“Was her name Naida?  It is an uncommon word.”

“Yes.”

“And yours also?”

“Yes.”

Their eyes met, and those of both had perceptibly softened.

“Naida,” his lips dwelt upon the peculiar name as though he loved the sound.  “I want you to listen to me, child.  I sincerely wish I might keep you here with me, but I can’t.  You are more to me than you dream, but it would not be right for me thus deliberately to sacrifice your whole future to my pleasure.  I possess nothing to offer you,—­no home, no friends, no reputation.  Practically I am an outlaw, existing by my wits, disreputable in the eyes of those who are worthy to live in the world.  She, who was your mother, would never wish you to remain with me.  She would say I did right in giving you up into the care of a good woman.  Naida, look on that face in the locket, your mother’s face.  It is sweet, pure, beautiful, the face of a good, true woman.  Living or dead, it must be the prayer of those lips that you become a good woman also.  She should lead you, not I, for I am unworthy.  For her sake, and in her name, I ask you to go back to Mrs. Herndon.”

He could perceive the gathering tears in her eyes, and his hand closed tightly about her own.  It was not one soul alone that struggled.

“You will go?”

“O Bob, I wish you wasn’t a gambler!”

A moment he remained silent.  “But unfortunately I am,” he admitted, soberly, “and it is best for you to go back.  Won’t you?”

Her gaze was fastened upon the open locket, the fair face pictured there smiling up at her as though in pleading also.

“You truly think she would wish it?”

“I know she would.”

The girl gave utterance to a quick, startled breath, as if the vision frightened her.  “Then I will go,” she said, her voice a mere whisper, “I will go.”

He led her down the steps, out into the jostling crowd below, as if she had been some fairy princess.  Men occasionally spoke to him, but seemingly he heard nothing, pressing his way through the mass of moving figures in utter unconsciousness of their presence.  Her locket hung dangling, and he slipped it back into its place and drew her slender form yet closer against his own, as they stepped forth into the black, deserted road.  Once, in the last faint ray of light which gleamed from the windows of the Miners’ Retreat, she glanced up shyly into his face.  It was white and hard set, and she did not venture to break the silence.  Half-way up the gloomy ravine they met a man and woman coming along the narrow path.  Hampton drew her aside out of their way, then spoke coldly.

“Mrs. Herndon, were you seeking your lost charge?  I have her here.”

The two passing figures halted, peering through the darkness.

“Who are you?” It was the gruff voice of the man.

Hampton stepped out directly in his path.  “Herndon,” he said, calmly, “you and I have clashed once before, and the less you have to say to-night the better.  I am in no mood for trifling, and this happens to be your wife’s affair.”