“No, be hivings, an’ ye don’t do nuthin’ of thet sort, Bob,” returned the widow, good-naturedly, busying herself with a dust-rag.  “This is me own house, an’ Oi’ve tended ter the loikes of them sort er fellers afore.  There’ll be no more bother this toime.  Besides, it’s a paceful house Oi’m runnin’, an’ Oi know ye’r way of sittling them things.  It’s too strenurous ye are, Misther Hampton.  And what did ye do wid the young lady, Oi make bould to ask?”

Hampton carelessly waved his hand toward the rear room, the door of which stood ajar, and blew a thick cloud of smoke into the air, his eyes continuing to gaze dreamily through the open window toward the distant hills.

“Who’s running the game over at the Occidental?” he asked, professionally.

“Red Slavin, bad cess to him!” and her eyes regarded her questioner with renewed anxiety.  “But sure now, Bob, ye mustn’t think of playin’ yit awhoile.  Yer narves are in no fit shape, an’ won’t be fer a wake yit.”

He made no direct reply, and she hung about, flapping the dust-rag uneasily.

“An’ what did ye mane ter be doin’ wid the young gyurl?” she questioned at last, in womanly curiosity.

Hampton wheeled about on the hard chair, and regarded her quizzingly.  “Mrs. Guffy,” he said, slowly, “you’ve been a mother to me, and it would certainly be unkind not to give you a straight tip.  Do?  Why, take care of her, of course.  What else would you expect of one possessing my kindly disposition and well-known motives of philanthropy?  Can it be that I have resided with you, off and on, for ten years past without your ever realizing the fond yearnings of my heart?  Mrs. Guffy, I shall make her the heiress to my millions; I shall marry her off to some Eastern nabob, and thus attain to that high position in society I am so well fitted to adorn—­sure, and what else were you expecting, Mrs. Guffy?”

“A loikely story,” with a sniff of disbelief.  “They tell me she ’s old Gillis’s daughter over to Bethune.”

“They tell you, do they?” a sudden gleam of anger darkening his gray eyes.  “Who tell you?”

“Sure, Bob, an’ thet ‘s nuthin’ ter git mad about, so fur as I kin see.  The story is in iverybody’s mouth.  It wus thim sojers what brought ye in thet tould most ov it, but the lieutenant,—­Brant of the Seventh Cavalry, no less,—­who took dinner here afore he wint back after the dead bodies, give me her name.”

“Brant of the Seventh?” He faced her fairly now, his face again haggard and gray, all the slight gleam of fun gone out of it.  “Was that the lad’s name?”

“Sure, and didn’t ye know him?”

“No; I noticed the ‘7’ on his hat, of course, but never asked any questions, for his face was strange.  I didn’t know.  The name, when you just spoke it, struck me rather queer.  I—­I used to know a Brant in the Seventh, but he was much older; it was not this man.”

She answered something, lingering for a moment at the door, but he made no response, and she passed out silently, leaving him staring moodily through the open window, his eyes appearing glazed and sightless.