“Paintin’ a picture?” repeated Mrs. Welsh. “Is she a painter?”
“Yes, and a mighty good one, so far as I was able to judge, though she laughed at me and said she wasn’t. She seemed glad to see me and we took a little walk together.”
He paused a moment, for there was an unaccountable difficulty, somehow, in telling what he had to tell. Mamie’s eyes were on his face, and she was deadly pale.
“She told me about her work,” he went on. “She said she’d had to do something for a living, and had done well with her paintings. I should think she would.”
“Had to do something for a livin’?” echoed Mrs. Welsh. “Where’s her father?”
“He’s going down grade,” answered Allan, soberly, and told what he had heard of Mr. Heywood’s dissipation.
“I’m mighty sorry t’ hear that,” remarked Jack, when Allan had finished. “Mr. Heywood was a good man an’ a square man. I’ve seen better superintendents—we’ve got a better one now—but, all the same, I liked Mr. Heywood.”
“So did I,” said Allan. “I wish something could be done.”
Jack shook his head.
“When drink gits its grip on a man as old as him,” he said, “they ain’t much hope.”