d, Royce?" she goes on pleadin'. "You know how we
have moved from place to place; how at times my cards have read 'Mrs.
James R. Hammond,' then 'Mrs. J. Royce Hammond,' and finally 'Mrs. Royce
Hammond'? But it was all useless. Always someone came who knew, and
after that--well, I was just the widow of Hungry Jim Hammond.

"Not that I cared for myself. I was never ashamed of Hungry Jim while he
lived. He was a real man, Jim Hammond was, honest and kind and brave.
And if he was crude and rough, it was only because he'd lived that way,
because he'd had to. He let them call him Hungry Jim too. No one ever
knew him to resent it. But it hurt, just the same. He tried to live it
down, there in Denver, tried to be refined and polite; but those years
in the desert couldn't be wiped out so easily. He was Hungry Jim to the
last.

"He wanted his son to be different, though. 'Outfit him to travel with
the best, Annie,' he used to say to me during those last days, 'and see
that he gets on a polish. Promise, now!' I promised. And I've done as
well as I could. I've lived for that. But I soon found that real
refinement was something you couldn't order at the store. I found that
before I could get it for Royce I must have at least a speaking
acquaintance with it myself.

"That meant associating with nice people. But nice people didn't care to
mix with Mrs. Jim Hammond. I didn't blame them for shutting their front
doors to me. I had to get in, though. So I slipped in by the back
way--as housekeeper. I kept my eyes and ears open. I picked up their
little tricks of speech and manner, their ways of doing things. I toned
my voice down, schooled myself, until I knew the things that Royce ought
to know. It wasn't easy, especially the giving him up during his
holidays and sending him off with his college friends, when I wanted him
to be with me. Oh, how much I did miss him those two summers! But I had
promised Jim, and--and--well, I think I've made of Royce what he wanted
me to make of him."

Somehow or other, as she stops, we all turns towards young Hammond. His
face ain't pale any more. It's well pinked up.

"By Jove!" says J. Bayard enthusiastic. "But that's what I call real
pluck, Mrs. Hammond. And your son does you credit too. So what if the
Twombley-Cranes might remember you as a former housekeeper? They don't
know the young man, needn't know just who he is. Why not accept for him?
Why not give him a chance? What do you say, McCabe?"