o
Faro Dave's "El Dorado" in front of him.

Bradley went home alone.

Supper was ready--it was always ready, as everything else was where
little old Mrs. MacQuigan was concerned; and there were four plates on
the red-checkered tablecloth--as there always were--even on pay day!
Bradley sat down, with Mrs. MacQuigan opposite him.

Not much to look at--Mrs. MacQuigan. A thin, sparse little woman in a
home-made black alpaca dress; the gray hair, thinning, brushed smooth
across her forehead; wrinkles in the patient face, a good many of them;
a hint of wistfulness in the black eyes, that weren't as bright as they
used to be; not very pretty hands, they were red and lumpy around the
knuckles. Not much to look at--just a little old woman, brave as God
Almighty makes them--just Mrs. MacQuigan.

Bradley, uneasy, glancing at her furtively now and again, ate savagely,
without relish. There wasn't much said; nothing at all about old John
and young Reddy. Mrs. MacQuigan never asked a question--it was pay day.

There wasn't much said until after the meal was over, and Bradley had
lighted his pipe and pushed back his chair; with Mrs. MacQuigan
lingering at the table, kind of wistfully it seemed, kind of listening,
kind of hanging back from putting away the dishes and taking the two
empty plates off the table--and then she smiled over at Bradley as
though there wasn't anything on her mind at all.

"Faith, Martin," she said, "sure I don't know at all, at all, what I'd
be doing not seeing you around the house; but it's wondered I have
often enough you've not picked out some nice girl and made a home of
your own."

The words in their suddenness came to Bradley with a shock; and, his
face strained, he stared queerly at Mrs. MacQuigan.

A little startled, Mrs. MacQuigan half rose from her chair.

"What is it, Martin?" she asked tremulously.

For a moment more, Bradley stared at her. Strange that she should have
spoken like that to-night when there seemed more than ever a sort of
grim analogy between her life and his, that seemed like a bond to-night
drawing them closer--that seemed, somehow, to urge him to pour out his
heart to her--there was motherliness in the sweet old face that seemed
to draw him out of himself as no one else had for more years than he
cared to remember--as even she never had before.

"What is it, Martin?" she asked again.

And then Bradley smiled.

"I've picked her out," he said, in a low voice. "I