“What pleasure can she have?” exclaimed Mrs. Abbot, vehemently.  “Sometimes, much as I am attached to John, I feel as if I should like to—­to bang him!”

“Poor old John!” Bill’s bantering tone nettled the old lady, but she said no more.  Her anger against those she loved could not last long.

“‘Poker’ John loves his niece,” the man went on, as his companion remained silent.  “There is nothing in the world he would not do for her, if it lay within his power.”

“Then let him leave poker alone.  His gambling is breaking her heart.”

The angry light was again in the old lady’s eyes.  Her companion did not answer for a moment.  His lips had assumed that curious pursing.  When he spoke it was with, great decision.

“Impossible, my dear lady—­utterly impossible.  Can the Foss River help freezing in winter?  Can Jacky help talking prairie slang?  Can Lablache help grubbing for money?  Can you help caring for all of our worthless selves who belong to the Foss River Settlement?  Nothing can alter these things.  John would play poker on the lid of his own coffin, while the undertakers were winding his shroud about him—­if they’d lend him a pack of cards.”

“I believe you encourage him in it,” said the old lady, mollified, but still sticking to her guns.  “There is little to choose between you.”

The man shrugged his indolent shoulders.  This dear old lady’s loyalty to Jacky, and, for that matter, to all her friends, pleased while it amused him.

“Maybe.”  Then abruptly, “Let’s talk of something else.”

At that moment an elderly man was seen edging his way through the dancers.  He came directly over to Mrs. Abbot.

“It’s getting late, Margaret,” he said, pausing before her.  “I am told it is rather gusty outside.  The weather prophets think we may have a blizzard on us before morning.”

“I shouldn’t be at all surprised,” put in the Hon. Bunning-Ford.  “The sun-dogs have been showing for the last two days.  I’ll see what Jacky says, and then hunt out old John.”

“Yes, for goodness’ sake don’t let us get caught in a blizzard,” exclaimed Mrs. Abbot, fearfully.  “If there is one thing I’m afraid of it is one of those terrible storms.  We have thirty-five miles to go.”

The new-comer, Dr. Abbot, smiled at his wife’s terrified look, but, as he turned to urge Bill to hurry, there was a slightly anxious look on his face.

“Hurry up, old man.  I’ll go and see about our sleigh.”  Then in an undertone, “You can exaggerate a little to persuade them, for the storm is coming on and we must get away at once.”

A moment or two later “Lord” Bill and Jacky were making their way to the smoking-room.  On the stairs they met “Poker” John.  He was returning to the ballroom.

“We were just coming to look for you, uncle,” exclaimed Jacky.  “They tell us it is blowing outside.”

“Just what I was coming to tell you, my dear.  We must be going.  Where are the doctor and Aunt Margaret?”