men who were simple of heart, single in purpose and ambition, diverse in characteristics, but unanimous in one trait,—­no meanness could live among them; and Jerrold’s heart sank within him, colder, lower, stonier than before, as he looked from face to face and cast up mentally the sum of each man’s character.  His hospitality had been boundless, his bounty lavish; one and all they had eaten of his loaf and drunk of his cup; but was there among them one who could say of him, “He is generous and I stand his friend”?  Was there one of them, one of theirs, for whom he had ever denied himself a pleasure, great or small?  He looked at poor old Gray, with his wrinkled, anxious face, and thought of his distress of mind.  Only a few thousands—­not three years’ pay—­had the veteran scraped and saved and stored away for his little girl, whose heart was aching with its first cruel sorrow,—­his work, his undoing, his cursed, selfish greed for adulation, his reckless love of love.  The morrow’s battle, if it came, might leave her orphaned and alone, and, poor as it was, a father’s pitying sympathy could not be her help with the coming year.  Would Gray mourn him if the fortune of war made him the victim?  Would any one of those averted faces look with pity and regret upon his stiffening form?  Would there be any one on earth to whom his death would be a sorrow, but Nina?  Would it even be a blow to her?  She loved him wildly, he knew that; but would she did she but dream the truth?  He knew her nature well.  He knew how quickly such burning love could turn to fiercest hate when convinced that the object was utterly untrue.  He had said nothing to her of the photograph, nothing at all of Alice except to protest time and again that his attentions to her were solely to win the good will of the colonel’s family and of the colonel himself, so that he might be proof against the machinations of his foes.  And yet had he not, that very night on which he crossed the stream and let her peril her name and honor for one stolen interview—­had he not gone to her exultant welcome with a traitorous knowledge gnawing at his heart?  That very night, before they parted at the colonel’s door had he not lied to Alice Renwick?—­had he not denied the story of his devotion to Miss Beaubien, and was not his practised eye watching eagerly the beautiful dark face for one sign that the news was welcome, and so precipitate the avowal trembling on his lips that it was her he madly loved,—­not Nina?  Though she hurriedly bade him good-night, though she was unprepared for any such announcement, he well knew that Alice Renwick’s heart fluttered at the earnestness of his manner, and that he had indicated far more than he had said.  Fear—­not love—­had drawn him to Nina Beaubien that night, and hope had centred on her more beautiful rival, when the discoveries of the night involved him in the first trembling symptoms of the downfall to come.  And he was to have spent the morning