o throw away three cards, then put one upon the table.
Finally, with a little whine, he laid three down with trembling fingers
and snatched at the three which Trent handed him. His face lit up, a
scarlet flush burned in his cheek. It was evident that the draw had
improved his hand.

Trent took his own cards up, looked at them nonchalantly, and helped
himself to one card. Monty could restrain himself no longer. He threw
his hand upon the ground.

"Three's," he cried in fierce triumph, "three of a kind--nines!"

Trent laid his own cards calmly down.

"A full hand," he said, "kings up."

Monty gave a little gasp and then a moan. His eyes were fixed with a
fascinating glare upon those five cards which Trent had so calmly laid
down. Trent took up the photograph, thrust it carefully into his pocket
without looking at it, and rose to his feet.

"Look here, Monty," he said, "you shall have the brandy; you've no right
to it, and you're best without it by long chalks. But there, you shall
have your own way."

Monty rose to his feet and balanced himself against the post.

"Never mind--about the brandy," he faltered. "Give me back the
photograph."

Trent shrugged his shoulders. "Why?" he asked coolly. "Full hand beats
three, don't it? It was my win and my stake."

"Then--then take that!" But the blow never touched Trent. He thrust out
his hand and held his assailant away at arm's length.

Monty burst into tears.

"You don't want it," he moaned; "what's my little girl to you? You never
saw her, and you never will see her in your life."

"She is nothing to me of course," Trent answered. "A moment or so ago
her picture was worth less to you than a quarter of a bottle of brandy."

"I was mad," Monty moaned. "She was my own little daughter, God help
her!"

"I never heard you speak of her before," Trent remarked.

There was a moment's silence. Then Monty crept out between the posts
into the soft darkness, and his voice seemed to come from a great
distance.

"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 n