keenly. But Jacky gave no
sign.

"Will you send for him, 'Aunt' Margaret?" said the girl, quietly.
"Without letting him know that I am here," she added, as an
afterthought.

"Certainly, dear," the old lady replied, rising with alacrity. "Just
wait a moment while I send word. Keewis hasn't gone to his teepee yet. I
set him to clean some knives just now. He can go. These Indians are
better messengers than they are domestics." Mrs. Abbot bustled out of
the room.

She returned a moment later, and, drawing her chair beside that of the
girl, seated herself and rested one soft white hand on those of her
companion, which were reposing clasped in the lap of her dungaree skirt.

"Now, tell me, dear--tell me all about it--I know, it is your uncle."

The sympathy of her tone could never have been conveyed in mere words.
This woman's heart expressed its kindliness in voice and eyes. There was
no resisting her, and Jacky made no effort to do so.

For one instant there flashed into the girl's face a look of utter
distress. She had come purposely to talk plainly to the woman whom she
had lovingly dubbed "Aunt Margaret," but she found it very hard when it
came to the point, She cast about in her mind for a beginning, then
abandoned the quest and blurted out lamely the very thing from which she
most shrank.

"Say, auntie, you've observed uncle lately--I mean how strange he is?
You've noticed how often, now, he is--is not himself?"

"Whisky," said the old lady, uncompromisingly. "Yes, dear, I have. It is
quite the usual thing to smell' old man Smith's vile liquor when John
Allandale is about. I'm glad you've spoken. I did not like to say
anything to you about it. John's on a bad trail."

"Yes, and a trail with a long, downhill gradient," replied Jacky, with a
rueful little smile. "Say, aunt," she went on, springing suddenly to her
feet and confronting the old lady's mildly-astonished gaze, "isn't there
anything we can do to stop him? What is it? This poker and whisky are
ruining him body and soul. Is the whisky the result of his losses? Or is
the madness for a gamble the result of the liquor?"

"Neither the one--nor the other, my dear. It is--Lablache."

The older woman bent over her darning, and the needle passed, rippling,
round a "potato" in the sock which was in her lap. Her eyes were
studiously fixed upon the work.

"Lablache--Lablache! It is always Lablache, whichever way I turn.
Gee--but the whole country reeks of h