which I had seen her approaching—"come, you'd better go away as quickly as possible."
But if he's here," she answered, not moving from where she stood, "I might save him, you know."
"I am sure you won't find him, ma'am," I urged. "Perhaps he is home, now."
"Oh, no! no!" And she shook her head mournfully. "He never comes home until long after midnight. I wish I could see inside of the bar-room. I'm sure he must be there."
"If you will tell me his name, I will go in and search for him."
After a moment of hesitation, she answered:
"His name is Willy Hammond."
How the name, uttered so sadly, and yet with such moving tenderness by the mother's lips, caused me to start—almost to tremble.
"If he is in the house, ma'am," said I, firmly, "I will see him for you." And I left her and went into the bar.
