“Does any one play any more to-night?” he asked.
But no one wanted any more faro. Playing for a live child had exhausted even their capacity for excitement.
Varley Howard put on the tall silk hat which distinguished him, and sauntered out of the saloon. He paused outside to light a cigar and look up at the starlit sky, then he sauntered down to Mother Melinda’s hut.
Stretched upon the rude bed was the dead woman, covered decently and reverently by a blanket. Mother Melinda had undressed the child, and it was lying asleep in an empty biscuit box. Varley Howard uncovered its face and looked at it thoughtfully. It was a pretty child, with thick, reddish-brown hair, and the lashes that lay upon its cheek were dark and long.
“How old do you think it is?” he asked.
“About three, I reckon,” said Mother Melinda. “It’s a pretty little thing, ain’t it, Mr. Howard? I wonder who its mother was? Judging by the looks of her, I should say she was no common kind of woman; she looks delicate and fine like. I wonder who the child belongs to.”
“She belongs to me,” said Varley Howard.
“To you!” exclaimed Mother Melinda.
“Yes,” he said, impassively. “I have just won her.”