observe the growth of this intimacy or to think much
about Neil, but he might have been interested in a snatch of talk in the
Brady kitchen one evening, if he could have overheard it, more
interested than Mrs. Donovan, who did not remember it long.

Her son was an hour late for supper, but she was used to that, for now
that he was on his feet the house revolved around him. She served him,
and then sat watching him with her hands folded, and the new dignity
that had come with his first bit of success straightening her tired
shoulders, and the look of age and pain that had been growing there
since Maggie disappeared widening her soft, deep eyes. He had dropped
wearily into his chair, and he ate almost in silence, but she was used
to that, too.

Outside the short, June twilight was over, and a pattering summer rain
had begun to fall. Neil's dark hair was damp with it and clung to his
forehead in close curls. Once, passing his chair, she smoothed it with a
hand that was work hardened but finely made and could touch him lightly
and shyly still. Her son pulled her suddenly close, and hid his face
against her.

"What is it?" she asked, softly and not too soon as she stood still and
held him. "What's wrong, then? Where have you been?"

"Nothing's wrong. Nothing new. I went round to Theodore Burr's, but I
left there at five. I didn't mean to be late home or make work. But I
had a hunch to look in at Halloran's. I thought I'd find Charlie there.
I did, and I had to get him home."

"Taking your strength," said Mr. Brady's aunt, unfeelingly but
truthfully, "a good-for-nothing----"

"That's not the worst thing he does."

"What is, then?"

"Talking."

"He don't mean anything by that."

"Sometimes he does. Sometimes he tells you things that you never
suspected and you don't believe him at first, but you find they're true;
things that have been locked up in his addled brain so long that they're
out of date, and you don't know how to profit by them or handle them,
but they're true--all true."

"Neil, you don't half know what you're saying. You're tired."

Mrs. Donovan released herself abruptly to get the tea-pot from the
stove. Her son, who had been talking in a low, monotonous voice, more to
himself than her, watched her with dazed eyes that slowly cleared.

"I guess you're right," he said. "I didn't mean to frighten you. Charlie
was no more loose mouthed to-day than he always is. I got hold of
nothing new, but I have