our shoes again! Never again!_"

Jack glanced back insolently over Joe's shoulder. "Aw, go on! What do I
care? Anyway, it's summer-time and I'm goin' barefoot!"

CHAPTER VIII

A LITTLE MOTHER HEN

For Rosie this was the end. This was defeat and she accepted it as such.
Slowly and tearfully she dragged herself into the house.

"Ma, Ma, after all I've done, there he's gone!"

Mrs. O'Brien looked up in concern. "Who did you say was gone, Rosie?"

"Jackie! He's gone off swimming again with that old Joe Slattery!"

"Is that all it is, Rosie?" Mrs. O'Brien seemed much relieved. "You gave
me quite a turn."

"But, Ma, what am I going to do?"

"Well, Rosie dear, what do you want to do?"

"I want to save Jackie from those old Slatterys."

Mrs. O'Brien sighed sympathetically. "Ah, I'm afeared you can't do that,
Rosie. Jack's a b'y and you know how it is: b'ys do like to run around
with other b'ys."

"But what if he gets all sunburnt again and maybe drownd-ed?"

"Ah, now, but maybe he won't."

There were times when, to Rosie, her mother's easy-going optimism was
maddening. Today it seemed to her the very sort of thing you might
expect to find in a hot, untidy kitchen cluttered up with
clothes-horses and steaming with fresh ironing. The rickety old
baby-carriage, draped in mosquito-netting, stood near the ironing board,
and Mrs. O'Brien, as she changed irons, would give it a push or two.
Geraldine was whimpering miserably, and little wonder, Rosie felt.

Mrs. O'Brien, on the other hand, seemed surprised and grieved that she
was not cooing herself comfortably to sleep. "Ah, now, baby, what can be
ailin' ye? Can't you see your poor ma is working herself to death to get
your nice clean clothes all ready for you? Now stop your cryin',
darlint, or your poor ma won't be able to iron right, and then what'll
sister Ellen say when she comes in? Ho, ho, Ellen's a Tartar, dear, she
is that! Now you wouldn't want your poor ma to be scolded by Ellen,
would you? Indeed and you wouldn't! So hush now like a good baby, and
don't be always cryin'...."

Rosie stood it as long as she could, then her heart overflowed in
indignant speech: "Of course she's crying in this horrible hot kitchen!
Why wouldn't she? And they's flies in her mosquito-netting, too!"

Mrs. O'Brien paused in her ironing to shake her head in mournful
reproach. "Why, Rosie, how you talk! Where else can I put the poor child
but right here? Upstairs in Elle