"There was a certain young lass—I'll no tell ye her name, but she is fit fer the best man in the world—came to me to-day and asked me to speak to ye fer her sake. Man, ye must be up and doin', fer she loves ye. She told me so with her own lips. Ye can go away fer two years. It's no time fer youngsters to abide, and when ye have proved yerself, come back an' she'll be waitin' and proud o' ye."
Young John Keene slowly rose to his feet. He took Nancy's hand in his and looked her squarely in the eye.
"You are not joking, Mrs. McVeigh?" he asked.
"As I hope to live, John Keene, I'm tellin' ye the honest truth," she replied.
"I'll do it," he muttered, hoarsely.
When Nancy went to her bed she gazed awhile at the two photos tacked on the wall, then at the sleeping face of Katie Duncan. "I've won him, thank God!" she murmured, and fell asleep smiling.
CHAPTER IV.
THE WRECK AT THE JUNCTION.
The widow McVeigh's face was a picture of sobriety, in fact, almost severity. The features were conspicuous because of the abrupt falling in of her cheeks, and her grey eyes were deep set and touched at the corners by plenteous crowsfeet. Yet when the world looked at her casually it saw a smiling countenance. Some thought her face hard, and the smile bold rather than a kindly one; others, that she was of coarse intellect and smiled because she could not appreciate the daily trials and troubles of the poor. These opinions were more generally shared by the good temperance folk of the neighborhood and in the town. They only saw a tall, grey-haired woman, standing amidst the surroundings of a ramshackle inn of the country road, and taking toll from the rougher classes that passed to and fro. But had they probed farther into her life they might have unearthed the beautiful from the clay.