"And, Ma," she continued, "do you suppose if my father beat me, I'd go around pretending he was the best ever? Well, I wouldn't!" "Your poor da, did you say, Rosie? May God forgive you for havin' such a thought! Why, that poor lamb wouldn't hurt a fly--he's that gentle! Ah, Rosie, it's on yir knees ye ought to be every night of yir life, thankin' God for the kind o' father I picked out for you!" "I am thankful, but I wouldn't be if he was like Dave McFadden. And I wouldn't pretend I was, either." "Ah, it's little ye know about that, Rosie, for just let me tell ye--ye'd be exactly like Janet if ye were in Janet's shoes." "I bet I wouldn't!" "Rosie, ye couldn't help yirself. Ye'd have to stand up for him even if he was a brute." "Why would I have to?" "Because he's your da. Is it possible, Rosie dear, that ye don't yet know 'tis a woman's first duty to stand up for a man if he's her da, or her brother, or her husband, or her son? Mercy on us, where would we be if she didn't? Have ye ever heard me, all the years of your life, breathe a whisper against Jamie O'Brien?" "I should think not!" To Rosie this seemed a very poor example of the principle in question. "How could you? Dad never even beats the boys, let alone you and me!" Mrs. O'Brien smacked her lips pensively. "No, he don't beat me." She sighed slowly. "I mean _now_ he don't." Rosie looked at her mother with startled eyes. "Ma, what do you mean?" Mrs. O'Brien sighed again, and took up her darning. "Nuthin' at all, Rosie. I don't know what I'm sayin'. I can't gab another minute, for I must finish this sock. So run off, like a good child, and don't bother me." "But, Ma"--Rosie's voice dropped to a whisper, and a look of horror came into her face--"do you mean he used to--beat you?" "Rosie dear, stop pesterin' me with your questions. Far be it from me to set child against father, and, besides, as you know yourself, he's behavin' now. What's past is past. I've said this much to you, Rosie, so's to give you a hint of the ragin' lions that these here quiet, soft-spoken little lambs of men keep caged up inside o' them. Oh, I tell you, Rosie dear, beware o' that kind of a man, for you never know when the lion in him is goin' to break loose and leap out upon you. Ah, I know what I'm sayin' to me everlastin' sorrow!" "Why, Ma, are you crazy! Dad has never laid a finger on you, or on any one else, and you know he hasn't!" Rosie scanned her mother's face in hope of discovering a little family joke, but Mrs. O'Brien met her gaze with sad, truthful eyes as guileless as a baby's. "All right, Rosie dear, maybe your poor ma is crazy. But I wonder now ye've never noticed the scar on me right shoulder, nor asked the cause of it." "What scar?" "Have you never seen it, Rosie?" Mrs. O'Brien began unbuttoning her waist to exhibit the scarred shoulder. Then she paused, thought a moment, and changed her mind.