"Mighty little; reckon she must have died when I was about five years
old. That's her picture."

Hampton took in his hand the old-fashioned locket she held out toward
him, the long chain still clasped about her throat, and pried open the
stiff catch with his knife blade. She bent down to fasten her loosened
shoe, and when her eyes were uplifted again his gaze was riveted upon
the face in the picture.

"Mighty pretty, wasn't she?" she asked with a sudden girlish interest,
bending forward to look, regardless of his strained attitude. "And she
was prettier than that even, the way I remember her best, with her hair
all hanging down, coming to tuck me into bed at night. Someway that's
how I always seem to see her."

The man drew a deep breath, and snapped shut the locket, yet still
retained it in his hand. "Is--is she dead?" he questioned, and his
voice trembled in spite of steel nerves.

"Yes, in St. Louis; dad took me there with him two years ago, and I saw
her grave."

"Dad? Do you mean old Gillis?"

She nodded, beginning dimly to wonder why he should speak so fiercely
and stare at her in that odd way. He seemed to choke twice before he
could ask the next question.

"Did he--old Gillis, I mean--claim to be your father, or her husband?"