“Of course not,” Lucy agreed quickly. “This is our last evening alone, Jim.” John ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s all right for Lucy’s mother to forgive me, I suppose, but as my chief crime seems to have been marrying her daughter, I’m not so grateful as she probably imagines.” “She felt unkindly toward me long before I ever met you, John,” Lucy said seriously, looking at Dimmie. “But more since,” John insisted. “To be sufficient for yourselves is the greatest crime toward other people,” remarked Jim, straightening Dimmie’s collar. “Believe it’s begun to rain again,” he added, glancing toward the window. “You’ll be surprised when you see mother,” averred Lucy irrelevantly. Jim laughed. “I shouldn’t feel much anxiety about anybody kin to Lucy.” “Joking aside,” interrupted John, “to be blamed as I was has been a pretty painful experience.” Lucy smiled at him. “I don’t think anybody was to blame,” she decided. “You never do, Lucy,” returned Jim. “That’s a fact,” John complained. “Now I think there are times when it’s up to a man’s self-respect to blame the other fellow a little.” Jim puffed at his pipe, staring at the ceiling. “Well, John, if Lucy can overlook things you ought to be able to. She’s the one who has been up against it. You shouldn’t kick.” “Yes, he should, Jim,” put in Lucy hastily. “Anybody but John would feel resentment still.” John lighted another cigarette. “Oh, that’s nothing, Lucy. I couldn’t very well feel hard toward anyone who seems as cut up as your mother in--in her present situation.” “Plenty of people could,” insisted Lucy. “I guess she resented your father’s having been here,” said John, laughing uncomfortably. “Well, Papa has done so much for me that nothing can make me turn against him,” declared Lucy. John rumpled his hair again. “Hang it all, you can’t blame me for not being crazy to have a stranger in the house indefinitely, no matter how nice she might prove to be!” “Especially one who neglected to seek your acquaintance until she was in trouble,” put in Lucy with an unaccustomed approach to bitterness. Jim knocked the ashes from his pipe. “I don’t blame you for feeling a little sore toward your mother, Lucy,” he remarked. “I try not to,” said Lucy impatiently, “but----” Jim smiled. “If it had been anyone else but John, eh?” “If it had been anyone else but John,” she repeated; “exactly.” “He’s an honor to the family,” Jim declared, reaching over and pulling John’s rebellious hair. “He is.” Lucy was emphatic. John arose and went around the table to Lucy. “You’re a good kid, Lucy,” he said, leaning down and kissing her forehead. She stood up and smoothed his rumpled hair. “Where’s Dimmie gone to?” she asked. “Here I am, Mamma,” Dimmie called from the floor on the opposite side of the table. “Come and help Mother clear off the table, Sonny.” “I’ll help too,” offered Jim. “You can wipe the dishes,” she conceded. II It was eight o’clock in the morning.