“So did I,” said Allan. “I wish something could be done.” Jack shook his head. “When drink gits its grip on a man as old as him,” he said, “they ain’t much hope.” “Thank goodness his wife’s dead,” added Mrs. Welsh. “It’s the wife that it’s allers the hardest on.” “It’s hard enough on the daughter,” broke in Mamie, softly. “Well, she won’t have to stand it much longer,” said Allan, seizing the opening Mamie’s remark gave him. “She’s going to be married next month.” Mamie gave a quick gasp, which she tried to change into a cough, and bent again toward the fire, hiding her throbbing face in her hands. Mary was staring at Allan, as though scarcely able to believe her ears. “Married?” she repeated. “Who to? Allan, do you mean—” “She’s going to marry a young lawyer named Knowlton,” broke in Allan, evenly. “It’s to be on the sixteenth, and she asked me to come.” Mary bent again to her knitting, with a sort of hiss that sounded suspiciously like “the hussy.” “She seems to be very happy over it,” Allan went on, anxious that these dear friends should understand, and yet fearing to say too much. “She’s a splendid girl, and beautiful as ever; but she’s changed, too. She’s not the same girl I used to know.” Mamie was looking at him now, with intense eyes. So was Mrs. Welsh. “She saw it in my face, somehow, and we laughed over it.” “Well,” said Jack, heavily, “I used t’ think you was kind o’ sweet on her yerself, Allan.” “I thought so, too,” answered Allan, smiling. “But I guess it was just girls in general—you know she was about the only one I ever met. I’m mighty glad she’s going to be happy. I’m going to the wedding. Why, where’s Mamie?” he added, looking around at the sound of a softly closed door. “She not going to bed already?” “Already!” echoed Mrs. Welsh. “Do you know it’s after eleven o’clock? Time everyone of us was a-bed. Come, now, off wid ye!” Allan laughed and arose, stretching himself lazily. “I hadn’t any idea it was so late,” he said. “Good-night,” and he mounted to his room. He went immediately to bed—but not to sleep. The events of the day had been many and interesting. He closed his eyes, and called up again the minutes he had passed with Betty Heywood—he heard her voice, he saw her face—but somehow another face kept slipping in between—a face with a freckled, tip-tilted nose, and tender, sympathetic mouth. Something within him seemed to warm and gladden, and he dropped off to sleep, at last, with a smile upon his lips. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XII THE INTERVIEW WITH NIXON