“But he _does_, he does--a thousand times more than he did, too,” the old woman insisted. “He hasn't married; he is leading a lonely, morbid life. He-is longing for you--though he may still dread public opinion--and is adoring the child. He may resist longer, but in the end he will succumb and crawl to your feet and beg for forgiveness. Watch my prophecy. He'll do it!--he'll do it!” “You don't know, mother,” Dora sighed, and she stood up and moved away in the darkness. “You don't know.” Dora went back to her room and stood looking down at her sleeping child. Suddenly her eyes filled and her breast heaved high. “Mother's little champion!” she cried, and she knelt down by the bed, covered her face, and wept. CHAPTER XIII |THE July sun beat fiercely on the tin slate roofs of the houses forming square of Stafford. It was noon, business was at a standstill. The clerks and typewriters in Walton's bank yawning and fanning themselves heat. The only occupied individual in the building was the banker himself, who was crouched over his desk in his little office making calculations on a pad of paper with a pencil. Toby Lassiter was at the window of the receiving-teller when an old man came in at the folding-screen door and asked if he might see Mr. Walton personally. It was Stephen Whipple, and he carried a travelling-bag in his hand; he was covered with dust, and marked in the creases of his face by drifts of fine cinders. “I'll see, sir, if you'll wait a minute,” Toby answered, with his best window-manners; then he went to his employer, and returned to pilot the caller back to the office. “Stranded on a trip and wants a check cashed without identification,” was Toby's mental comment as he led the way. “Well, he's come to the wrong man, as he will mighty soon find out.” Whipple gave a searching glance at the man who was rising from the desk with impatiently lifted brows. He put his bag down at his feet, but failed to extend his hand, as Walton evidently expected him to do. “Take a seat, sir, take a seat,” and the banker motioned to a chair near the desk. “Thanks.” The Westerner kicked his bag along toward the chair, and sat down rather clumsily. He took out an enormous handkerchief, also considerably begrimed, and mopped his perspiring face. “You've got a hot town, sir,” Whipple said, introductively. “Some say so, and some say not,” Walton replied, succinctly. “Well, sir,” he continued, “is there anything I can do for you? The reason I make so bold as to ask is because my clerk said you wanted to see me _personally_.”