Mrs. Sharp sighed.

“You see, Mr. Standifer, we didn’t know anything about him, and he can be very pleasant and kind when he wants to.  We lived down in the little town of Goliad.  Benton came riding down that way, and stopped there a while.  I reckon I was some better looking then than I am now.  He was good to me for a whole year after we were married.  He insured his life for me for five thousand dollars.  But for the last six months he has done everything but kill me.  I often wish he had done that, too.  He got out of money for a while, and abused me shamefully for not having anything he could spend.  Then father died, and left me the little home in Goliad.  My husband made me sell that, and turned me out into the world.  I’ve barely been able to live, for I’m not strong enough to work.  Lately, I heard he was making money in San Antonio, so I went there, and found him, and asked for a little help.  This,” touching the livid bruise on her temple, “is what he gave me.  So I came on to Austin to see the governor.  I once heard father say that there was some land, or a pension, coming to him from the state that he never would ask for.”

Luke Standifer rose to his feet, and pushed his chair back.  He looked rather perplexedly around the big office, with its handsome furniture.

“It’s a long trail to follow,” he said, slowly, “trying to get back dues from the government.  There’s red tape and lawyers and rulings and evidence and courts to keep you waiting.  I’m not certain,” continued the commissioner, with a profoundly meditative frown, “whether this department that I’m the boss of has any jurisdiction or not.  It’s only Insurance, Statistics, and History, ma’am, and it don’t sound as if it would cover the case.  But sometimes a saddle blanket can be made to stretch.  You keep your seat, just for a few minutes, ma’am, till I step into the next room and see about it.”

The state treasurer was seated within his massive, complicated railings, reading a newspaper.  Business for the day was about over.  The clerks lolled at their desks, awaiting the closing hour.  The Commissioner of Insurance, Statistics, and History entered, and leaned in at the window.

The treasurer, a little, brisk old man, with snow-white moustache and beard, jumped up youthfully and came forward to greet Standifer.  They were friends of old.

“Uncle Frank,” said the commissioner, using the familiar name by which the historic treasurer was addressed by every Texan, “how much money have you got on hand?”

The treasurer named the sum of the last balance down to the odd cents—­something more than a million dollars.

The commissioner whistled lowly, and his eyes grew hopefully bright.

“You know, or else you’ve heard of, Amos Colvin, Uncle Frank?”

“Knew him well,” said the treasurer, promptly.  “A good man.  A valuable citizen.  One of the first settlers in the Southwest.”