comfort her in his quiet way.

"I wouldn't worry, Miss Mary. I think they are nice young fellows, and
you know young girls are the same the world over. I am sure they are
all right, and will look after her--you know, some people do think a
whole lot of dancing and jolly company, and it is punishment for them
to have to talk all the time on serious things. I don't blame her, for
I'm poor company--and only a policeman, after all."

John Barton looked disconsolately at the door which had slammed after
the trio.

"You do think it's all right, don't you, Burke?"

"Why, certainly," said Burke. He lied like a gentleman and a soldier.

Old Barton was ill at ease, although he endeavored to cover his anxiety
with his usual optimism.

"We are too hard on the youngsters, I fear," he began. "It's true that
Lorna has not had very much pleasure since I was injured. The poor
child has had many sleepless nights of worry since then, as well. You
know she has always been our baby, while my Mary here has been the
little mother since my dear wife left us."

Mary forced a smiling reply: "You dear daddy, don't worry. I know
Lorna's fine qualities, and I wish we could entertain more for her than
we do right in our little flat. That's one of the causes of New York's
unnatural life. In the small towns and suburbs girls have porches and
big parlors, while they live in a surrounding of trees and flowers.
They have home music, jolly gatherings about their own pianos; we can't
afford even to rent a piano just now. So, there, daddy, be patient and
forgive Lorna's thoughtlessness."

Barton's face beamed again, as he caressed his daughter's soft brown
curls, when she leaned over his chair to kiss him.

"My blessed little Mary: you are as old as your mother--as old as all
motherhood, in your wisdom. I feel more foolishly a boy each day, as I
realize the depth of your devotion and love."

Burke's eyes filled with tears, which he manfully wiped away with a
sneaking little movement of his left hand, as he pretended to look out
of the window toward the distant lights. A man whose tear-ducts have
dried with adolescence is cursed with a shriveled soul for the rest of
his life.

"Now, we mustn't let our little worry make you feel badly, Mr. Burke.
Do you know, I've been thinking about a little matter in which you are
concerned? Why don't you have your interests looked after in your home
town?"

"My uncle? Well, I am afraid that's