"No. As ye've never noticed it, Rosie, it wouldn't be right of me to show it to you now. The sight of it might make you bitter. But you surprise me that you've never seen it. It's a foot long at least, and two fingers deep, and itches in rainy weather." "Why, Ma!" Rose's eyes were fixed, and her mouth a round, blank question mark. "Upon me word of honour, Rosie!" For a moment Rosie was too shocked to go on. Then she gasped: "How--how did it happen?" "How did it happen, do you ask? That, Rosie, is a secret that'll go with me to the grave. This much I'll tell you--'twas made with a butcher-knife. But who gave the blow, I wouldn't confess under torture. Now, Rosie dear, don't tempt me to say another word, for I'm done." Mrs. O'Brien lifted her head high, took a long breath, and began a serious attack on the sock. Rosie questioned further, but in vain. CHAPTER XV THE BRUTE AT BAY Her own father!... All afternoon as she went about delivering papers, Rosie's mind kept going over this amazing revelation. Not for an instant did she question the truth of it. An exuberance of imagination very often led her mother to embroider fancifully the details of a story, but surely not this time. This time that scar, that awful scar, was evidence enough of what had taken place. To think that Rosie had never even suspected that side of her father's nature! She shuddered at her own innocence. To her, her father had always seemed all gentleness and meekness. Gentleness and meekness, indeed! Why, with that raging lion ramping and tearing about inside of him he was little better than a wolf in sheep's clothing! At first Rosie dreaded ever seeing him again. She doubted whether, at sight of him, she could conceal sufficiently the abhorrence that she felt. Then she began to want to see him, as one wants to see the animals in the carnivora building at feeding time. It is a racking experience, but one likes to go through it. Rosie's final decision was to take one look at the beast, hear for herself the sound of its roar, then flee it forever. A good time to see Jamie O'Brien was after supper, in the cool of the evening, when he slipped off his shoes, unloosened his suspenders, and sat him down in the peace and quiet of the back yard. He had a broken-down old arm-chair, which he knew how to prop against the ancient little apple-tree and support with a brick at its shortest leg. For one-half hour every summer evening, when the old chair was properly braced, and his sock feet were stretched out at ease on a soap-box, Jamie O'Brien knew comfort, utter and absolute. It was the moment when, like old King Cole, he called for his pipe. "Rosie dear, like a good child, will you bring me me pipe and a few matches?" Rosie, busied in the kitchen over the supper dishes, always knew just when this call was coming, and always had her answer ready: "All right, Dad. Just wait till I dry my hands and I will."