The Portygee

CHAPTER II

The story of the events which led up to the coming, on this December night, of a “half-breed” grandson to the Snow homestead, was an old story in South Harniss. The date of its beginning was as far back as the year 1892.

In the fall of that year Captain Zelotes Snow was in Savannah. He was in command of the coasting schooner Olive S. and the said schooner was then discharging a general cargo, preparatory to loading with rice and cotton for Philadelphia. With the captain in Savannah was his only daughter, Jane Olivia, age a scant eighteen, pretty, charming, romantic and head over heels in love with a handsome baritone then singing in a popular-priced grand opera company. It was because of this handsome baritone, who, by the way, was a Spaniard named Miguel Carlos Speranza, that Jane Snow was then aboard her father's vessel. Captain Lote was not in the habit of taking his women-folks on his voyages with him. “Skirts clutter up the deck too much,” was his opinion.

He had taken Jane, however, not only on this voyage, but on that preceding it, which had been to Rio. It was Captain Lote's belief, and his wife's hope, that a succession of sea winds might blow away recollections of Senor Speranza—“fan the garlic out of her head,” as the captain inelegantly expressed it. Jane had spent her sixteenth and seventeenth years at a school for girls near Boston. The opera company of which Speranza was a member was performing at one of the minor theaters. A party of the school girls, duly chaperoned and faculty-guarded, of course, attended a series of matinees. At these matinees Jane first saw her hero, brave in doublet and hose, and braver still in melody and romance. She and her mates looked and listened and worshiped from afar, as is the habit of maidenly youth under such circumstances. There is no particular danger in such worship provided the worshiper remains always at a safely remote distance from the idol. But in Jane's case this safety-bar was removed by Fate. The wife of a friend of her father's, the friend being a Boston merchant named Cole with whom Captain Zelotes had had business dealings for many years, was a music lover. She was in the habit of giving what she was pleased to call “musical teas” at her home. Jane, to whom Mr. and Mrs. Cole had taken a marked fancy, was often invited to those teas and, because the Coles were “among our nicest people,” she was permitted by the school authorities to attend.

At one of those teas Senor Miguel Carlos Speranza was the brightest star. The Senor, then in his twenty-ninth year, handsome, talented and picturesque, shone refulgent. Other and far more experienced feminine hearts than Jane Snow's were flutteringly disturbed by the glory of his rays. Jane and he met, they shook hands, they conversed. And at subsequent teas they met again, for Speranza, on his part, was strongly attracted to the simple, unaffected Cape Cod schoolgirl. It was not her beauty alone—though beauty she had and of an unusual type—it was something else, a personality which attracted all who met her. The handsome Spaniard had had many love affairs of a more or less perfunctory kind, but here was something different, something he had not known. He began by exerting his powers of fascination in a lazy, careless way. To his astonishment the said powers were not overwhelming. If Jane was fascinated she was not conquered. She remained sweet, simple, direct, charmingly aloof.

And Speranza was at first puzzled, then piqued, then himself madly fascinated. He wrote fervid letters, he begged for interviews, he haunted each one of Mrs. Cole's “teas.” And, at last, he wrung from Jane a confession of her love, her promise to marry him. And that very week Miss Donaldson, the head of the school, discovered and read a package of the Senor's letters to her pupil.

Captain Zelotes happened to be at home from a voyage. Being summoned from South Harniss, he came to Boston and heard the tale from Miss Donaldson's agitated lips. Jane was his joy, his pride; her future was the great hope and dream of his life. WHEN she married—which was not to be thought of for an indefinite number of years to come—she would of course marry a—well, not a President of the United States, perhaps—but an admiral possibly, or a millionaire, or the owner of a fleet of steamships, or something like that. The idea that she should even think of marrying a play-actor was unbelievable. The captain had never attended the performance of an opera; what was more, he never expected to attend one. He had been given to understand that a “parcel of play-actin' men and women hollered and screamed to music for a couple of hours.” Olive, his wife, had attended an opera once and, according to her, it was more like a cat fight than anything else. Nobody but foreigners ever had anything to do with operas. And for foreigners of all kinds—but the Latin variety of foreigner in particular—Captain Zelotes Snow cherished a detest which was almost fanatic.

And now his daughter, his own Janie, was receiving ardent love letters from a play-acting foreigner, a Spaniard, a “Portygee,” a “macaroni-eater”! When finally convinced that it was true, that the letters had really been written to Jane, which took some time, he demanded first of all to be shown the “Portygee.” Miss Donaldson could not, of course, produce the latter forthwith, but she directed her irate visitor to the theater where the opera company was then performing. To the theater Captain Zelotes went. He did not find Speranza there, but from a frightened attendant he browbeat the information that the singer was staying at a certain hotel. So the captain went to the hotel. It was eleven o'clock in the morning, Senor Speranza was in bed and could not be disturbed. Couldn't, eh? By the great and everlasting et cetera and continued he was going to be disturbed then and there. And unless some of the hotel's “hired help” set about the disturbing it would be done for them. So, rather than summon the police, the hotel management summoned its guest, and the first, and only, interview between the father and lover of Jane Snow took place.

It was not a long interview, but it was spirited. Captain Zelotes began by being what he considered diplomatic. Having assured his wife before leaving home, and the alarmed Miss Donaldson subsequently, that there was to be no trouble whatever—everything would be settled as smooth and easy as slidin' downhill; “that feller won't make any fuss, you'll see”—having thus prophesied, the captain felt it incumbent upon himself to see to the fulfillment. So he began by condescendingly explaining that of course he was kind of sorry for the young man before him, young folks were young folks and of course he presumed likely 'twas natural enough, and the like of that, you understand. But of course also Mr. Speranza must realize that the thing could not go on any further. Jane was his daughter and her people were nice people, and naturally, that being the case, her mother and he would be pretty particular as to who she kept company with, to say nothing of marrying, which event was not to be thought of for ten years, anyway. Now he didn't want to be—er—personal or anything like that, and of course he wouldn't think of saying that Mr. Speranza wasn't a nice enough man for—well, for—for . . . You see, everybody wasn't as particular as he and Mrs. Snow were. But—

Here Senor Speranza interrupted. He politely desired to know if the person speaking was endeavoring to convey the idea that he, Miguel Carlos Speranza, was not of sufficient poseetion, goodness, standing, what it is? to be considered as suitor for that person's daughter's hand. Did Meester Snow comprehend to whom he addressed himself?

The interview terminated not long after. The captain's parting remark was in the nature of an ultimatum. It was to the effect that if Speranza, or any other condemned undesirable like him, dared to so much as look in the direction of Jane Olivia Snow, his daughter, he personally would see that the return for that look was a charge of buckshot. Speranza, white-faced and furiously gesticulative, commanded the astonished bellboy to put that “Bah! pig-idiot!” out into the hall and air the room immediately afterward.

Having, as he considered, satisfactorily attended to the presumptuous lover, Captain Zelotes returned to the school and to what he believed would be the comparatively easy task, the bringing of his daughter to reason. Jane had always been an obedient girl, she was devoted to her parents. Of course, although she might feel rather disappointed at first, she would soon get over it. The idea that she might flatly refuse to get over it, that she might have a will of her own, and a determination equal to that of the father from whom she inherited it, did not occur to the captain at all.

But his enlightenment was prompt and complete. Jane did not rage or become hysterical, she did not even weep in his presence. But, quietly, with a set of her square little chin, she informed Captain Zelotes that she loved Speranza, that she meant to marry him and that she should marry him, some day or other. The captain raged, commanded, pleaded, begged. What was the matter with her? What had come over her? Didn't she love her father and mother any more that she should set out to act this way? Yes, she declared that she loved them as much as ever, but that she loved her lover more than all the world, and no one—not even her parents—should separate them.

Captain Zelotes gave it up at last. That is, he gave up the appeal to reason and the pleadings. But he did not give up the idea of having his own way in the matter; being Zelotes Snow, he certainly did not give that up. Instead he took his daughter home with him to South Harniss, where a tearful and heart-broken Olive added her persuasions to his. But, when she found Jane obdurate, Mrs. Snow might have surrendered. Not her husband, however. Instead he conceived a brilliant idea. He was about to start on a voyage to Rio Janeiro; he would take his wife and daughter with him. Under their immediate observation and far removed from the influence of “that Portygee,” Jane would be in no danger and might forget.

Jane made no remonstrance. She went to Rio and returned. She was always calm, outwardly pleasant and quiet, never mentioned her lover unless in answer to a question; but she never once varied from her determination not to give him up. The Snows remained at home for a month. Then Zelotes, Jane accompanying him, sailed from Boston to Savannah. Olive did not go with them; she hated the sea and by this time both she and her husband were somewhat reassured. So far as they could learn by watchful observation of their daughter, the latter had not communicated with Speranza nor received communications from him. If she had not forgotten him it seemed likely that he had forgotten her. The thought made the captain furiously angry, but it comforted him, too.

During the voyage to Savannah this sense of comfort became stronger. Jane seemed in better spirits. She was always obedient, but now she began to seem almost cheerful, to speak, and even laugh occasionally just as she used to. Captain Zelotes patted himself on the back, figuratively. His scheme had been a good one.

And in Savannah, one afternoon, Jane managed to elude her father's observation, to leave the schooner and to disappear completely. And that night came a letter. She and Miguel Carlos Speranza had been in correspondence all the time, how or through whose connivance is a mystery never disclosed. He had come to Savannah, in accordance with mutual arrangement; they had met, were married, and had gone away together.

“I love you, Father,” Jane wrote in the letter. “I love you and Mother so very, VERY much. Oh, PLEASE believe that! But I love him, too. And I could not give him up. You will see why when you know him, really know him. If it were not for you I should be SO happy. I know you can't forgive me now, but some day I am sure you will forgive us both.”

Captain Zelotes was far, far from forgiveness as he read that letter. His first mate, who was beside him when he opened and read it, was actually frightened when he saw the look on the skipper's face. “He went white,” said the mate; “not pale, but white, same as a dead man, or—or the underside of a flatfish, or somethin'. 'For the Lord sakes, Cap'n,' says I, 'what's the matter?' He never answered me, stood starin' at the letter. Then he looked up, not at me, but as if somebody else was standin' there on t'other side of the cabin table. 'Forgive him!' he says, kind of slow and under his breath. 'I won't forgive his black soul in hell.' When I heard him say it I give you my word my hair riz under my cap. If ever there was killin' in a man's voice and in his looks 'twas in Cap'n Lote's that night. When I asked him again what was the matter he didn't answer any more than he had the first time. A few minutes afterwards he went into his stateroom and shut the door. I didn't see him again until the next mornin'.”

Captain Zelotes made no attempt to follow the runaway couple. He did take pains to ascertain that they were legally married, but that was all. He left his schooner in charge of the mate at Savannah and journeyed north to South Harniss and his wife. A week he remained at home with her, then returned to the Olive S. and took up his command and its duties as if nothing had happened. But what had happened changed his whole life. He became more taciturn, a trifle less charitable, a little harder and more worldly. Before the catastrophe he had been interested in business success and the making of money chiefly because of his plans for his daughter's future. Now he worked even harder because it helped him to forget. He became sole owner of the Olive S., then of other schooners. People spoke of him as one destined to become a wealthy man.

Jane lived only a few years after her marriage. She died at the birth of her second child, who died with her. Her first, a boy, was born a year after the elopement. She wrote her mother to tell that news and Olive answered the letter. She begged permission of her husband to invite Jane and the baby to visit the old home. At first Zelotes said no, flatly; the girl had made her bed, let her lie in it. But a year later he had so far relented as to give reluctant consent for Jane and the child to come, provided her condemned husband did not accompany them. “If that low-lived Portygee sets foot on my premises, so help me God, I'll kill him!” declared the captain. In his vernacular all foreigners were “Portygees.”

But Jane was as proud and stubborn as he. Where her husband was not welcome she would not go. And a little later she had gone on the longest of all journeys. Speranza did not notify her parents except to send a clipped newspaper account of her death and burial, which arrived a week after the latter had taken place. The news prostrated Olive, who was ill for a month. Captain Zelotes bore it, as he had borne the other great shock, with outward calm and quiet. Yet a year afterward he suddenly announced his determination of giving up the sea and his prosperous and growing shipping business and of spending the rest of his days on the Cape.

Olive was delighted, of course. Riches—that is, more than a comfortable competency—had no temptations for her. The old house, home of three generations of Snows, was painted, repaired and, to some extent, modernized. For another year Captain Zelotes “loafed,” as he called it, although others might have considered his activities about the place anything but that. At the end of that year he surprised every one by buying from the heirs of the estate the business equipment of the late Eben Raymond, hardware dealer and lumber merchant of South Harniss, said equipment comprising an office, a store and lumber yards near the railway station. “Got to have somethin' to keep me from gettin' barnacled,” declared Captain Lote. “There's enough old hulks rottin' at their moorin's down here as 'tis. I don't know anything about lumber and half as much about hardware, but I cal'late I can learn.” As an aid in the learning process he retained as bookkeeper Laban Keeler, who had acted in that capacity for the former proprietor.

The years slipped away, a dozen of them, as smoothly and lazily as South Harniss years have always slipped. Captain Zelotes was past sixty now, but as vigorous as when forty, stubborn as ever, fond of using quarter-deck methods on shore and especially in town-meeting, and very often in trouble in consequence. He was a member of the Board of Selectmen and was in the habit of characterizing those whose opinions differed from his as “narrow-minded.” They retorted by accusing him of being “pig-headed.” There was some truth on both sides. His detest of foreigners had not abated in the least.

And then, in this December of the year 1910, fell as from a clear sky the legacy of a grandson. From Senor Miguel Carlos Speranza the Snows had had no direct word, had received nothing save the newspaper clipping already mentioned. Olive had never seen him; her husband had seen him only on the occasion of the memorable interview in the hotel room. They never spoke of him, never mentioned him to each other. Occasionally, in the Boston newspapers, his likeness in costume had appeared amid the music notes or theatrical jottings. But these had not been as numerous of late. Of his son, their own daughter's child, they knew nothing; he might be alive or he might be dead. Sometimes Olive found herself speculating concerning him, wondering if he was alive, and if he resembled Jane. But she put the speculation from her thoughts; she could not bear to bring back memories of the old hopes and their bitter ending. Sometimes Captain Lote at his desk in the office of “Z. Snow & Co., Lumber and Builders' Hardware,” caught himself dreaming of his idolized daughter and thinking how different the future might have been for him had she married a “white man,” the kind of man he had meant for her to marry. There might be grandchildren growing up now, fine boys and girls, to visit the old home at South Harniss. “Ah hum! Well! . . . Labe, how long has this bill of Abner Parker's been hangin' on? For thunder sakes, why don't he pay up? He must think we're runnin' a meetin'-house Christmas tree.”

The letter from the lawyer had come first. It was written in New York, was addressed to “Captain Lotus Snow,” and began by taking for granted the fact that the recipient knew all about matters of which he knew nothing. Speranza was dead, so much was plain, and the inference was that he had been fatally injured in an automobile accident, “particulars of which you have of course read in the papers.” Neither Captain Lote nor his wife had read anything of the kind in the papers. The captain had been very busy of late and had read little except political news, and Mrs. Snow never read of murders and accidents, their details at least. She looked up from the letter, which her husband had hastened home from the office to bring her, with a startled face.

“Oh, Zelotes,” she cried, “he's dead!”

The captain nodded.

“Seems so,” he said. “That part's plain enough, but go on. The rest of it is what I can't get a hand-hold on. See what you make of the rest of it, Olive.”

The rest of it was to the effect that the writer, being Mr. Speranza's business adviser, “that is to say, as much or more so than any one else,” had been called in at the time of the accident, had conferred with the injured man, and had learned his last wishes. “He expressed himself coherently concerning his son,” went on the letter, “and it is in regard to that son that I am asking an interview with you. I should have written sooner, but have been engaged with matters pertaining to Mr. Speranza's estate and personal debts. The latter seem to be large—”

“I'LL bet you!” observed Captain Zelotes, sententiously, interrupting his wife's reading by pointing to this sentence with a big forefinger.

“'And the estate's affairs much tangled,'” went on Olive, reading aloud. “'It seems best that I should see you concerning the boy at once. I don't know whether or not you are aware that he is at school in ——, New York. I am inclined to think that the estate itself will scarcely warrant the expense of his remaining there. Could you make it convenient to come to New York and see me at once? Or, if not, I shall be in Boston on Friday of next week and can you meet me there? It seems almost impossible for me to come to you just now, and, of course, you will understand that I am acting as a sort of temporary executor merely because Mr. Speranza was formerly my friend and not because I have any pecuniary interest in the settlement of his affairs.

“'Very truly yours,

“'MARCUS W. WEISSMANN.'”

“Weissman! Another Portygee!” snorted Captain Lote.

“But—but what does it MEAN?” begged Mrs. Snow. “Why—why should he want to see you, Zelotes? And the boy—why—why, that's HER boy. It's Janie's boy he must mean, Zelotes.”

Her husband nodded.

“Hers and that blasted furriner's,” he muttered. “I suppose so.”

“Oh, DON'T speak that way, Zelotes! Don't! He's dead.”

Captain Lote's lips tightened. “If he'd died twenty years ago 'twould have been better for all hands,” he growled.

“Janie's boy!” repeated Olive slowly. “Why—why, he must be a big boy now. Almost grown up.”

Her husband did not speak. He was pacing the floor, his hands in his pockets.

“And this man wants to see you about him,” said Olive. Then, after a moment, she added timidly: “Are you goin', Zelotes?”

“Goin'? Where?”

“To New York? To see this lawyer man?”

“I? Not by a jugful! What in blazes should I go to see him for?”

“Well—well, he wants you to, you know. He wants to talk with you about the—the boy.”

“Humph!”

“It's her boy, Zelotes.”

“Humph! Young Portygee!”

“Don't, Zelotes! Please! . . . I know you can't forgive that—that man. We can't either of us forgive him; but—”

The captain stopped in his stride. “Forgive him!” he repeated. “Mother, don't talk like a fool. Didn't he take away the one thing that I was workin' for, that I was plannin' for, that I was LIVIN' for? I—”

She interrupted, putting a hand on his sleeve.

“Not the only thing, dear,” she said. “You had me, you know.”

His expression changed. He looked down at her and smiled.

“That's right, old lady,” he admitted. “I had you, and thank the Almighty for it. Yes, I had you . . . But,” his anger returning, “when I think how that damned scamp stole our girl from us and then neglected her and killed her—”

“ZELOTES! How you talk! He DIDN'T kill her. How can you!”

“Oh, I don't mean he murdered her, of course. But I'll bet all I've got that he made her miserable. Look here, Mother, you and she used to write back and forth once in a while. In any one of those letters did she ever say she was happy?”

Mrs. Snow's answer was somewhat equivocal. “She never said she was unhappy,” she replied. Her husband sniffed and resumed his pacing up and down.

After a little Olive spoke again.

“New York IS a good ways,” she said. “Maybe 'twould be better for you to meet this lawyer man in Boston. Don't you think so?”

“Bah!”

Another interval. Then: “Zelotes?”

“Yes,” impatiently. “What is it?”

“It's her boy, after all, isn't it? Our grandson, yours and mine. Don't you think—don't you think it's your duty to go, Zelotes?”

Captain Lote stamped his foot.

“For thunderation sakes, Olive, let up!” he commanded. “You ought to know by this time that there's one thing I hate worse than doin' my duty, that's bein' preached to about it. Let up! Don't you say another word.”

She did not, having learned much by years of experience. He said the next word on the subject himself. At noon, when he came home for dinner, he said, as they rose from the table: “Where's my suitcase, up attic?”

“Why, yes, I guess likely 'tis. Why?”

Instead of answering he turned to the housekeeper, Mrs. Ellis.

“Rachel,” he said, “go up and get that case and fetch it down to the bedroom, will you? Hurry up! Train leaves at half-past two and it's 'most one now.”

Both women stared at him. Mrs. Ellis spoke first.

“Why, Cap'n Lote,” she cried; “be you goin' away?”

Her employer's answer was crisp and very much to the point. “I am if I can get that case time enough to pack it and make the train,” he observed. “If you stand here askin' questions I probably shall stay to home.”

The housekeeper made a hasty exit by way of the back stairs. Mrs. Snow still gazed wonderingly at her husband.

“Zelotes,” she faltered, “are you—are you—”

“I'm goin' to New York on to-night's boat. I've telegraphed that—that Weiss—Weiss—what-do-you-call-it—that Portygee lawyer—that I'll be to his office to-morrow mornin'.”

“But, Zelotes, we haven't scarcely talked about it, you and I, at all. You might have waited till he came to Boston. Why do you go so SOON?”

The captain's heavy brows drew together.

“You went to the dentist's last Friday,” he said. “Why didn't you wait till next week?”

“Why—why, what a question! My tooth ached and I wanted to have it fixed quick as possible.”

“Um-m, yes. Well, this tooth aches and I want it fixed or hauled out, one or t'other. I want the thing off my mind. . . . Don't TALK to me?” he added, irritably. “I know I'm a fool. And,” with a peremptory wave of the hand, “don't you DARE say anything about DUTY!”

He was back again two days later. His wife did not question him, but waited for him to speak. Those years of experience already mentioned had taught her diplomacy. He looked at her and pulled his beard. “Well,” he observed, when they were alone together, “I saw him.”

“The—the boy?” eagerly.

“No, no! Course not! The boy's at school somewhere up in New York State; how could I see him! I saw that lawyer and I found out about—about the other scamp. He was killed in an auto accident, drunk at the time, I cal'late. Nigh's I can gather he's been drinkin' pretty heavy for the last six or seven years. Always lived high, same as his kind generally does, and spent money like water, I judge—but goin' down hill fast lately. His voice was givin' out on him and he realized it, I presume likely. Now he's dead and left nothin' but trunks full of stage clothes and photographs and,” contemptuously, “letters from fool women, and debts—Lord, yes! debts enough.”

“But the boy, Zelotes. Janie's boy?”

“He's been at this school place for pretty nigh ten years, so the lawyer feller said. That lawyer was a pretty decent chap, too, for a furriner. Seems he used to know this—Speranza rascal—when Speranza was younger and more decent—if he ever was really decent, which I doubt. But this lawyer man was his friend then and about the only one he really had when he was hurt. There was plenty of make-believe friends hangin' on, like pilot-fish to a shark, for what they could get by spongin' on him, but real friends were scarce.”

“And the boy—”

“For the Lord sakes, Mother, don't keep sayin' 'The boy,' 'the boy,' over and over again like a talkin' machine! Let me finish about the father first. This Weis—er—thingamajig—the lawyer, had quite a talk with Speranza afore he died, or while he was dyin'; he only lived a few hours after the accident and was out of his head part of that. But he said enough to let Weiss—er—er—Oh, why CAN'T I remember that Portygee's name?—to let him know that he'd like to have him settle up what was left of his affairs, and to send word to us about—about the boy. There! I hope you feel easier, Mother; I've got 'round to 'the boy' at last.”

“But why did he want word sent to us, Zelotes? He never wrote a line to us in his life.”

“You bet he didn't!” bitterly; “he knew better. Why did he want word sent now? The answer to that's easy enough. 'Cause he wanted to get somethin' out of us, that's the reason. From what that lawyer could gather, and from what he's found out since, there ain't money enough for the boy to stay another six weeks at that school, or anywhere else, unless the young feller earns it himself. And, leavin' us out of the count, there isn't a relation this side of the salt pond. There's probably a million or so over there in Portygee-land,” with a derisive sniff; “those foreigners breed like flies. But THEY don't count.”

“But did he want word sent to us about the—”

“Sshh! I'm tellin' you, Olive, I'm tellin' you. He wanted word sent because he was in hopes that we—you and I, Mother—would take that son of his in at our house here and give him a home. The cheek of it! After what he'd done to you and me, blast him! The solid brass nerve of it!”

He stormed up and down the room. His wife did not seem nearly so much disturbed as he at the thought of the Speranza presumption. She looked anxious—yes, but she looked eager, too, and her gaze was fixed upon her husband's face.

“Oh!” she said, softly. “Oh! . . . And—and what did you say, Zelotes?”

“What did I say? What do you suppose I said? I said no, and I said it good and loud, too.”

Olive made no comment. She turned away her head, and the captain, who now in his turn was watching her, saw a suspicious gleam, as of moisture, on her cheek. He stopped his pacing and laid a hand on her shoulder.

“There, there, Mother,” he said, gently. “Don't cry. He's comin'.”

“Comin'?” She turned pale. “Comin'?” she repeated. “Who?”

“That boy! . . . Sshh! shh!” impatiently. “Now don't go askin' me questions or tellin' me what I just said I said. I SAID the right thing, but—Well, hang it all, what else could I DO? I wrote the boy—Albert—a letter and I wrote the boss of the school another one. I sent a check along for expenses and—Well, he'll be here 'most any day now, I shouldn't wonder. And WHAT in the devil are we goin' to do with him?”

His wife did not reply to this outburst. She was trembling with excitement.

“Is—is his name Albert?” she faltered.

“Um-hm. Seems so.”

“Why, that's your middle name! Do you—do you s'pose Janie could have named him for—for you?”

“I don't know.”

“Of course,” with some hesitation, “it may be she didn't. If she'd named him Zelotes—”

“Good heavens, woman! Isn't one name like that enough in the family? Thank the Lord we're spared two of 'em! But there! he's comin'. And when he gets here—then what?”

Olive put her arm about her big husband.

“I hope—yes, I'm sure you did right, Zelotes, and that all's goin' to turn out to be for the best.”

“Are you? Well, I ain't sure, not by a thousand fathom.”

“He's Janie's boy.”

“Yes. And he's that play-actor's boy, too. One Speranza pretty nigh ruined your life and mine, Olive. What'll this one do? . . . Well, God knows, I suppose likely, but He won't tell. All we can do is wait and see. I tell you honest I ain't very hopeful.”