The Governor looked up at the massive face of the gambler, marred by evil circumstance and the riot of dissipation, and wondered--as he had wondered many a time before,--at the splendid unselfishness of this man. From whence could have come this flower of nobility? The life of Ambercrombie Hergan had been sterile soil indeed for such a plant as this. How could it be in the economy of men that such princely fidelity obtained alone even without trace of the common attendant virtues? For the obligations of the law Ambercrombie Hergan had no regard. For the obligations of the citizen he had no regard. Even for the common obligations of morality he maintained the most stolid unconcern. Honesty was a name to him, and right and duty and honor were merely names to him. Yet blooming in the barren garden of this gambler's heart was something fairer than them all. “Well,” asked Hergan, with a trace of anxiety in his voice, “are you going to promise?” The Governor arose. “This is a very serious matter,” he said slowly; “we must be given a few minutes in which to decide.” “That 's fair enough,” replied the gambler. “You two can go into the other room. I'll wait.” The Auditor and the Executive retired, and the Secretary of State resumed his seat beside the table, the suggestion of a smile on his face, he knew perfectly that if he could secure the promise of his companions it would be maintained inviolate. Presently the door opened and the two men entered. “Bill,” said the Governor, “we promise.” The gambler arose, and stretched his long limbs like one relieved from the weight of a crushing burden. Then he turned to his companions. “Boys,” he said almost gaily, “I may as well tell you now that I am going to New York Saturday night.” “And I may add,” responded the Governor, “that I am going Friday night.” V YOU see,” the Governor was saying,” the failure of this bank in San Francisco has wiped out every penny I had in the world. On the fourth day of next March I will be poorer than the ordinary drayman. So poor that I must begin all over again, and I have no heart to do it.” Miss Marion Lanmar was silent. Her bands rested upon the great aims of the chair in which she was seated. Her face might have been a cast; it was so very motionless. “I should not mind if it were not for you,” the young man went on. “I mean,”--he hesitated for a moment,--“if I had never seen you; if I had never known you. But now the effort would seem so miserably inadequate, if it were not made for you. I have loved you and lived for you too long. I have grown accustomed to you as the mighty incentive. Every path that I have travelled has had you waiting at the end. Every battle I have fought has seemed to hold your happiness in its balance. Even the meagre gains of all the weary commonplace days have been to me so much or so little added to the kingdom of the queen. So I could have gone on to the end, but now, without you I have no heart at all.”