Rosie was by nature too simple and direct to simulate with any great success the kind of surprise that Janet was forever demanding of her. Fortunately this time it did not matter, for, while Janet was speaking, Rosie's mother had appeared with an armful of darning. Unlike Rosie, Mrs. O'Brien was always in a state of what might be termed chronic surprise. She paused now before seating herself, to remark in shocked tones: "Why, Janet McFadden, what's this ye're tellin'? Mercy on us, ain't b'ys just awful sometimes! But I'm thinkin' your da'll soon settle that lad!" Janet shook her head violently. "Mrs. O'Brien, I wouldn't dare tell my father that boy's name for anything! My father'd just murder him--honest he would! It just makes my father crazy when anybody touches me! He ain't responsible, he gets so mad--really he ain't! So you can see yourself I got to be mighty careful what I tell him. Besides, I ain't dead sure it was that boy, but I think it was." Mrs. O'Brien's interest in the situation equalled Janet's own. "I see exactly the place you're in, Janet, and I must say it's wise, the stand you take." Mrs. O'Brien bit off a strand of darning cotton, and carefully stiffened the end. "You see," Janet continued, "it's this way with me. I'm an only child, and you know yourself how men act about their only child." "I do, indeed, Janet, and I feel for you." From her sympathetic understanding of Janet's problem, one would never have supposed that Mrs. O'Brien herself was the mother of a large family, and had been the child of a larger one. She held up a sock impressively. "You're quite right, Janet. Your da might do somethin' awful. There's no holdin' back some men when they take it into their heads that their only child has been mistreated." Rosie sighed inwardly. She had very little of that histrionic sense that prompts people to assume a part and play it out in all seriousness. At first such a performance as the present one wearied her. Why in the world do people pretend a thing when they know perfectly well that they are pretending? Then, as the moments passed, she grew interested in spite of herself, for the acting of her mother and Janet was most convincing. At last she was not quite sure that it was acting. She was brought back to her senses by Janet's turning suddenly to her with the exclamation: "Ain't they all o' them just awful, anyhow!" No need to ask Janet of whom she was speaking. It was an old practice of hers, this glorifying her father in one breath, and in the next vilifying men in general. Rosie protested at once: "Why are they awful? I think they're nice." Janet looked at her in kindly commiseration. "Well, then, Rosie, all I got to say is--you don't know 'em." "I don't know them! Well, I like that!" Rosie was indignant now. "I guess I know them as well as you do!" Rosie paused, then concluded in triumph: "Don't I know my own brother Terry? I guess he's all right!"