“A loving husband, I should have said,” said Mrs. Lawrence, a faint color coming into her face, “But my resolution is made.  What you said about helping the boy only fixes it firmer, because it did seem as if his only chance would be thrown away.”

The conversation had not lasted five minutes but Broussard saw that five decades of persuasion would not move Mrs. Lawrence.  Besides, he had spoken to her from a profound sense of justice; in his heart, the tie of blood between him and Lawrence made him wish that the wife should continue to stand by the husband.

They both rose, feeling that the matter was settled inevitably.  Broussard took from his breast pocket a roll of notes.

“It is better for you than bank checks,” he said; “when this is gone, write to me and there will be more.  Lawrence feels, as I do, that for the sake of our mother’s memory it would be better that his identity should not be revealed.”

A vivid blush flooded Mrs. Lawrence’s face.  Her woman’s pride was cut to the quick and Broussard, seeing it, said quickly: 

“It was his suggestion, not mine.”

Then, taking Mrs. Lawrence’s hand, Broussard gave her a brother’s kiss, which she returned as a sister might, and they passed out of the office.  In the hall Broussard left cards for Colonel and Mrs. Fortescue and Anita.  Kettle, having heard that Broussard was leaving, came out of the dining-room, where he had been washing dishes, and wiping his hands on his long checked gingham apron, offered a friendly grasp to Broussard.

“I ain’ goin’ ter let Miss ’Nita furgit you, suh,” Kettle whispered, “doan’ you be skeered of Mr. Conway—­he treat Miss ’Nita same like he did when she wear her hair down her back.”

Broussard inwardly thought that perhaps Conway’s plan was best.  But he gave Kettle a confidential wink and a bank note.

“Some day I’ll come back, Kettle, and then——­”

Broussard did not finish the sentence in his own mind.  Anita had seen just enough to prejudice a young, innocent girl against him.

Outside the door, a trooper was holding Gamechick by the bridle, delivering the horse to his new master.

“Good-bye, good horse,” said Broussard, patting Gamechick’s neck.  “You did me the best turn any creature, man or beast, ever did me, and I promise never to forget my obligations to you.”

Horses are sentimental creatures.  Gamechick knew that Broussard’s words were a farewell.  He turned his large, intelligent eyes on Broussard, saying as plainly as a horse can speak: 

“Good-bye, good master.  Never will I, your faithful horse, forget you.”