astin' 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.

"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 t