"'He was more than bridge foreman,' she said, 'he was a son o' the contractor himself, an' when he left for the city, the mornin' after our marriage, it was to go away to forrin parts, South America or some other outlandish place. His father made him do it, fer he was full o' pride, and wanted no country lass as a wife fer his son. I stayed at home as long as I could, an' then my sisters discovered the truth. They scolded me dreadfully, an' my father threatened to lock me up. That evening I walked into town, an' took the train fer the city. I searched fer two or three days before I learned the true name o' my husband, an' when I went to his home, which was grander than any building I had seen before, they told me I was crazy. I had married a man named Green, and he was not their son. I knew that they were deceivin' me, but I was frightened an' I hurried away. I struggled fer a while alone, an' then, when the baby came, a good woman out o' pity took me in an' kept me till I could go to my work again. Then his family heard o' the child an' sent fer me. When I called, they told me that they were sorry for me an' wished to help me, although they would not admit that they were bound by law to do so. They had secured permission to place my baby in a home, an' I was glad enough o' the chance, fer I was afeared that I could never support it myself. I had the privilege of seeing her once or twice a week, an' those visits were the bright spots in my life. I worked very hard, thinkin' that it would cure my broken spirit an' the yearnin' which I had fer my child. But it seemed useless to try, fer my will power was weakened by my sufferin', so I went over to the home, an' the good people, knowin' that I was her mother, let me take her out with me for an airin'. I just couldn't part with her again, so I went to my rooms, gathered my clothes into a bundle, and started fer home. I was sort o' wild then, an' did not know what I was doing, but now I know that I did wrong, fer there is no welcome fer me under my father's roof.
"'Will ye keep me fer a week, till I am stronger, Nancy McVeigh?' says she, 'an' then I'll go back, an' perhaps I'll be more content.'
"I tell ye, Mr. Hyden, my heart bled fer the lass. The likes o' her pleadin' with a rough old tavern-keeper fer her very livin'. 'Ye did right to come home to me, Florence Raeburn. I'm not ashamed to have ye here,' I answered her."
Mrs. McVeigh paused in her story to wipe away the tears which were stealing down the furrows in her cheeks, but Hyden, in a strange, hard voice, bade her proceed.
"The mother died two weeks afterwards, sir. I think it was her lungs that were affected, but never a word of it did I send to Silas Raeburn or his people. I could not fergit the sting of the words he had spoken to me. I felt that it was my secret, an' when I took the baby from Florence's arms fer the last time, she smiled and whispered, 'Ye'll no give Jennie up, Nancy. Ye'll be a mother to her yersilf?'"
"I am judged! I am judged!" broke in Mr. Hyden, standing before her, his features working in a desperate struggle with his emotions. Then he spoke with more calmness. "She is my grandchild," he said.
The days that followed were full of torture for the old keeper of the inn. Mr. Hyden wanted to take Jennie back to the city with him to be educated. He would do for her all that he could, as the repentance for his harshness to Jennie's mother was upon him. He waited day by day, until Nancy could make up her mind. Of all Nancy's troubles this was the sorest, for Jennie had been closer to her than her own son. Her years were creeping over her, and she leaned on the young girl for sympathy and advice. Yet in her heart she knew that Jennie must go, and it was her duty to permit it. Her victory came suddenly, and one morning saw her face free from clouds, and in their place a glimpse of her old kindly smile.
"Take her, Mr. Hyden, an' make her a lady, fer the lass is above the best that I can give her. You'll let her come to see me sometimes, an' ye'll promise to be good to her?" she asked, wistfully. So it was that Jennie left the old tavern on the Monk Road, jubilant in her innocent way at the happy prospects which old Nancy painted for her, but when she was gone Nancy turned to her work again with a heavy heart.