gently suggested that
the old father needed help. They played cards occasionally during such
times as household cares drew Bertha away, and held much discussion of
mines and mining--though here Mart was singularly reticent, and afforded
little information about his own affairs. His trust in Charles did not
go so far as that. With Crego, however, he freely discussed his
condition, for the lawyer had written his new will, and was in
possession of it.

"I'm like a battered old tin can," he said once. "Did ye ever try to put
a tin can back into shape? Ye cannot. If ye push it back here, it bulges
there. The doctors are tryin' hard to take the kinks out o' me, but 'tis
impossible--I see that--but I may live on for a long time. Already me
mind misgives me about Bertie--she's too young to be tied up to a
shoulder-shotten old plug like mesilf."

To this Crego soothingly responded. "I don't think you need to worry.
She's as happy as a blackbird in spring."

Once he said to Bertha: "I niver intended to limp around like this. I
niver thought to be the skate I am this day," and his despondency
darkened his face as he spoke. "I could not blame you if you threw me
out. I'm only a big nuisance."

"You will be if you talk like that," she briskly answered, and that is
all she seemed to make of his protest. She had indeed been reared in an
atmosphere of loyalty to marriage as well as of chastity, and she never
for a moment considered her vows weakened by her husband's broken frame.

This fidelity Charles discovered to his own confusion one night as he
came home inflamed by liquor and reckless of hand, to find her sitting
alone in the library writing a letter. It was not late, but Mart,
feeling tired, had gone to bed, and Mrs. Gilman was in Sibley.

Bertha looked up as he entered, and without observing that he was drunk,
went on with her writing, which was ever a painful ceremony with her.
Dropping his coat where he stood, and with his hat awry on the red globe
of his head, the dastard staggered towards her, his eyes lit with a
glare of reckless desire.

"Say," he began, "this is luck. I want 'o talk with you, Bertie. I want
'o find out why you run away from me? What's the matter with me,
anyhow?"

She realized now the foul, satyr-like mood of the man, and sprang up
tense and strong, silently confronting him.

He mumbled with a grin: "You're a peach! What's the matter? Why don't
you like me? Ain't I all right? I'm a gentleman.