e of herself. And the picture of Bertha standing there beside Ben
filled her with a prophetic vision of what the girl-wife was to become:
"She will grow in grace and in dignity, in understanding. She's of good
stock. She's like a man in her power to raise herself above lowly
conditions. Why are there not female Lincolns? There are, and she is one
of them. Nearly all our great men were born and reared under conditions
ruder than those which surrounded this girl. Why can't she rise? She
will rise--and then--"

She did not pursue the clew further, for the Captain was speaking. "And
you, miss, can be of just as great service to me wife. She's alone with
me here in this town, and I'm a heavy load for her to carry. I am so.
Now that her house is in order the days are long. The people she'd like
to know don't drop in, and I suspect it's because she's Mart Haney's
wife."

She resumed her sprightly manner. "Oh no; I'm afraid if she were a poor
girl she'd find these same people still more indifferent."

"True, miss. But would they act the same if she were Mart Haney's
widow?"

She flashed a deep-piercing, wondering glance at him. "Ah, that would be
different. And yet," she hastened to say, "that would not make her
acceptable to the really best people."

"What would, miss?" he asked, simply. "I'm a rough man, and I've led a
rough life. I begin to see things now that I never saw before. What
would give Bertha standing among the people you speak of?"

"Education, character. By character I mean she must be a personality."

"That she is!" He was emphatic in this.

"She certainly is a fascinating girl, and she promises to be a still
more interesting woman."

"I'm not a wooden-head, miss. As a gambler, it was me business to read
men's faces. I see more than my little girl gives me credit for. I think
I know why Mrs. Crego can't see us as we pass by, and I was wise to them
friends of yours the other day when they curled their tails and showed
their teeth at sight of us. It's because Bertie is the wife of a
gambler. Isn't that so, now?"

She rose with a start, for Bertha was coming towards them. "Hush! don't
talk about it any more--at present." And at this moment there passed
before her eyes a vision of this big man, crushed and writhing on a
mountain-side, among deep green ferns. It lasted but an instant, like
the memory of an event in childhood; a spot transient as a
shadow--disconnected, without precursor or sequence; like