In this conscientious way were the shackles of that unhallowed relationship slowly riveted on the unfortunate Prossy. In his intercourse with his comrades during the next two or three days their attitude was shown in frequent and ostentatious praise of his mother, and suggestive advice, such as: “I wouldn't stop at the saloon, Prossy; your old mother is wantin' ye;” or, “Chuck that 'ere tarpolin over your shoulders, Pross, and don't take your wet duds into the house that yer old mother's bin makin' tidy.” Oddly enough, much of this advice was quite sincere, and represented--for at least twenty minutes--the honest sentiments of the speaker. Prosper was touched at what seemed a revival of the sentiment under which he had acted, forgot his uneasiness, and became quite himself again--a fact also noticed by his critics. “Ye've only to keep him up to his work and he'll be the widder's joy agin,” said Cyrus Brewster. Certainly he was so far encouraged that he had a long conversation with Mrs. Pottinger that night, with the result that the next morning Joe Wynbrook, Cyrus Brewster, Hank Mann, and Kentucky Ike were invited to spend the evening at the new house. As the men, clean shirted and decently jacketed, filed into the neat sitting room with its bright carpet, its cheerful fire, its side table with a snowy cloth on which shining tea and coffee pots were standing, their hearts thrilled with satisfaction. In a large stuffed rocking chair, Prossy's old mother, wrapped up in a shawl and some mysterious ill health which seemed to forbid any exertion, received them with genteel languor and an extended black mitten. “I cannot,” said Mrs. Pottinger, with sad pensiveness, “offer you the hospitality of my own home, gentlemen--you remember, Prosper, dear, the large salon and our staff of servants at Lexington Avenue!--but since my son has persuaded me to take charge of his humble cot, I hope you will make all allowances for its deficiencies--even,” she added, casting a look of mild reproach on the astonished Prosper--“even if HE cannot.” “I'm sure he oughter to be thankful to ye, ma'am,” said Joe Wynbrook quickly, “for makin' a break to come here to live, jest ez we're thankful--speakin' for the rest of this camp--for yer lightin' us up ez you're doin'! I reckon I'm speakin' for the crowd,” he added, looking round him. Murmurs of “That's so” and “You bet” passed through the company, and one or two cast a half-indignant glance at Prosper. “It's only natural,” continued Mrs. Pottinger resignedly, “that having lived so long alone, my dear Prosper may at first be a little impatient of his old mother's control, and perhaps regret his invitation.” “Oh no, ma'am,” said the embarrassed Prosper.