The fine spring weather had come and work had been started in every direction, including the second section of the sea-wall at the depot¹, where the divers² were preparing the bottom for the layers of concrete. Tom's carts had hauled the stone.

 

Tucked into the pile of letters heaped before him, Babcock's quick eye caught the corner of a telegram. It read as follows:—

 

     Mother hurt.  Wants you immediately.  Please come.

 

                                  JENNIE GROGAN.

For an instant he sat motionless, gazing at the yellow slip. Then he sprang to his feet. Thrusting his unopened correspondence into his pocket, he gave a few hurried instructions to his men and started for the ferry. Once on the boat, he began pacing the deck. “Tom hurt!” he repeated to himself. “Tom hurt? How—when—what could have hurt her?” He had seen her at the sea-wall, only three days before, rosy-cheeked, magnificent in health and strength. What had happened? At the St. George landing he jumped into a hack³, hurrying the cabman.

 

Jennie was watching for him at the garden gate. She said her mother was in the sitting-room⁴, and Gran'pop was with her. As they walked up the path she recounted rapidly the events of the past two days.

 

Tom was on the lounge by the window, under the flowering plants, when Babcock entered. She was apparently⁵ asleep. Across her forehead, covering the temples, two narrow bandages bound up her wound. At Babcock's step she opened her eyes, her bruised⁶, discolored face breaking into a smile. Then, noting his evident anxiety, she threw the shawl from her shoulders and sat up.

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