"I have."
"Doubtless ye think I'm profitin' mightily with the money he passes over my bar."
"The gain will do you no good if you are," Moore declared, stoutly. His hostess was a very plain-spoken woman, and he knew that he could be equally outspoken and yet incur no disfavor.
Nancy lingered over his remark, carefully revolving its significance in her mind before attempting to defend herself.
"Tavern-keepin' is a mighty peculiar business, Mr. Moore. Ye're open to a lot o' criticism, and sometimes ye know in yer heart it's not quite fair. When I was married, my friends thought the inn would be a foine chance fer us to get along, so McVeigh bought it. I cooked good vittals, and waited on table meself in those days, an' times were brisk, because the railroad was bein' built past our door. Then McVeigh died, an' I had to stay by the old place, because I had nowhere else to go. 'Twas after that people began accusin' me o' fattenin' on the bones o' their misfortunes. And d'ye know why?"
Moore remained silent, but his looks were expectant, so Nancy continued: "Because I was makin' enough money to pay me debts with and keep a respectable house. I have always endeavored to give honest value, and let no man go beyond his means in the spendin'. Of course, I must have my trade, fer my expenses are high, seein' that I keep a few children about me whom nobody else wants, an' I have my Corney to do fer occasionally, but I never made more'n I could comfortably get along with. My interest to John Keene is no such a small item, an' why should I refuse if the son helps me to pay it with his trade? It's no so unjust, ye see. But, for all that, I have a mother's love for young John. Ever since he was ten years old I have carried him into town in me buggy, wheniver he had a mind to go. Ye see, he an' me had some great talks then, an' since he brings all his troubles to me. While other people have been blamin' him fer his capers I've been makin' up my mind whether he will turn into the right again or no."
"And what think you about him now?" questioned Moore, won into a more conciliatory frame of mind.
"Ye can mark my words, Mr. Moore, the day is not far distant when young John Keene'll be the most respected man in the country."
Moore laughed doubtfully as he said, "I hope so," and then hurried out, for it was past the hour when he should be at work. The day was very warm, and the sun's rays smote the grey sand of the Monk Road, reflecting back with trebled intensity. The traffic had ceased completely, and the quietness of Nancy McVeigh's tavern was undisturbed. Old Donald lay asleep in the haymow above the barn. Will Devitt had gone to town early in the morning, and Jennie and Katie Duncan were over at the cool edge of the lake, which lay a half-mile down the side road. Nancy was still sitting in the little parlor, but her knitting had dropped from her fingers, her eyes were closed, and her head pillowed against the chair-back.
A sudden noise awakened her, and going to the top of the stairs she saw two ladies hesitating in the entrance, as if they wished to come in but were somewhat doubtful of their welcome. One she recognized as Miss Sophia Piper, the housekeeper for James Piper, who owned the big house down the road; the other was a much younger woman and a stranger.