Mr. Hamlin did not sing in his cage. He lay still, looking at a highly colored painting above him, representing a young creature of opulent charms. It occurred to him then, for the first time, that he had never seen exactly that kind of a woman, and that, if he should, he would not, probably, fall in love with her. Perhaps he was thinking of another style of beauty. But just then some one knocked at the door. Without rising, he pulled a cord that apparently shot back a bolt, for the door swung open, and a man entered. The new-comer was broad-shouldered and robust,—a vigor not borne out in the face, which, though handsome, was singularly weak and disfigured by dissipation. He appeared to be, also, under the influence of liquor, for he started on seeing Mr. Hamlin, and said, “I thought Kate was here;” stammered, and seemed confused and embarrassed. Mr. Hamlin smiled the smile which he had before worn on the Wingdam coach, and sat up, quite refreshed and ready for business. “You didn’t come up on the stage,” continued the newcomer, “did you?” “No,” replied Hamlin; “I left it at Scott’s Ferry. It isn’t due for half an hour yet. But how’s luck, Brown?” “D—d bad,” said Brown, his face suddenly assuming an expression of weak despair. “I’m cleaned out again, Jack,” he continued, in a whining tone, that formed a pitiable contrast to his bulky figure; “can’t you help me with a hundred till to-morrow’s clean-up? You see I’ve got to send money home to the old woman, and—you’ve won twenty times that amount from me.” The conclusion was, perhaps, not entirely logical, but Jack overlooked it, and handed the sum to his visitor. “The old-woman business is about played out, Brown,” he added, by way of commentary; “why don’t you say you want to buck ag’in’ faro? You know you ain’t married!” “Fact, sir,” said Brown, with a sudden gravity, as if the mere contact of the gold with the palm of the hand had imparted some dignity to his frame. “I’ve got a wife—a d—d good one, too, if I do say it—in the States. It’s three years since I’ve seen her, and a year since I’ve writ to her. When things is about straight, and we get down to the lead, I’m going to send for her.” “And Kate?” queried Mr. Hamlin, with his previous smile. Mr. Brown of Calaveras essayed an archness of glance to cover his confusion, which his weak face and whiskey-muddled intellect but poorly carried out, and said,— “D—n it, Jack, a man must have a little liberty, you know. But come, what do you say to a little game? Give us a show to double this hundred.” Jack Hamlin looked curiously at his fatuous friend. Perhaps he knew that the man was predestined to lose the money, and preferred that it should flow back into his own coffers rather than any other. He nodded his head, and drew his chair toward the table. At the same moment there came a rap upon the door. “It’s Kate,” said Mr. Brown.