My tone of voice seemed to inspire her with confidence, for she
came up close to me, and bent her face toward mine.

"It is a dreadful place," she whispered, huskily. "And they say he
comes here. Poor boy! He isn't what he used to be."

"It is a very bad place," said I. "Come"--and I moved a step or
two in the direction from 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.