“That’s too bad, Lane.  You’re a young man....  The war hit us all, I guess,” he said, and at the last, sighed heavily.

“It’s been a long pull—­Blair Maynard and I were the first to enlist, and we left Middleville almost immediately,” went on Lane.

He desired to plant in Iden’s mind the fact that he had left Middleville long before the wild era of soldier-and-girl attraction which had created such havoc.  Acutely sensitive as Lane was, he could not be sure of an alteration in Iden’s aloofness, yet there was some slight change.  Then he talked frankly about specific phases of the war.  Finally, when he saw that he had won interest and sympathy from Iden he abruptly launched his purpose.

“Mr. Iden, I came to ask if you will give your consent to my marrying Mel.”

The older man shrank back as if he had been struck.  He stared.  His lower jaw dropped.  A dark flush reddened his cheek.

“What!...  Lane, you must be drunk,” he ejaculated, thickly.

“No.  I never was more earnest in my life.  I want to marry Mel Iden.”

“Why?” rasped out the father, hoarsely.

“I understand Mel,” replied Lane, and swiftly he told his convictions as to the meaning and cause of her sacrifice.  “Mel is good.  She never was bad.  These rotten people who see dishonor and disgrace in her have no minds, no hearts.  Mel is far above these painted, bare-kneed girls who scorn her....  And I want to show them what I think of her.  I want to give her boy a name—­so he’ll have a chance in the world.  I’ll not live long.  This is just a little thing I can do to make it easier for Mel.”

“Lane, you can’t be the father of her child,” burst out Iden.

“No.  I wish I were.  I was never anything to Mel but a friend.  She was only a girl—­seventeen when I left home.”

“So help me God!” muttered Iden, and he covered his face with his hands.

“Say yes, Mr. Iden, and I’ll go to Mel this afternoon.”

“No, let me think....  Lane, if you’re not drunk, you’re crazy.”

“Not at all.  Why, Mr. Iden, I’m perfectly rational.  Why, I’d glory in making that splendid girl a little happier, if it’s possible.”

“I drove my—­my girl from her mother—­her home,” said Iden, slowly.

“Yes, and it was a hard, cruel act,” replied Lane, sharply.  “You were wrong.  You—­”

The mill whistle cut short Lane’s further speech.  When its shrill clarion ended, Iden got up, and shook himself as if to reestablish himself in the present.

“Lane, you come to my house to-night,” he said.  “I’ve got to go back to work....  But I’ll think—­and we can talk it over.  I still live where you used to come as a boy....  How strange life is!...  Good day, Lane.”