"I have never told you about her," he said, "because she is not the
sort of woman who is spoken of at all to such men as you. I am no
more worthy to be her father than you are to touch the hem of her
skirt. There was a time, Trent, many, many years ago, when I was
proud to think that she was my daughter, my own flesh and blood.
When I began to go down - it was different. Down and down and lower
still! Then she ceased to be my daughter! After all it is best. I
am not fit to carry her picture. You keep it. Trent - you keep it
- and give me the brandy."

He staggered up on to his feet and crept back into the hut. His
hands were outstretched, claw-like and bony, his eyes were fierce
as a wild cat's. But Trent stood between him and the brandy bottle.

"Look here," he said, "you shall have the picture back - curse you!
But listen. If I were you and had wife, or daughter, or sweetheart
like this " - he touched the photograph almost reverently - "why,
I'd go through fire and water but I'd keep myself decent; ain't you
a silly old fool, now? We've made our piles, you can go back and
take her a fortune, give her jewels and pretty dresses, and all the
fal-de-lals that women love. You'll never do it if you muddle
yourself up with that stuff. Pull yourself together, old 'un.
Chuck the drink till we've seen this thing through at any rate!"

"You don't know my little girl," Monty muttered. "How should you?
She'd care little for money or gewgaws, but she'd break her heart
to see her old father - come to this - broken down - worthless
- a hopeless, miserable wretch. It's too late. Trent, I'll have
just a glass I think. It will do me good. I have been fretting,