Her face remained hidden from him by that little
cloud of white lace.
"It is an odd thing about that picture," he went on slowly, "but he
showed it to me once or twice, and I too got very fond of it! It
was just a little girl's face, very bright and very winsome, and
over there we were lonely, and it got to mean a good deal to both
of us. And one night Monty would gamble - it was one of his faults,
poor chap - and he had nothing left but his picture, and I played
him for it - and won!"
"Brute!" she murmured in an odd, choked tone.
"Sounds so, doesn't it? But I wanted that picture. Afterwards
came our terrible journey back to the Coast, when I carried the poor
old chap on my back day by day, and stood over him at night potting
those black beasts when they crept up too close - for they were on
our track all the time. I wouldn't tell you the whole story of
those days, Miss Wendermott for it would keep you awake at night;
but I've a fancy for telling you this. I'd like you to believe it,
for it's gospel truth. I didn't leave him until I felt absolutely
and actually certain that he couldn't live an hour. He was passing
into unconsciousness, and a crowd of those natives were close upon
our heels. So I left him and took the picture with me - and I
think since then that it has meant almost as much to me as ever it
had been to him.
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