sigh roused Dalrymple's attention.

"Why, Damon," said he, turning over on his elbow, and pushing up his
hat to the level of his eyes, "what's the matter with you?"

"Oh, nothing--at least, nothing new."

"Well, new or old, what is it? A man must be either in debt, or in love,
when he sighs in that way. You look as melancholy as Werter redivivus!"

"I--I ought not to be melancholy, I suppose; for I was thinking of
home."

Dalrymple's face and voice softened immediately.

"Poor boy!" he said, throwing away the end of his cigar, "yours is not a
bright home, I fear. You told me, I think, that you had lost
your mother?"

"From infancy."

"And you have no sisters?"

"None. I am an only child."

"Your father, however, is living?"

"Yes, my father lives. He is a rough-tempered, eccentric man;
misanthropic, but clever; kind enough, and generous enough, in his own
strange way. Still--"