"It's one of mine too," she smiled back with soft, shining eyes.
"My wife's name was Annie," he said again and as suddenly.
"Have you lost her?" Mrs. Dustin asked gently.
"Yes. Quite a while ago. You make me think of her. She was little and had blue eyes. She died on me when the baby came. She took the baby with her."
"Oh," murmured Mrs. Dustin and she forgot the beer growing stale on the counter, forgot the slot machines against the walls, forgot everything but this man who for this minute stood out from a world of men with this unhealed sorrow in his heart.
"And for bonny Annie Laurie
I'd lay me doon and dee,"
sang the famous singer softly and the proprietor turned his head away.
"It gets damn lonesome sometimes," he said huskily. And at that a toil-worn hand touched his arm in healing sympathy and a little shoemaker who had come out into the night with anger in his heart said with a huskiness that rivalled the proprietor's,
"My God, man, don't I know!"
The minister played other tunes, then he pulled out his watch and laughed and that ended the party. In a few minutes he was alone with the proprietor.