"I used to like him a lot myself," went on the tired voice, "an’ I might even yet ef he’d behave himself and stay home, an’ pervide good fer us like he used to." There was a pleasant drawl to her tone, like a weary child’s. The father’s heart was touched. "Has my son sent you money during his absences?" The question had to be asked, but it cut the old gentleman to the heart to speak the words. She turned dull eyes on him. "Never a cent! He always said he was havin’ a hard time to get money enough to keep goin’, business was so bad, but I look notice he was dressed up good and smart every time he come home, which wa’n’t often." She sighed as if it did not matter much. "I could stand it all," she began again in her monotonous tone, "but I can’t stand him gettin’ married again. It ain’t right, and it ain’t the law, an’ I knew ef I didn’t stop it, nobody would, so I come on." "That was right," sighed the old gentleman, fumbling in his pocket, "perfectly right. Here, I want you to take this with you." He handed her a roll of bills, but she drew back, a red spot coming in either sallow cheek. "I ain’t an object of charity, thank you. I put a mortgage on pap’s shack to git the money to come out here, but when I get back I’ve got plenty of work, an’ I can pay it off in a year or so." "This is not charity," said the disconcerted old gentleman. "This belongs to you. I often lend Harrington money, and sometimes give him some, and this was to be given to him. I think it is safer with you. He can work for his own after this, and I will see that all I should have given him comes to your hands. I have your address. Take it for the children. I guess I have a right to give something to my own grandchildren," he said with a great stretch of his pride, looking down at the two forlorn little specimens of childhood hiding, half frightened, behind their mother’s skirts. The woman melted at once, the first warm tinge of life springing into her eyes at the mention of her children as his relatives. "Oh, if you put it that way, I’ll take it o’ course. It ain’t no fault of theirs that their father don’t do right by me, and they do need a sight of things I can’t manage to get anyhow. Last winter Harry was sick for four months—he’s named after his pa, Harry is." She pushed his hair fondly out of his eyes, and, moistening her fingers at her lips, rubbed vigorously at a black streak on Harry’s nose, at which he as vigorously protested. But the train was near at hand. Even then the distant rumble of its wheels could be heard. Mr. Van Rensselaer and William McCord drew near, the latter with an attitude of deferential expectancy. "Mr. Winthrop," said his host, "would it not be well to let your son’s wife meet him first?" The old father bowed. He saw at once the wisdom of this.