e's mad, when she's sad. I hev heard her sing
her baby songs when she thought nobody was listenin', an' she sings 'em
like my mother did, an' my mother wasn't false; no more is Lizzi."

The men clamored their approval of Blind Benner's tribute to Lizzi, but
Mrs. McAnay remained silent, still doubting, and Lizzi, though her heart
hungered for her mother's trust, would not ask for it.

CHAPTER XI.

LIZZI STOPS A FIGHT.

Saturday evening was a money-making time for the landlord of the
"Three-Girls" Tavern, as the inn was familiarly called. On that evening
old scores were wiped off the slate and new ones opened, to be
lengthened during the coming week until on the next Saturday they
followed their predecessors into Nowhere. Into Nowhere? Perhaps. But
Memory hides in Nowhere, and Memory is terrifying when she catches one
in a lonely way and brings him up with hair on end, as he gazes at the
dog Conscience, whose leash she seems ready to let slip that he may rend
the poor wayfarer. Yet, the score is erased from the landlord's slate
and, it may be, from memory's tablet--for the nonce.

The usual Saturday night crowd had gathered in the bar-room, and tongues
had been loosened by drink. Words flew thick and fast. Language was not
choice. At short intervals there was a demand for an apology, or a
fight. The McAnay brothers were there and all drinking, though not very
deeply. Cassi, who was standing treat, was the centre of a group of
muscular men, some of whom were intoxicated. The glasses had been filled
with pure rye whiskey. They were held high in the air, then they were
clinked, while the landlord bowed and smirked as he waited for the
toast.

Henry Myers gave it.

"Here's ter yer and the rest uv yer family, and ter the rightin' uv yer
sister's fair name."

Cassi's face flushed. Levi and Matthi scowled, but the others drank off
the toast with a smack. Levi, Matthi, and Cassi did not drink, but the
latter pretended to do so, holding the glass to his lips. When the
others were done and the glasses rattled on the bar, he removed the
glass from his lips. The whiskey was untouched. Before a question arose
as to why he had not drank, he spit into the liquid and threw it into
Henry's face.

"Thet's the way I drink such a toast, Hen Myers."

Henry, pale with rage and goaded by the challenge and the loud laugh
that greeted Cassi's act, leaped at the latter, but was met with a blow
that staggered, but did not fell him.