But at Ranny he neither snarled nor scowled, nor had he spoken any word to him on the subject of the great calamity. No reproach, no reminder of warnings given, none of that reiterated, "I told you so," in which, Ranny reflected, he might have taken it out of him. He also seemed to regard his son Randall as one smitten by God and afflicted, to whose high and sacred suffering silence was the appropriate tribute. His very moroseness provided the sanctuary of silence. And all the time he drank; he drank worse than ever; furtively, continuously he drank. Nobody could stop him, for nobody ever saw him doing it. He did it, they could only suppose, behind Mr. Ponting's back in the dispensing-room. They were free to suppose anything now; for, since Ranny's great delivering outburst, they could discuss it; and in discussion they found relief. Ranny's mother owned as much. She had suffered (that also she owned) from the strain of keeping it up. Ranny's outburst had saved her, vicariously. It was as if she had burst out herself. There were, of course, lengths to which she would never go, admissions which she could not bring herself to make. There had to be some subterfuge, some poor last shelter for her pride. And so, of the depression in Fulleymore's business she would say before Mr. Ponting, "It's those Drug Stores that are ruining him," and Mr. Ponting would reply, gravely, "They'd ruin anybody." Mr. Ponting was a fresh-colored young man and good-looking, with his blue eyes and his yellow hair sleeked backward like folded wings, so different from Mercier. Mr. Ponting had conceived an affection for Ranny and the children. He would find excuses to go up to the storeroom, where he would pretend to be looking for things while he was really playing with Dossie. He would sit on Ranny's bed while Ranny was undressing, and together they would consider, piously, the grave case of the Humming-bird, and how, between them, they could best "keep him off it." "It's the dispensary spirits that he gets at," Mr. Ponting said. "That's the trouble." (And it always had been.) "The queer thing is," said Ranny, "that you never fairly see him tight. Not to speak of." "That's the worst of it," said Mr. Ponting. "I wish I _could_ see your father tight--tumbling about a bit, I mean, and being funny. The beastly stuff's going for him inside, all the time--undermining him. There isn't an organ," said Mr. Ponting, solemnly, "in your father's body that it hasn't gone for." "How d'you know?" "Why, by the medicines he takes. He's giving himself strophanthus now, for his heart." "I say--d'you think my mother knows that?" "It's impossible to say what your mother knows. More than she lets on, I shouldn't be surprised." Mr. Ponting pondered. "It's wonderful how he keeps it up. His dignity, I mean."