"If it's drink that's brought them where they are, I'm half inclined to give it up; but, after all, it isn't necessary to make a beast of yourself. I always drink like a gentleman, sir." "So you do, colonel." At that moment a poor woman, in a faded calico dress with a thin shawl over her shoulders, descended the steps that led into the saloon, and walked up to the bar. "Has my husband been here to-night?" she asked. Tim Bolton frowned. "Who's your husband?" he asked, roughly. "Wilson." "No, Bill Wilson hasn't been here to-night. Even if he had you have no business to come after him. I don't want any sniveling women here." "I couldn't help it, Mr. Bolton," said the woman, putting her apron to her eyes. "If Bill comes in, won't you tell him to come home? The baby's dead, and we haven't a cent in the house!" Even Tim was moved by this. "I'll tell him," he said. "Take a drink yourself; you don't look strong. It shan't cost you a cent." "No," said the woman, "not a drop! It has ruined my happiness, and broken up our home! Not a drop!" "Here, my good lady," said the colonel, with chivalrous deference, "you have no money. Take this," and he handed the astonished woman a five-dollar bill. "Heaven bless you, sir!" she exclaimed, fervently. "Allow me to see you to the street," and the gallant Southern gentleman escorted her up to the sidewalk. "I'd like to horsewhip that woman's husband. Don't you sell him another drop!" he said, when he returned. Chapter XIV. The Missing Will.