. .
"He's a funny old codger," said Martin. "What does he do?"
"I don't know," said Maggie. "I really don't know how he lives I'm
afraid it's something rather bad."
"I've known men like that," said Martin, "plenty, but it's funny
that one of them should be connected with you. It doesn't seem as
though you could have anything to do with a man like that."
"Oh, but I like him!" said Maggie. "He's been very kind to me often.
When I was all alone after father died he was very good--" She
stopped abruptly remembering how he'd come into her bedroom.
"Drink's been his trouble, and never having any money. He told me
once if he had money he'd never do a thing he shouldn't." "Yes,"
said Martin. "That's what they always say when they haven't any
money, and then when they have any it's worse than ever."
He was thinking, perhaps, of himself. At any rate to stop remorseful
thoughts he began to tell her about his own childhood.
"Mine was very different from yours, Maggie," he said. "I wasn't
lonely. You don't know what a fuss people made of me. I was
conceited, too. I thought I was chosen, by God, out of all the
world, that I was different from every one else, and better too.
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