d that I am acting as a sort of temporary executor merely
because Mr. Speranza was formerly my friend and not because I have any
pecuniary interest in the settlement of his affairs.

"'Very truly yours,

"'MARCUS W. WEISSMANN.'"

"Weissman! Another Portygee!" snorted Captain Lote.

"But--but what does it MEAN?" begged Mrs. Snow. "Why--why should he want
to see you, Zelotes? And the boy--why--why, that's HER boy. It's Janie's
boy he must mean, Zelotes."

Her husband nodded.

"Hers and that blasted furriner's," he muttered. "I suppose so."

"Oh, DON'T speak that way, Zelotes! Don't! He's dead."

Captain Lote's lips tightened. "If he'd died twenty years ago 'twould
have been better for all hands," he growled.

"Janie's boy!" repeated Olive slowly. "Why--why, he must be a big boy
now. Almost grown up."

Her husband did not speak. He was pacing the floor, his hands in his
pockets.

"And this man wants to see you about him," said Olive. Then, after a
moment, she added timidly: "Are you goin', Zelotes?"

"Goin'? Where?"

"To New York? To see this lawyer man?"

"I? Not by a jugful! What in blazes should I go to see him for?"

"Well--well, he wants you to, you know. He wants to talk with you about
the--the boy."

"Humph!"

"It's her boy, Zelotes."

"Humph! Young Portygee!"

"Don't, Zelotes! Please! . . . I know you can't forgive that--that man.
We can't either of us forgive him; but--"

The captain stopped in his stride. "Forgive him!" he repeated. "Mother,
don't talk like a fool. Didn't he take away the one thing that I was
workin' for, that I was plannin' for, that I was LIVIN' for? I--"

She interrupted, putting a hand on his sleeve.

"Not the only thing, dear," she said. "You had me, you know."

His expression changed. He looked down at her and smiled.

"That's right, old lady," he admitted. "I had you, and thank the
Almighty for it. Yes, I had you . . . But," his anger returning, "when
I think how that damned scamp stole our girl from us and then neglected
her and killed her--"

"ZELOTES! How you talk! He DIDN'T kill her. How can you!"

"Oh, I don't mean he murdered her, of course. But I'll bet all I've got
that he made her miserable. Look here, Mother, you and she used to write
back and forth once in a while. In any one of those letters did she ever
say she was happy?"

Mrs. Snow's answer was somewhat equivocal. "She never said she was
unhappy," she replied. Her husband sniffed and res