll be all right in a day or two. I've been hurted before, but not so bad as this. I wouldn't have troubled ye, but Mr. Crane has gone West. It was kind and friendly o' ye to come; I knew ye would.”
 
Babcock nodded to Pop, and sank into a chair. The shock of her appearance had completely unnerved him.
 
“Jennie has told me about it,” he said in a tender, sympathetic tone. “Who was mean enough to serve you in this way, Tom?” He called her Tom now, as the others did.
 
“Well, I won't say now. It may have been the horse, but I hardly think it, for I saw a face. All I remember clear is a-layin' me hand on the mare's back. When I come to I was flat on the lounge. They had fixed⁷ me up, and Dr. Mason had gone off. Only the thick hood⁸ saved me. Carl and Cully searched the place, but nothin' could be found. Cully says he heard somebody a-runnin' on the other side of the fence, but ye can't tell. Nobody keeps their heads in times like that.”
 
“Have you been in bed ever since?” Babcock asked.
 
“In bed! God rest ye! I was down to the board meetin' two hours after, wid Mr. Crane, and signed the contract. Jennie and all of 'em wouldn't have it, and cried and went on, but I braved 'em all. I knew I had to go if I died for it. Mr. Crane had his buggy, so I didn't have to walk. The stairs was the worst. Once inside, I was all right. I only had to sign, an' come out again; it didn't take a minute. Mr. Crane stayed and fixed the bonds wid the trustees, an' I come home wid Carl and Jennie.” Then, turning to her father, she said, “Gran'pop, will ye and Jennie go into the kitchen for a while? I've some private business wid Mr. Babcock.”
 
When they were gone her whole manner changed. She buried her face for a moment in the pillow, covering her cheek with her hands; then, turning to Babcock, she said:—
 
“Now, me friend, will ye lock the door?”
 
For some minutes she looked out of the window, through the curtains and nasturtiums, then, in a low, broken voice, she said:
 
“I'm in great trouble. Will ye help me?”
 
“Help you, Tom? You know I will, and with anything I've got. What is it!” he said earnestly, regaining⁹ his chair and drawing it closer.
 
“Has no one iver told ye about me Tom?” she asked, looking at him from under her eyebrows¹⁰.
 
“No; except that he was hurt or—or—out of his mind, maybe, and you couldn't bring him home.”
 
“An' ye have heared nothin' more?”
 
“No,” said Babcock, wondering at her anxious manner.
 
“Ye know that since he went away I've done the work meself, standin' out as he would have done in the cold an' wet an' workin' for the children wid nobody to help me but these two hands.”
 
Babcock nodded. He knew how true it was.
 
“Ye've wondered many a time, maybe, that I niver brought him home an' had him round wid me other poor cripple, Patsy—them two togither.” Her voice fell almost to a whisper.
 
“Or ye thought, maybe, it was mean and cruel in me that I kep' him a burden on the State, when I was able to care for him meself. Well, ye'll think so no more.”
 
Babcock began to see now why he had been sent for. His heart went out to her all the more.
 
“Tom, is your husband dead?” he asked, with a quiver in his voice.
 
She never took her eyes from his face. Few people were ever tender with her; they never seemed to think she needed it. She read this man's sincerity¹¹ and sympathy in his eyes; then she answered slowly:—
 
“He is, Mr. Babcock.”
 
“When did he die! Was it last night, Tom?”
 
“Listen to me fust, an' then I'll tell ye. Ye must know that when me Tom was hurted, seven years ago, we had a small place, an' only three horses, and them warn't paid for; an' we had the haulin' at the brewery¹², an' that was about all we did have. When Tom had been sick a month—it ............