ociable. It's Christmas Eve, isn't it?"

"Yeah!" Nance answered cheerfully, taking her seat and glancing timidly
at her guest.

Jim seized the jug, poured out two drinks of corn whiskey, handed her
one and raised his:

"Well, here's lookin' at you, old girl."

He paused, lowered his cup and smiled.

"But say, give me a toast." He nodded toward the shed-room. "I'm on my
honeymoon, you know."

His hostess laughed timidly and glanced at him from the corners of her
eyes. She wished to be sociable and make up as best she could for her
rudeness on their arrival.

"I ain't never heard but one fur honeymooners," she said softly.

"Let's have it. I've never heard a toast for honeymooners in my life.
It'll be new to me--fire away!"

Nance fumbled her faded dress with her left hand and laughed again.

"'May ye live long and prosper an' all yer troubles be LITTLE ONES!'"

She laughed aloud at the old, worm-eaten joke and Jim joined.

"Bully! Bully, old girl--bully!"

He lifted his cup and drained it at one draught and Nance did the same.

He seized the jug and poured another drink for each.

"Once more----"

He leaned across the table.

"And here's one for you." He squared his body and lifted his cup:

"To all your little ones--no matter how big they are!"

Jim drained his liquor without apparently noticing her agitation, though
he was watching her keenly from the corner of his eye.

The cup she held was lowered slowly until the whiskey poured over her
dress and on the floor. Her thin figure drooped pathetically and her
voice was the faintest sob:

"I--I--ain't got--none!"

"I heard you had a boy," Jim said carelessly.

The drooping figure shot upright as if a bolt of lightning had swept
her. She stared at him in tense silence, trying to gather her wits
before she answered.

"Who told you anything about me?" she demanded sternly.

"A fellow in New York," Jim continued with studied carelessness--"said
he used to live down here."

"He LIVED down here?" she repeated blankly.

"Yep--come now, loosen up and tell us about the kid."

"There ain't nuthin' ter tell--he's dead," she cried pathetically.

"He said you deserted the child and left him to starve."

"He said that?" she growled.

"Yep."

He was silent again and watched her keenly.

She fumbled her dress and glanced nervously across the table as if
afraid to ask more. Unable to wait for him to speak, she cried nervously
at last:

"Well--w