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Blind Lead 
 
 THE STORY OF A MINE. 
 
 ^Y ^v^) W..^;^ 
 
 JOSEPHINE Iw.' BATES 
 
 philadei<phia: 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPAlSrY. 
 
 1888. 
 
MM- 
 
 Copyright, 1888, by Josephine W. Bates. 
 
 • • • « 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAFTER PAOB 
 
 I. — The Miner's Family 5 
 
 II.— Colusa 13 
 
 III.— The EgcHER 22 
 
 IV.— The Watburns .. . . 30 
 
 v.— Ellen- 36 
 
 VI.— The Trophies 44 
 
 VII. — The Komp of the Camp 52 
 
 VIII. — A Discussion of Principles 59 
 
 IX. — Robert Hall 71 
 
 X. — In the Mountain Park 83 
 
 XI.— The Prospect 91 
 
 XII.— The "Silterline" 101 
 
 XIII. — Arranged 113 
 
 XIV.— A Change of Heads 124 
 
 XV.— A Great Bargain 130 
 
 XVI.— Nemesis 136 
 
 XVII.— The Bit uv Money 142 
 
 XVIII. — Congratulations ! 151 
 
 XIX.— Released 160 
 
 XX. — The Miner and his Mine 165 
 
 XXL— Which? 176 
 
 XXII.— A Higher Call 182 
 
 XXIII.— Three Years After 193 
 
 XXIV.— A Party 197 
 
 XXV.— A Great Day 207 
 
qS 
 
 
 Copyright, 1888, by Josephine W. Bates. 
 
 » • • • • • • 
 
 • • •*• "• • • 
 
 • • • •. • « • 
 
 •!•.. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PA.GH 
 
 I. — The Miner's Family 6 
 
 II. — Colusa 13 
 
 III.— The Ectcher 22 
 
 IV.— The Watburns . . . . ^ 30 
 
 v.— Ellen 36 
 
 VI. — The Trophies 44 
 
 VII. — The Komp of the Camp 62 
 
 VIII. — A Discussion of Principles 69 
 
 IX.— Robert Hall 71 
 
 X. — In the Mountain Park 83 
 
 XI.— The Prospect 91 
 
 XII.— The "Silverline" 101 
 
 XIIL— Arranged 113 
 
 XIV. — A Change of Heads 124 
 
 XV.— A Great Bargain 130 
 
 XVI.— Nemesis 136 
 
 XVII.— The Bit uy Money 142 
 
 XVIII. — Congratulations 151 
 
 XIX.— Released 160 
 
 XX. — The Miner and his Mine 165 
 
 XXI.— Which ? 176 
 
 XXII.— A Higher Call 182 
 
 XXIII.— Three Years After 193 
 
 XXIV.— A Party 197 
 
 XXV.— A Great Day 207 
 
 !vii38'^4^ 
 
4 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTEK PA.OK 
 
 XXVI.— Jebold's DiyiDBRS 212 
 
 XXVII.— A Revelation 217 
 
 XXVIII.— The Conflict 223 
 
 XXIX.— On the Height • 228 
 
 , XXX.— A Last Appeal 233 
 
 XXXI.— Free 242 
 
 XXXII.—" Mine" 249 
 
A BLIND LEAD, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 At the upper edge of the camp, close under the 
 rocky hill-side, stood a low log house. It did not 
 differ from its neighbors in form or construction : the 
 same rough-hewn logs and mud-mortar; the same 
 protruding stove-pipe; the same unplaned doors, 
 small square windows, and projecting dirt roof be- 
 longed to all. Still, about this house there was some- 
 thing distinctive. It stood last on the slope, and was 
 shut in and separated from the rest by a rough board 
 fence. In the yard, though the thin, gritty soil 
 scarcely covered the rock, two small flower-beds 
 were outlined by borders of marble quartz, amid 
 which gleamed specimens of azurite, peacock ores, 
 and pink manganese. Some roses and pansies were 
 growing in the beds but they were dwarfed, and hung 
 
 1* 6 
 
• ••.••• 
 
 '•'•^ ;•*: .'••:•.' *:: ..lA-'BiMiND lead. 
 
 limp and almost lifeless. The same rock border de- 
 fined a path which, hard and smooth-swept, led from 
 the gate to the door, where a bare stone served as a 
 step. 
 
 The house had become somewhat browned with age, 
 which lent it a sombre effect, but the dinginess was 
 neutralized by a plain white curtain which hung at the 
 window, and restored to the simple structure its aspect 
 of wholesomeness. 
 
 In the door-way, looking across the hills and shad- 
 ing her eyes against the evening sun, was standing a 
 woman of about thirty-five. In her arms she held 
 a little child, whose face was shiny and suggested a 
 recent application of soap, and whose neat checked 
 apron showed in its even creases that it had just been 
 donned. The mother was dressed simply, in a close- 
 fitting gown of cheap gingham relieved only by a col- 
 lar at the throat. Her hair, originally brown, was 
 faintly streaked with gray, and her mouth, though 
 gentle in its expression, had a way of tightening in the 
 corners which bespoke a life of endurance or self-sup- 
 pression. It relaxed now into a smile and her eyes 
 brightened pleasantly as, glancing out, she beheld a 
 man toiling up the steep and trotting along beside 
 him a lovely little girl. 
 
 The man was dressed in the garb of a miner : a 
 blue flannel shirt; clay-stained overalls tucked into a 
 
THE MINER'S FAMILY. 7 
 
 pair of high-top rubber boots, which were held up by 
 a piece of rope tied around the waist; and a soft 
 slouch hat none the better for its length of service 
 and its plentiful drops of candle-grease. On his 
 shoulder he carried a pick and shovel, and in his 
 hand swung a dinner-pail. As he walked his voice 
 was blended with that of the child, who trudged 
 beside him laughing and chattering, and holding now 
 by his hand, now by his loose boot-top. 
 
 As the miner caught sight of the figure in the door- 
 way he waved his hand, and the baby in her arms 
 began to kick and crow. She set him down on the 
 floor and passed to the kitchen to pour the water into 
 the teapot and complete the preparations for supper. 
 
 One noted in following her the order and cleanliness 
 everywhere. The three rooms into which the house 
 was partitioned, kitchen, sitting-room, and bedroom, 
 were so neat as to almost beget discomfort. Tliat the 
 occupants were above the commoner class of workers 
 one could infer, for in the sitting-room, rather than in 
 the kitchen, was spread the evening meal, and instead 
 of the checked oil-cloth or the bare board, a clean white 
 cloth adorned the table. Everything, however, was of 
 the cheapest and plainest. 
 
 When the woman had finished her simple prepara- 
 tions, she returned to the door in time to see the baby 
 caught up in a pair of strong arms and hear the clap- 
 
8 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 ping and shouting as he was tossed again and again 
 in the air. 
 
 " Thar, thar ! Set down that heavy child. You're 
 clear gev out to-night, I know," she said, taking the 
 baby from the miner's arms and putting it upon the 
 floor again. 
 
 " Wal, yes, 'Liz'bith, I be some tired," he answered, 
 with a touch of weariness. "Fust day kind uv 
 knocks a man out, ye know. I'll git the stiflP'nin' 
 outer me t'-morrow all right. It takes a while t' 
 limber up." 
 
 " Whar d'ye seem to feel the tire most, — in yer 
 arms?" the wife asked, sympathetically. 
 
 " No, here in the chist. It feels a little knotty in 
 here, but thet's nothin', thet's nothin'. So'thin' t' 
 eat '11 take the creek outer me." He dropped into a 
 chair and, tossing his hat upon the floor, stretched out 
 with a sigh of relief. 
 
 "I thought like enough ye'd come home petered 
 out," said Elizabeth, noting the attitude, "so I fixed 
 so'thin' a little extry. Hurry an' clean up an' I'll set 
 it on." 
 
 In a few minutes the miner had washed, removed 
 his overalls, and changed his rubber boots. The 
 family then seated themselves for supper. 
 
 "Why, Liz'bith, woman, what's this, — a feast?" the 
 miner asked, surveying the table and smacking his lips 
 
THE MINER'S FAMILY. 9 
 
 in anticipated relish. " Ye'd ought to told me so's I 
 could trick out a bit.'' 
 
 " Wal, Ellen fetched the honey, an' I thought a taste 
 uv that ole cake ye was so fond of 'ud kind o' go to the 
 right spot. Ellen said she thought ye'd need a little 
 settin' up to-night." 
 
 " She's a good woman, Ellen is," he commented. 
 
 The children now caught sight of the dainties and 
 cried out to be helped to them ; so in hungry 
 silence for a time they all applied themselves to the 
 supper. 
 
 When the first sharp craving of appetite was satis- 
 fied the father and mother drifted into talking again. 
 Meanwhile, the baby leaned over occasionally to trans- 
 fer a morsel from its own to its father's plate, or to 
 drop something into his tea, while the little girl paused 
 frequently to stroke his hand or cheek and assure 
 him he was a "nice papa." 
 
 " How's th' mine seem t' look, John ?" Elizabeth 
 asked suddenly across the table. 
 
 "Fust-rate, fust-rate," he answered with zest. 
 " I'll tie to th' Eucher an' stake my last dollar on her. 
 She's got the lead ; thar ain't no gettin' roun' thet ter 
 my mind." 
 
 His wife sipped her tea mechanically and looked on 
 absently at the baby breaking its bread and throwing 
 it over the arm of the chair to the floor. But after a 
 
10 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 moment she recovered, shook her head at the child, and 
 observed, in a tone wherein a fine ear might detect an 
 accent of scepticism, — 
 
 " I hope so, John ; we'll gev her a fair show any- 
 how. Ye'd never be content till ye'd a-sampled what's 
 down thar now." 
 
 " No, I can't be content t' never hev nothin', nothin'. 
 I must hev it, an' th' only way to git it is to strike it, 
 an' I'm agoin' to strike it, right thar in th' Eucher." 
 
 " This here's yer last chance, ye know, John. Ye've 
 gev yer word to quit ef this claim don't turn out rich." 
 
 "Yes, an' I'll hold to it. Ye see I'm safe ter 
 promise," he said, smiling, " cos thar's the vein plain in 
 sight, es clean in place es the road yon'er. It's small 
 yet, but it widens out more an' more. It's the very 
 Peerless ore too, 'Liz'bith, I'm satisfied, fer we got 
 spec'mens from the two claims this mornin' jest outer 
 cur'os'ty an' tuk 'em to th' assayer, an' he couldn't tell 
 which war which." 
 
 The wife's face brightened pleasantly ; a prospect of 
 Peerless ore was a warrant for cheer, since it had made 
 the fortunes of four penniless miners in its time. 
 
 " If it could be so !" she pondered. 
 
 " Be so ? Why, woman, it is so," he said, excitedly. 
 " I've dreamt o' nights fer months uv thet 'ar lead ; an' 
 ezactly es it lays thar now, I've saw it in my sleep, 
 time an' time ag'in. I tell ye, by winter we'll hev 
 
THE MINER'S FAMILY. H 
 
 sunk an' struck the Peerless vein. How of 'n," he went 
 on, enthusiastically, "hev yer been told that ev'ry 
 miner's got ter fail an' fail an' fail ag'in ? But onct in 
 his life fortune comes t' 'em all, an' now it's come to 
 me. You've worked an' scrimped an' stud by me," 
 he added, in a softened tone. " An' it's yours, Liz'- 
 bith, yours an' th' childer's, — ter tli' last bit." 
 
 The golden-haired child had been sitting in silence 
 vainly trying to get at the meaning of the conversation. 
 His last word seemed to enlighten her, for she broke 
 out, — 
 
 " An' Osie shall hev dat music down to the store ?" 
 
 The miner smiled indulgently and patted her cheek. 
 
 " Osie can hev it ?'* she insisted, pulling his sleeve 
 to insure attention. 
 
 The wants of the child he loved seemed to awaken 
 a new energy in the father. As he glanced down at 
 her his mouth grew firm and hard. 
 
 " Papa, Osie wants it so bad ! Oo must pick hard, 
 cos Osie tan't wait." 
 
 " Papa will pick hard," the miner replied, with a 
 ring of clear resolve in the tones. 
 
 " Ye mustn't mind Rosie's chatterin'. She's nothin' 
 but a child," Elizabeth said in reproof. 
 
 " Papa will pick hard ; Rosie shall hev it," he re- 
 peated in the same tone, and rose from the table. 
 
 Either the stiffness had passed out of his joints or 
 
12 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 he was now superior to it, for his step was quick and 
 decisive. Taking the baby again in his arms, the 
 miner seated himself, as he did nightly, on the stone 
 door-step, while the mother busied herself putting 
 away the tea-things. 
 
CHAPTER 11. 
 
 COLUSA. 
 
 The mining-camp of Colusa is perched high up 
 among the crests of the Rockies. The camp itself 
 lies along the slope of a mountain, and Trom it we 
 look away over mountains and mountains endlessly. 
 They tower up behind and pile themselves against 
 the heavens everywhere. AYe feel hemmed in and 
 depressed. The eye seeks in vain to rest itself in the 
 sweep of open stretches: it longs to gaze over sunlit 
 fields of waving grain, where thought is hushed and 
 the senses are filled with sweet languor, or out upon 
 the moving sea, where fancy can revel and imagination 
 lose itself in the uncertain horizon. Here the vision 
 is cut off abruptly. Through the passes we strain for 
 a glimpse of the beyond, but find only peaks, peaks. 
 
 At the bases and in the valleys grows sparsely a low 
 bunch-grass, which dies out up the slopes. Towards 
 the summit in some places are forests of slim pine- 
 trees, but the mountain-sides are mostly bare. When 
 the sun shines and lends its coloring, the outlook is 
 not without beauty; the dull yellow of the valley 
 
 2 13 
 
14 -4 BLIND LEAD. 
 
 shades, on the swelling foot-hills, into a deep gold, 
 then into the brown of the rocks, or the black of the 
 far pine woods, while above gleams the white of the 
 snow-capped crests. But when the sun is clouded and 
 the scene bereft of its magic tints, the country stands 
 out in its nakedness, cold and barren; no yellow or 
 green or soft brown, but leaden valleys, white ridges, 
 and gray skies, — desolate. 
 
 The prospect fills us with a sense of loneliness; 
 we miss the presence of living things. No farm-house 
 peeps out with the suggestiveness of its barns and 
 meadow green ; no ranch with its corrals ; no grazing 
 herd; no bird even soaring to tempt the soul with 
 envy of its wings — lifeless is written everywhere. 
 
 The mind shrinks from such isolation; it is im- 
 mediately filled with its instinct of self-projection. 
 Whether born of his conceit or his divinity, man 
 judges all things unfinished and in a measure pur- 
 poseless of which he is not a part. Yet here is a re- 
 gion in which his claims seem ignored and he himself 
 forgotten. But the contradiction is in appearance only ; 
 for close against her wealth-veined breast provident 
 Mother Earth holds the same hand which elsewhere she 
 extends in invitation. She has hedged herself about 
 with all that is forbidding because of the mighty treas- 
 ury to be protected, but she is loyal still and ready to 
 give to every daring son who shall prove her scroll 
 
COLUSA. 15 
 
 upon the rocks. Some time (and it needs no prophet 
 to tell it shall be soon), the form of man will be no 
 stranger to those mountains; but as yet they know 
 neither him nor his belongings. 
 
 We crave the animate more when the universal 
 silence bears down upon us. We own to a sort of 
 awe : the quiet is so profound. And yet it is not that 
 crystallized silence that speaks of force, nor is it the 
 lethargy of sleep, it is rather the hush of intense 
 thought, in which unseen faculties are moving in 
 strong activity. Time was when the activity revealed 
 itself, when the masses were shaken, their deep foun- 
 dations rent, and fiery fountains tossed into the granite 
 clefts their metalled spray to be a nation's heritage. 
 And dormant forces still awake and sweep the surface, 
 the elements are roused into strife, the thunder peals 
 and the lightnings leap from cloud to peak and flash 
 across the heavens in strokes that are keen and blind- 
 ing. The blizzard, too, with its frozen breath, rushes 
 down, shaking out the fury of its blasts; but the 
 warm Chinook comes in from the western sea, and 
 the giant's anger melts beneath her touch. Quiet is 
 restored, and it seems but the deeper for the momen- 
 tary commotion. 
 
 But, though the absence of life and the silence op- 
 press us and desolation lies like a pall on all the fea- 
 tures of the landscape, the country is none the less 
 
16 A BLIND LEAD, 
 
 noble and sublime. The massiveness of the broken 
 cliffs ; the mystery that lurks in the rifts and seams 
 and scars ; the power that speaks from the vast ledges 
 bent and twisted as by the grasp of some mighty 
 hand ; — these are but a part of its grandeur. All is 
 huge and imposing. We feel that in a glow of aspi- 
 ration Nature modelled these statued piles. Not in 
 the sensuous mood in which she painted the southern 
 skies, the joyousness in which she called up the bird- 
 haunted woods, or the cruelty in which she flung off 
 the desert, — she wrought here pure, lofty, dispas- 
 sionate. 
 
 We cannot but wonder at the hardihood of the 
 pioneers who forced their way up into these solitudes 
 to wrest from the. sullen hills their potent prize. The 
 majesty had no awe for them, the barrenness no terrors. 
 They came, poor men, whose all of earthly goods was 
 strapped across the backs of hardy little bronchos; 
 brave souls and fighters born, — men, who came with a 
 pick, a shovel, and a loaded rifle on their shoulders, 
 who feared neither man nor beast, but faced what was 
 more terrible than either the rigors of winter and the 
 dangers of starvation among the unknown mountains. 
 
 Their search had been successful, and now the camp 
 of Colasa was one of the liveliest and most promising 
 in the West. 
 
 A mining-camp is like no other place on earth; 
 
COLUSA, 17 
 
 there is a fascination about it that is inexplicable, a 
 spirit of enthusiasm that is contagious. Every man 
 seems to carry in his face a hope anchored to the 
 possibilities of the day. Reverses or present distress 
 affect him little, for his is but the condition of pretty 
 much all the people around him ; he bears with equa- 
 nimity, with a sort of dogged cheerfulness even, — to- 
 morrow may be the day of fortune, and what a liberal 
 fortune if luck is at all with him ! 
 
 The things of life impress men too as strong realities ; 
 the " may be" becomes nakedly the is or is not, and the 
 '^ is" or " is not" means all to them. Existence is not 
 linked to the affairs of men with the constant change 
 and the chance for influence ; it is bound to a condi- 
 tion long since determined and determined irrevocably. 
 It almost seems with many as though At§, the partial 
 and unrelenting, had arisen from the buried hearths of 
 Atreus and of QEdipus and claimed them for her prey, 
 so little are they subjects of their own power, so much 
 at the mercy of a pitiless unknown. 
 
 In Colusa are congregated men of all nations, classes, 
 trades, and characters. The laborer and the banker, the 
 lawyer, the gambler, and the tramp pass and nod a 
 recognition. All are in a sense adventurers ; all are one 
 in the common possession of a spirit which dares and 
 which endures, and one in the ministry of fate which 
 makes the laborer of to-day the capitalist of to-morrow, 
 b 2* 
 
18 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 anci the millionaire of one hour the pauper of the next. 
 And the heterooreneous mixture of men is reflected in 
 the array of shops. No section of street is devoted to 
 special business, but everything is wedged in promis- 
 cuously, — pawn-shops, faro-banks, dry-goods stores, 
 jewelry-houses, and low saloons are jumbled together 
 and thrive in mutual tolerance. Here a group of men 
 is congregated about the steps of some pretentious 
 hotel, and right at hand a variety theatre proclaims 
 the latest questionable play. But first and last and 
 everywhere in unchallenged supremacy is the saloon, 
 and in the saloon always the gamblers holding open 
 court. 
 
 At the end of the business street huddle the shanties 
 of the Chinese quarter ; the wash-house, the gambling- 
 room, the shop, and the joss-house reflect the life of 
 the Celestial population. Through the dirty windows 
 we can see them swarming in their crowded dens and 
 catch a glimpse of the bunks one above another. 
 Passing the closed doors (for ventilation is an abhor- 
 rence), we hear the monotonous scraping of the fiddle 
 and catch a breath of the noxious emanations and a 
 stifling odor of opium. Though denied the privileges 
 of mining, the coolies insinuate themselves along all 
 the other avenues of profit and share in the general 
 prosperity. They are execrated by the people and 
 the press ; they are the sport and prey of hoodlum 
 
COLUSA, 19 
 
 and of gamin; they are the victims of popular up- 
 risings; but patiently they keep on their industrious 
 way, and thrive in spite of persecution. 
 
 Colusa, though embracing thus men of all races and 
 counting among its citizens often the criminal and the 
 outlaw, is still not to be supposed a lawless town. If 
 for a season the unprincipled element bursts its bounds 
 or undertakes to run riot, the curb is near at hand. 
 Quietly from mouth to mouth 3 — 7 — 77, the mystic 
 number of the vigilantes, passes, and soon in the hush of 
 midnight the guilty transgressors pay to law and order 
 the tribute of their lives. Justice may be long-suffer- 
 ing and be for a time deferred, but when it comes it is 
 swift, silent, and complete. 
 
 The respectable members of the community even 
 are largely homeless waifs of fortune, who, after work 
 is over, have no place inviting them but the saloon, 
 none soliciting their presence but the brothel. The 
 street is their rendezvous. If in this open sea of 
 temptation we find true men, men who hold their 
 manhood a thing too sacred to be sullied, shall we 
 not own that the world still harbors the ideal ? And 
 many such, exiles of circumstance, are here redeeming 
 the camp by their virtue and their honor. 
 
 Back from the public street are the. homes, the 
 schools and churches, where all is as quiet and 
 orderly as a New England village. In these homes. 
 
20 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 removed from the strife, women and children lead the 
 same helpful, holy lives that are lived in homes the 
 world over. About this section, as indeed about the 
 whole camp, there is an air of transitoriness that grows 
 out of its very nature. The thousand little conveni- 
 ences that modern civilization has made necessaries 
 are unknown, for the people expect to be birds of 
 passage, and are ready to spread their wings in flight 
 upon the first evidence of decline. 
 
 The houses stretch all along the side of the hill 
 and down nearly to the little creek that winds, one 
 could not say flows, in front of the town. The early 
 placer-workings have left the bed of the valley seamed 
 and torn, and piles of smooth stones lie about washed 
 of the soil that imbedded them, which has been swept 
 into the stream, that now creeps sluggishly amid its 
 sandy bars. From the chlorodizing mills too, with the 
 dark tailings, has been carried a solution of salt which 
 has left its deposit, a grayish film, along the banks. 
 Westward with even swelling slope looms a huge 
 porphyry butte, a figure solitary and commanding. 
 Away in the past ages some restless force at work in 
 the earth's interior had rent the ancient hill-side and 
 heaved the molten lava high into the outer world. 
 It had cooled a solid cone, and stands now a mass dif- 
 ferent from the country rock around, an alien in birth 
 and an alien in nature. 
 
COLUSA, 21 
 
 Beyond the creek, on the farther rise of the valley, 
 lies the cemetery. The graves are simple, marked gen- 
 erally by plain wooden headboards, though occasion- 
 ally a coarse granite slab rises stiff and cold like the 
 bleak region around it. No shading trees, no living 
 flowers, are here, such as man longs to see blooming 
 where rest the forms beloved, for the fatal smelter- 
 smoke, like the breath of a pestilence, passes over, 
 and every blossom withers in its blight. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE EUCHEB. 
 
 Elizabeth was one of those rare persons who, 
 though chained by circumstances to the petty details 
 of domestic labor, never allowed such duties to become 
 her tyrants. She did not sacrifice on the altar of an 
 arbitrary propriety the higher needs of home-life. 
 She carried out the dishes, piled them up in the 
 kitchen, covered and left them until morning. In a 
 few minutes she was seated beside her husband, free to 
 devote her evening to him and the children. 
 
 She relieved him of the baby. The little girl had 
 thrown herself upon the ground beside her father, 
 leaning her head against his knee, and his rough 
 brown hand was resting down upon her curls. They 
 formed unconsciously a group that told of sweet do- 
 mestic peace and love ; a sight pleasant to look upon 
 amid the bareness of their surroundings. 
 
 "Why d' ye feel so sure thet vein's through the 
 Eucher, John ?" Elizabeth began, her mind still turn- 
 ing to the theme of such moment in their lives. 
 
 " It can't run nowhar's else es I can see," he an- 
 swered. 
 22 
 
THE EUCHER. 23 
 
 " Ye kDOW," she remonstrated, gently, " ye thought 
 ye'd a good lead in the Lidy an' the None Sech, an' 
 ye was cert'n uv the Grit/' 
 
 " Yes, yes, so I war. When I think uv 'em all, I 
 feel some put out. Mebbe it ain't so right, me stick'n' 
 ter this 'ere, arter all. Thar's no knowin' anythin' 
 'bout a mine nohow. The Peerless, — tuk half a mil- 
 lion outer her, an' my two claims 's right joinin'. I've 
 thought it out months an' months, an' I don't see, fer 
 the life o' me, how thet vein can be any whar but in my 
 Eucher." 
 
 "Yet one uv yer own sayin's is thet 'extensions 
 most never extend.' " 
 
 " No more they don't gin'rally." 
 
 " But the vein ye're on broad'ns out ye say ?" 
 
 " Yes, gittin' wider right 'long es we go down. Ef 
 I didn't feeh so cert'n I wouldn't hev thro wed up my 
 job. Ye see when I hadn't 'nough t' pay a hand t'r 
 sink an' run the house too, an' Magee, he couldn't sink 
 alone, I'd got ter throw up the job or shet down th' 
 mine. I'd like t' try a bit longer, but ef ye're re- 
 pentin' uv yer consent I'll quit, fer nothin' never went 
 right with me ef you war agin it." 
 
 "No, John, no," she answered, assuringly, "I'm 
 not agin it. Ye'd never be content now out o' thet 
 'ere hole in th' ground, an' I'm not agin it, man, I'm 
 not agin it." 
 
24 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 " Mebbe it riles ye that I'm shoulderin' a pick an' 
 diggin' like tli' commonest/' he observed, with sudden 
 suspicion. " Mebbe ye'd like I'd go back ter bossin'." 
 
 A secret sensitiveness in his own mind made him 
 somewhat morbid to his late descent, for his face flushed 
 and he looked at his wife with an unwonted sharpness. 
 
 " Ye're no wus to-day diggin' then ye was last week 
 bossin' es I can see," she answered in a curt disdain. 
 " Ef ye strike it no one's goin' t' ask ye how ye got 
 thar." 
 
 Her philosophy silenced his doubt. 
 
 " Thet's the truth, Liz'bith. It's the succeedin' thet 
 counts. Wal, I'm unly wantin' this one show, an' ef 
 I fail ag'in, I'm satisfied t' gev up try in'." 
 
 A look of perplexity crossed his wife's face a 
 moment and a hint of her misgiving crept into her 
 words. 
 
 " It'll be kind uv tight pullin'." 
 
 Then she feared that she might seem to be inter- 
 posing obstacles, and added, in quick encouragement, — 
 
 " No matter though, ye'll be takin' out some right 
 'long like enough, an' I'll go es sparin' es I can so we 
 won't hev t' draw on th' little we've got set away." 
 
 " No, we'll never tech thet whatever comes," with 
 the posit! veness of one who settles a fact irrevocably. 
 " Thet's fer you an' the childer agin a rainy day." 
 
 " Thar's ways opens up sometimes thet folks can't 
 
THE EUCHER. 25 
 
 know about aforehand, an' I sometimes feel " She 
 
 hesitated, as though her position might not be alto- 
 gether tenable. "I sometimes feel when yeVe done 
 yer best, yeVe a right to 'spect things '11 happen 'long 
 ter help ye out." 
 
 The miner shook his head incredulously. 
 
 "Thar won't nothin' happen 'long, nor we won't 
 need nothin'. We'll be gittin' out more'n more es we 
 git down in th' shaft, an' any minute we're likely t' 
 strike rich ore ; thet's how it war in th' Peerless. 
 Lots uv ther ore went nine hundred ounces on the 
 hundred foot level, an' thet's our shute sure." 
 
 He glanced along the trail he travelled daily to and 
 from the mine, over the swelling ridge, and his brow 
 contracted in that keen outreaching of sight that would 
 pierce the very earth and trace the secret artery. He 
 saw it a frozen stream of silver imprisoned deep under 
 the weight of rocks. There it was in its natural 
 course straight across his claim and branching into 
 the narrower veins that lay below. It was all clear 
 to him, for he saw with the double force of reason 
 and a miner's intuition. Alas! his wife had only her 
 unaided sight. 
 
 "Ef it should anyways chance it wasn't, John?" 
 she asked, apologetically. 
 
 Her doubt jarred upon the sensitive faith of her 
 husband. He felt dimly what we all feel at times, 
 B 8 
 
26 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 the difficulty of expressing or explaining our intui- 
 tions, so he answered only in the evidence of his 
 reason. 
 
 "Thar ain't but three claims it could be in," he 
 said, with a shade of irritation. " Them's th' Eucher, 
 th' Elm Orlu, an' the Daisy. Th' Eucher 's mine 
 an' Magee's; th' Elm Orlu 's mine; an' the Daisy 
 's old man Brown's. Now this lead ud hev to turn 
 off, so, to git inter th' Elm Orlu, but I do think the 
 Chieftain vein 's in thar, — thet's why I tuk it up. 
 The Daisy 's too fur to the left; besides, they sunk a 
 shaft sixty feet an' didn't strike nothin'. So thar's no 
 place fur it to be but in th' Eucher." 
 
 "It would seem so, wouldn't it?" said Elizabeth. 
 
 " The vein makes out below in the Gopher, an' how 
 in thunder could it git down the hill 'thout it went 
 through th' Eucher?" He turned to her with the 
 challenge of his question, but she made no attempt to 
 reply. As well have asked her how the stars had got 
 into the sky as how that vein had got down the hill. 
 How indeed without, as he said, it went through the 
 Eucher? The unanswerableness of his argument was 
 its confirmation, and the miner was placated. 
 
 "Quite likely ye're right, John," Elizabeth said, 
 speaking out of the depth of mystery she was power- 
 less to penetrate. " Men's s'posed to know ther own 
 work better'n women can know it fer 'em, an' I've 
 
THE EUCHER. 27 
 
 got all the figurin^ out I can do on patchin' clothes 
 an' " 
 
 "An' tallyin' off my chances fer salvation?" he 
 broke in, laughing. 
 
 " Yes," she assented. Not that Elizabeth considered 
 her husband a godless man, but, like so many other 
 good souls, she was forever distracted between the im- 
 possibility of making him conform to her method of 
 thought and the fear of leaving him to the freedom of 
 his own. 
 
 " Never mind, wife," — he glanced at her with a sly 
 smile, — " I jest tie t' your faith." 
 
 "I find thet's most gin'rally the way uv men," 
 tartly. " They got no religion theirselves t^ boast on, 
 an' they don't go much on it nohow, — 'it's a kind uv 
 sweet syrup fer women an' babies. But when troubles 
 comes an' they're in a tight box, I never see th' man 
 yet what didn't drop right down onter his wife's 
 r'ligion an' grip it with his eyes shet an' hold on like 
 iron." 
 
 The miner laughed. " 
 
 "Yes, an' it's mighty weak an' sneakin', John 
 Howard," she continued. " If ye want strength why 
 don't ye git it fust hand ?" 
 
 " Wal, I'm feelin' pretty strong mysel' to-night," he 
 answered, pleasantly ; " but what a good little preacher 
 ye be, 'Liz'beth !" 
 
28 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 He put his arm about her and drew her down with 
 teasing familiarity. 
 
 " I tell ye what," he said, patronizingly, " I struck a 
 rich lead when I struck you, — pay from tli' very grass- 
 roots, — an' ef ye be occas'nally given ter droppin' down 
 onter me fer dis'pline, why, I need it I s'pose, — it's 
 wholesome an' ye mean well." 
 
 She held up her finger as a truce to his teasing, and 
 a movement of the baby attracted her attention. 
 
 " Do look at them childern," she exclaimed. " Both 
 sound asleep. We must take 'em in : it's gettin' late." 
 
 " Pretty innocen's," he said, stooping and brushing 
 the soft curls back from the little girl's forehead. 
 Then, straightening up and leaning back against the 
 door-post, " I wish t' other war here too. It never 
 seems right t' hev Ada 'way from us." 
 
 " They couldn't gev her up down thar," Elizabeth 
 answered, quickly. " I've hinted it onct or twice, but 
 mother, she's es ef t' hev a spell uv cry in', an' Sarah, 
 she clings to the child. Ada's the life uv the house, an' 
 they all pet her an' love her." 
 
 "Yes, but we love her too, an' she'd orter luk t' 
 us fust for love. I've never saw th' right uv leavin' 
 lier all this time, tho' I'd bid ye hev yer way 'bout it. 
 The woman hes th' trouble uv young uns, an' tliey 
 got the fust say o' what'U be done." 
 
 " Besides, John," his wife hastened to add, " we 
 
THE EUCHER. 29 
 
 couldn't do fer her like theyVe a-doin'. She couldn't 
 git to go to school 'way up here." 
 
 " No, yc're right thar ; we couldn't yet." 
 
 " An' she'd hev unly these common childern 'round 
 'bout t' })lay with, while among the folks she's growin' 
 up a lady." 
 
 "Ay, an' a precious han'some one," he answered, 
 proudly. " Last Sun'ay when she come up here wi' 
 that white frock an' th' blue ribbon on her ha'r, her 
 eyes so bright an' her fat little arms, I'll be shot ef 
 I ever see a child any prettier." 
 
 "She's fifteen now, Ada is," said the mother, 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 "Wal ef she ain't! How th' time does git 'way 
 from a man, don't it ?" 
 
 ." Ada's goin' ter make an oncommon fine girl. I'd 
 be glad fer her sake the mine 'ud turn out well ; but 
 come, come, we must git in." 
 
 " Wouldn't she hev the frocks then tho' !" he went 
 on. " An' rings an' necklaces an' be a lady out'n out. 
 She'll hev 'era, all, fer her father '11 strike ev'ry blow 
 home fer his babies. She'll hev 'em ; an' so '11 papa's 
 darlin' little Kosie." 
 
 Lifting the sleeping child, he nestled her head close 
 in against his neck and carried her into the house, 
 murmuring softly, " Papa's little Rosie ! Papa's little 
 
 Rosie !" 
 
 8* 
 
CHAPTER lY. 
 
 THE WAYBURNS. 
 
 " EcCENTKic, a harmless old codger!" that was men's 
 summary of him, — as if "eccentric" and "harmless" 
 ever could apply to the same person. 
 
 A man's eccentricities are, to the world, little weak- 
 nesses to be indulged and laughed at, but to those of 
 his household, alas! alas! 
 
 James Wayburn's eccentricity was perhaps as inno- 
 cent as such things ever are. Certainly by his little 
 world outside it was humored and enjoyed immoder- 
 ately, and if his family suffered sometimes, — that was 
 but an incident. 
 
 " I believe I'm going to have another of my spells," 
 said the old man, extending himself upon the sofa, — 
 " one of my bad spells." 
 
 His wife looked up sharply but said nothing. 
 
 Soon he remarked again, — 
 
 "Yes, I do believe I'm going to be sick sure." 
 And, drawing out his red bandana handkerchief, he 
 proceeded to wrap it tightly about his head. 
 
 " James Wayburn," said his wife, rising slowly and 
 80 
 
THE WAYBURNS. 31 
 
 looking straiglit into his eye, — " James Wayburn, have 
 you been down to that auction again ?'' 
 
 " Auction !" he repeated in a surprised tone, as if the 
 word itself was new to him. " Auction ! Well, I did 
 drop into Kogers's to kind of look up that set you said 
 you wanted for Ellen. I stopped in at Sutton's, but 
 they was all so dear I about gave up looking till I 
 happened into Rogers's." 
 
 A low sigh was the woman's only comment. She 
 seated herself again and took up her knitting. Pres- 
 ently it dropped from her hands into her lap and lay 
 there unheeded. She was thinking. Her thoughts 
 could not have been altogether pleasant, for she held 
 her lips tight-shut, as though fearful that some word 
 might escape. Occasionally her eyes wandered to the 
 figure on the sofa, and she moved as if to address 
 him ; but she restrained herself, and gradually her re- 
 flections seemed to grow less personal, for she sat lost 
 in revery. 
 
 The old man had turned his face to the wall, and 
 soon his regular breathing told that he slept. Re- 
 called to herself, the woman looked down upon the 
 sleeper, and as she did, the lines in her face softened 
 and a shade of pity crept in instead. She arose, and 
 bringing a light coverlet, spread it over him. 
 
 Then she returned to her knitting, but though the 
 needles flew and the deft fingers guided the slipping 
 
32 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 yarn, the mind was not idle. Every little while she 
 paused to glance out at the open window, and her lips 
 murmured faintly, " Poor Ellen/' 
 
 The home of the Wayburns was a long weather- 
 stained house, that looked out upon butte and creek 
 and solid mountain masses. It was set in the middle 
 of an enclosure, a sterile patch of about half an acre. 
 Noting the waste of slopes beyond, one felt that a 
 square mile might have been appropriated and no land 
 missed, for there was certainly a sufiSciency of build- 
 ing room in the country. 
 
 Close at hand an abandoned mine, with its dis- 
 mantled shaft-house, told of blighted hopes and use- 
 less labor. The whim still stood within the beaten 
 circle, where reluctantly an old gray horse had toiled 
 with the heavy bucket. Now, two ragged children 
 were straddling the pole, while a third, with much 
 panting and puffing, was dragging them slowly around. 
 A long pile of wood remained to suggest the expecta- 
 tion of the miners, and a small dump of neglected ore 
 betrayed what they had realized. 
 
 The original house, like all those of early days, was 
 of logs. In front of this had been built as the town 
 grew and the railroad came, cheapening the price of 
 lumber, a frame structure after a more modern pat- 
 tern. 
 
 The house was devoid of porch or piazza, the front 
 
THE WAYS URNS. 33 
 
 door opening directly into the sitting-room. Nothing 
 superfluous was to be tolerated, nothing that could be 
 dispensed with added, so no space was devoted to the 
 etiquette of halls. The windows were small, and the 
 door innocent of anything more pretentious than a 
 latch, while the walls had been clothed and were 
 papered with a pretty design which, though cheap, 
 gave a pleasing effect. The furniture was mostly of 
 home manufacture, and some of the articles displayed 
 a taste and an ingenuity much out of the common ; 
 soft lounges, inviting chairs, curious foot-rests, and 
 pretty hangings, made the little home a place of 
 comfort and unexpected beauty. 
 
 Here and there, however, scattered throughout the 
 house, one came upon some odd piece, a chair, a pic- 
 ture, or a rug, evidently bought and always faded, and 
 so inharmonious that the wonder was how the taste 
 and genius that devised the one could be guilty of 
 tolerating the other. There was an evil sprite some- 
 where, a spirit that marred the simple harmony. 
 
 Here in the quiet of the suburb dwelt the family of 
 James Wayburn, — " Old Wayburn" he was popularly 
 called, though he counted only fifty-six and was hale 
 enough to last twenty good years longer. He had 
 come to Colusa twelve years before, and had been in- 
 fluenced into coming partly by the fact that his life- 
 long friend and neighbor, David Hall, had decided 
 
34 A BLIND LEAD, 
 
 upon the move, and partly by a weakness of his 
 nature, which was the determining motive in every 
 choice. James Wayburn was possessed of the demon 
 of tradinsr. There was nothing he owned that he 
 would not trade ; nothing that any other man owned 
 that he would not trade for. It was a mania with 
 him, an idea whose presence dwarfed every other con- 
 sideration. It shaped his plans, warped his thought, 
 and overruled all his better purposes. Distance, time, 
 trouble, — nothing counted ; a present or prospective 
 trade was the leaven of his life. 
 
 The bustling, active city that had grown up around 
 Lis former home was fast crowding out all chance for 
 the exercise of his hobby, — city methods do not admit 
 much of barter. He was willing enough, therefore, to 
 accompany David Hall to a new town, cut off from 
 all the world, which offered such a hopeful field for 
 conquest. 
 
 In Colusa he had opened a small book-store, with 
 stationery, magazines, and papers of the day. He suc- 
 ceeded with his business reasonably well. He would 
 have succeeded better but that James Wayburn was 
 himself his own best customer. Through the long 
 days he sat placidly reading the books of his little 
 stock, and he added to them in purchasing such only 
 as commended themselves to his own individual need. 
 As this ran largely into the sphere of the romantic, 
 
THE WAYBURNS. 35 
 
 and he was not very particular about theme or treat- 
 ment, he managed to accommodate the popular taste 
 by accident fairly well. 
 
 The profits of his business went always into satisfy- 
 ing the hunger of his " Daimon ;'' into buying some- 
 thing that promised the solace of a trade. As, however, 
 some one was ever ready to saddle upon him what no 
 other C9uld be seduced into buying, he was generally 
 fain to keep his bargains and denied his well-earned 
 pleasure. But this never discouraged him. He 
 waited, collected a little more money, and ventured 
 again. Endless had been the complications to which 
 his foible had given rise, — the domestic scenes, the 
 mortifications, the reproaches, — and endless also the 
 promises and endeavors at reform. Alas ! James Way- 
 burn's eccentricity would go with him to the end. 
 
 His family with each year had been sinking deeper 
 into need. The mother's health failed at last, and the 
 oldest daughter in the home, then a girl just budding 
 into womanhood, came forward to relieve their wants. 
 The father realizing now anew the mischief his folly 
 had wrought, and the misfortunes it brought to those 
 he loved, vowed with honest tears to repair the past 
 in the devotion of the future. But the years had 
 come and gone again, and still at her post stood 
 Ellen Wayburn, the stay and support of the house- 
 hold. 
 
CHAPTEE V. 
 
 ELLEN. 
 
 As Mrs. Wayburn sat beside her husband, knitting 
 and reflecting, her thoughts were interrupted by the 
 opening of the door and the entrance of a girl appar- 
 ently about twenty-five. 
 
 There was nothing noticeably handsome about her ; 
 she was tall, with brown hair, which waved gently, and 
 was drawn back from a face clear but colorless. Her 
 figure was slight but well proportioned. In the sepa- 
 rate features it could not be claimed that she was at all 
 striking, and yet one was impressed with a something 
 about her, individual, unique, superior. It shone in 
 every line, in every curve, in the poise of the head, 
 the expression of the eyes, and the shading of cheek 
 into chin; it was reflected in the light, firm step, and 
 in the voice low yet so distinct. It was diffused like 
 a gentle magnetism, or like the subtle essence of a 
 flower, — a something to feel but not to be located or 
 defined. 
 
 The influence puzzled while it attracted, for the clue 
 
 was evasive. One sought it vainly upon the surface, 
 86 
 
ELLEN. 37 
 
 in anything of shape or shade; it was of the intan- 
 gible which sense cannot measure or discern. But 
 suddenly a word or a chance judgment would hint the 
 secret, and then, once found, it solved the mystery so 
 easily and so naturally, the wonder was it had not been 
 divined at a glance. 
 
 The girl was instinct with spirit-force. Spirituality, 
 that was the power which moulded, the quality dif- 
 fused through her and exhaled unconsciously. It 
 shone upon her brow, in the clear, honest eye, in the 
 firm mouth, and moved and glowed in every fibre of 
 her being. 
 
 As the girl entered, she carried in her hand a plain 
 straw hat and on her arm a pile of books, both of 
 which she deposited upon the table. 
 
 "Dreaming?" she asked, pleasantly, drawing near 
 and resting her hand upon her mother's. Then, as 
 she caught sight of the sleeper, " Father sick ? What 
 is the matter ?'' 
 
 "Nothin' the matter, dear, nothin' but the old 
 trouble. He's been down to the auction squand'rin' 
 his money as usual." The mother paused ; then con- 
 tinued : " Yer school dress, youVe got to manage with- 
 out it, dear, an' that chirtiney bill must wait again, — 
 after all his promisin', too." 
 
 " Oh, mother ! how could he ?" broke from the girl's 
 
38 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 When she saw the disappointment in her mother's 
 face, she stroked the gray hair lovingly. "I don't, 
 mind the dress so much. My ' genius for going with- 
 out/ as you call it, will serve me again ; but that bill, 
 — it's a shame and a wrong." 
 
 " How much did he spend ?" she asked, presently. 
 "And what did he buy?" 
 
 " Some trash for your new room, I guess. I didn't 
 bother to find out, — I hadn't the patience to. It's 
 the same old story, an' I'm tired of hearin' it. That 
 sounds like wagon-wheels now; most prob'ly it's them 
 comin'." And she rose to see what this latest acquisi- 
 tion might prove. 
 
 At that moment an express-wagon drove into the 
 yard, and the driver, seeing the two standing in the 
 door-way, saluted in military fashion. 
 
 " Foin day, ladies, foin day. Got a noice new parler 
 sit for yez this toime, shure." 
 
 "Drive around to the barn and store them in the 
 loft," said Ellen, quietly. 
 
 "Th'old gintleman's private 'part men t ag'in? I'm 
 doubtin' if there'll be anny more room. A grand 
 'sortment he have got up there, miss, an' no mish- 
 take. He have a ginuine oi fur th' antaque. But 
 he got this lot chape, dirt chape," he added, encour- 
 agingly. 
 
 " How much did he pay?" 
 
ELLEN. 39 
 
 " Oh, unly thirty dollars th' load, au' I fotched th' 
 lot up fur a dollar an' a half. They're worth double 
 the money anny day, — th' auctionair sed so, an' 
 plinty's th' chance he's hed t' ixamin' 'era. They've 
 bin lyin' this two months waitin' th' old gintleraan 'ud 
 happ'n 'round. He'll have a swell boudware now, he 
 will, this bidstid an' thira curtains an' foinery. I'll 
 stow 'em careful' in th' north chamb'r." And, winking 
 shrewdly, he took up the lines and drove on. 
 
 As they turned to re-enter the house the click of the 
 gate attracted their attention, and a moment later some 
 one came up the walk whistling merrily. 
 
 "That's Jerold," observed Ellen, passing within. 
 
 As she spoke, around the corner of the house came 
 a young man of such boyish frame and face one would 
 have judged him scarcely twenty, though a closer in- 
 spection would have added at least ten years. As he 
 stepped buoyantly along, his cheeks fresh and the light 
 of mirth dancing in his eyes, one felt that Jerold Bray 
 was of the favored few who assimilate only the world's 
 sunshine ; a creature with whom care and anxiety have 
 nothing in common. 
 
 " How do you do, ma ?" he called out cheerily, ap- 
 proaching the door she held open. 
 
 He entered and stood familiarly in the middle of 
 the room. Then, seeing Ellen, he crossed, seated him- 
 self beside her, and stole his arm quietly over her 
 
40 A BUND LEAD. 
 
 shoulder. The look she raised to his was so full of 
 sweet trust he seemed touched, for he stooped and 
 lightly kissed her forehead. 
 
 "Anything new at the Pierian spring?" he asked, 
 leaning over and putting his hat upon the table, " or is 
 this the season when the classic font runs dry? I 
 suppose, though, it's superfluous to ask you for news, 
 you carry your ethereal mind so high above the in- 
 terests of this common world.'' 
 
 "Now see how you misjudge me,'' she answered, 
 with a smile. "I have been only waiting till you 
 should finish your remark to tell you the latest sur- 
 prise. As you only inquired for school news, how- 
 ever, anything else may be irrelevant," she observed, 
 slyly. 
 
 " Nothing is irrelevant that is news, so let us have 
 it." 
 
 " Well, Miss Hudson, or ^ pretty Catharine' as you 
 gentlemen have taken the liberty of christening her, 
 is engaged, — actually engaged." 
 
 • " Indeed I And Archer has really corralled her at 
 last, has he? Well, she's led him many a chase, and 
 if he's got her safely he deserves congratulations. I'll 
 walk around to-night and offer them." 
 
 " You may be a trifle premature," said Ellen ; " she 
 declines telling to whom she is engaged, and it is barely 
 possible you might be congratulating the wrong man. 
 
ELLEN. 41 
 
 Her engagement was divulged by accident, and she 
 won't discuss it." 
 
 " A mystery ! a mystery !" said Jerold. " I must set 
 about the sohition at once. When one lives in an iso- 
 lated mining-camp he must at least be permitted to 
 know what is transpiring about him; secrecy is an 
 infringement of one's neighbors' most sacred rights, for 
 you might as well rob a man of his money as of his 
 peace of mind, and who can have peace of mind with 
 a perplexing mystery in his midst? I shall drop in 
 upon Archer now without fail and make a personal 
 demand for information. But I am forgetting my 
 errand. Sarah !" he called, rising and speaking across 
 the dining-room to a girl busily at work in the 
 kitchen. " Sarah dear ! Sarah ! where are those 
 famous doughnuts? Aren't you going to invite me 
 to partake?" 
 
 "If you'll stop your 'dearin" I may fetch some 
 in, but if you stand there badger in' me you may go 
 back as you come," replied the girl, in a voice that was 
 sharp and incisive but not unpleasant. 
 
 Jerold looked at her with a spirit of mischief play- 
 ing visibly in his handsome eyes, but as she picked 
 up a plate and disappeared into the pantry he checked 
 the impulse, and, with his smile of habitual good na- 
 ture, came back to his place beside Ellen. 
 
 In a few minutes, with a brisk step, entered Sarah, 
 4* 
 
42 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 a rosy-cheeked, healthy girl, whose flashing black eyes 
 had a way of intimating her ideas long before they 
 had shaped themselves upon her tongue. She carried 
 a plate heaping full of the fresh, temptiaig cakes, 
 which she set upon the table. " There they are," she 
 said. Her tone was shaded to a welcome, but in her 
 eyes lurked a certain ungraciousness that could not 
 be disguised. It was clear the young man had no ad- 
 mirer in Sarah. But her disfavor did not seem to 
 disturb him much, for he laughed provokingly as 
 he went on eating. No very aggressive mood could 
 be maintained in the face of such persistent good 
 spirits; before many minutes Sarah had melted to 
 sociability and the three were indulging in a lively 
 conversation. 
 
 But presently Jerold noticed that Mrs. AVayburn sat 
 apart in silence, oblivious to their coterie, and with his 
 volatile humor he turned to her. 
 
 " What, ma I you melancholy ? Have a doughnut, 
 do ; nothing so good for melancholy." And he leaned 
 over to pass her the flaky dainties. 
 
 " No, dear ; I was only thinking," she said, waving 
 them away. 
 
 "Don't do it, rta, don't. It's a reflection on us. 
 Besides, to reflect when there are doughnuts in full 
 sight must be a reflection on the doughnuts." 
 
 "Oh, you incorrigible I" exclaimed Ellen; then 
 
ELLEN. 43 
 
 added, apologetically, " Mike has just brought a load 
 from the auction, and ma^s a little troubled." 
 
 "Auction again? Shades of Mercury! here's sport. 
 Let's out, right off, and see." 
 
 Snatching a cake in each hand, without waiting for 
 further explanation, he jumped up and hurried un- 
 ceremoniously into the yard. 
 
CHAPTER VL 
 
 THE TROPHIES. 
 
 Mike had got the wagon as far as the barn-door 
 and dismounted leisurely to decide upon what he would 
 do next. With the curiosity of his class he mounted 
 to the " apartment," to learn if any fresh relics had 
 been added since last he surveyed the collection. He 
 seemed satisfied that there had, for a broad grin spread 
 over his face as he espied an article at one side. 
 
 He walked around, tilted it, rubbed it, and applied 
 various other tests to assure himself of its identity, 
 then he sat down and burst into a suppressed fit of 
 chuckling, slapping his leg and twisting his body into 
 the most ungainly attitudes. Evidently the associa- 
 tions in his mind were somewhat humorous. 
 
 After he had sufficiently vented his mirth and taken 
 a close view of the other late deposits, he proceeded to 
 shove aside some of the pieces to make room for the 
 load below. He handled them with a recklessness 
 that would have wrung James Wayburn's soul, — all 
 but the article with the associations. That he moved 
 very gingerly, but whether for memory's sake or for 
 44 
 
THE TROPHIES, 45 
 
 the fear that it would suddenly drop to pieces, as it 
 seemed sorely tempted to do, might be an open ques- 
 tion. He had just descended the ladder and climbed 
 again to the front of the wagon when Jerold appeared 
 in the yard. 
 
 " Oi say. Mister Jerry !" he called out. " Ye're 
 jist in time t' take a hand. Here, give us a lift on 
 this bidstid.^' 
 
 Jerold lingered a moment to set his cake in a, place 
 of safety, then hurried forward with the accommo- 
 dating good-fellowship of the camp. 
 
 " Double bed and single springs !" he ejaculated, as 
 he helped to lift them from the wagon and prop them 
 against the barn. "Excellent combination! What 
 else?" 
 
 The commotion in the yard had wakened the old 
 man, and he now came sheepishly forward, unable to 
 resist the temptation of looking again at his trophies. 
 
 " Hello, pa !"- Jerold called out as he appeared, " how 
 are you feeling this afternoon ?" 
 
 " Pretty low, Jerry, pretty low. I've one of my 
 bad spells on again, an' I feel very downish. I'll be 
 carried off in one of these attacks yet, I'm afraid." 
 
 Mr. Wayburn's misdemeanors always awoke in him 
 a suspicion that he was possessed of a treacherous con- 
 stitution, and Jerold turned aside rather abruptly that 
 he might indulge unobserved in a little quiet laughter. 
 
46 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 " What do you think of my purchase ?" the old man 
 ventured, drawing nearer. "Rather good selection, 
 shouldn't you say/' 
 
 " Yes, I'd be likely to say that if I said anything," 
 Jerold replied, equivocally. " But this queer old puri- 
 tan-backed chair, what did you get that for ?" 
 
 " Oh, that's a curiosity. Rogers says it's a very old 
 chair and it's got a history; he didn't just know what 
 its history was, but he remembers its owner's telling 
 him it had one. It needs a nail or two, though." 
 
 " Yes, a nail or two — and a leg or two. An adjust- 
 able back might add to its comfort, and a new seat 
 might be ornamental. How had you thought of fixing 
 it?" 
 
 James Wayburn hesitated a moment. The practical 
 consideration of use had not intruded upon his thought 
 in buying only the venerable antiquity. 
 
 " I hadn't quite decided," he answered at last. 
 There was something pathetic in his abused expres- 
 sion as he looked up at Jerold, an expression which 
 said plainly that it pained him to know there was 
 a human being capable of cornering an innocent old 
 man. 
 
 " I'll fix it up some way, Jerry," he said. " I haven't 
 hit on just how, but it '11 come to me, — it always 
 comes to me. These heirlooms are desirable things to 
 keep in a family." 
 
THE TROPHIES. 47 
 
 "It will do nicely for the parlor. Ebony is so 
 fashionable though now, I believe I^d paint it black 
 first; it would be handsome then." 
 
 " Do you think so, really ? Well, danno but you're 
 right. I'll fix it up stylish, you'll see." 
 
 That any one could be making fun at his expense, or 
 that there was ever anything ludicrous in his actions, 
 was the last thought to find lodging in James Way- 
 burn's mind; so he took Jerold's suggestions all in 
 good faith. But Sarah had chanced out into the yard 
 just in time to catch Jerold's last remark, and his 
 humorous indulgence of her father's offences exasper- 
 ated her beyond measure. 
 
 " Jerold Bray !" she struck in, in her most uncom- 
 promising tone, "I'm 'shamed of you. You know 
 them traps '11 never enter this house. They're a lot 
 of rubbish that no one but pa could have found in a 
 year's hunt." 
 
 "That gal's got a tongue th' very brother o' my 
 wife's," muttered Mike. "Thim tongues is tirrible 
 thin's t' live wid. There beint no suitin' th' wimen 
 nowadays." 
 
 " This has jist got past bearin'," Sarah continued, 
 " and I will have my say out 'bout it. There's that 
 old blind nag in the barn, an' all this stuff here, an' 
 last week tw6nty-four yards of bright green flannel 
 that no livin' bein' could put t' any use " 
 
48 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 ** Send it to the parsonage, pa," whispered Jerold. 
 
 "Why, yes, so I might; that's a good idea," he 
 answered, gratefully. 
 
 "I tell you this thing's gone as far 's it's goin', 
 and " 
 
 " Here, sister, you're hungry ; nervous besides. Have 
 a bite of my doughnut," said Jerold, banteringly. 
 
 Now, her father's rubbish was a veritable eyesore to 
 the careful young housekeeper, and Jerold's tantalizing 
 chaff was heaping fuel on the flames. This last sang- 
 froid was more than she could bear, and her black 
 eyes blazed as she turned on her sister's lover. 
 
 " Jerold Bray, you're the torment of ray existence. 
 If I wasn't fightin' all the time we might 's well give 
 up tryin' t' live here and move into the barn at once." 
 With a sense of the impotence of her wrath, she 
 whisked about and stalked back into the house. 
 
 "Egad, but ain't she peppery?" soliloquized Mike. 
 " Her man '11 be drinkin' his tay hot, I'm thinkiii'." 
 Then applying himself to business again : " Here, 
 Mister Jerry, kin ye take this?" 
 
 Most men would have been ruffled at the outpour- 
 ing of Sarah's vials, particularly when her indignation 
 was so righteous, but no strength of invective could 
 affect the imperturbable Jerold. He sent after her a 
 snatch of a plaintive love-song which, closing in a 
 softly-thrilled whistle, was supposed to express his 
 
THE TROPHIES. 49 
 
 despair at her desertion, and with the same easy 
 good humor he turned again to assist Mike at the 
 wagon. 
 
 " What's the wheelbarrow for, pa ?" he inquired, as 
 they lifted it to the ground. 
 
 " Oh, it was going so cheap," Mr. Wayburn offered 
 in apology. 
 
 "And these faded old — I mean these genteelly 
 sombre curtains?'' 
 
 " I didn't buy them ; Rogers threw them in." 
 
 " And this ! — a side-saddle 1" as Mike threw it dex- 
 terously through the air to him. " In all the world 
 who could ever get together such a collection but you, 
 pa? What are you going to do with the side-saddle, — 
 ride the wheelbarrow ?" 
 
 " No, that's for Ellen too. Ma said she ought to 
 have horseback-riding after school, and I've had my 
 eye out for one for a long time." 
 
 " What's she to ride, — that blind horse of yours ?" 
 
 " 'Tain't blind, Jerry ; that is, 'tain't stun-blind. It 
 sees out of one eye. I can't make out which, but I 
 know it's either one. Besides, it's getting better, for it 
 don't step so high at all as when it first come. I'm 
 sure it's perfectly safe." 
 
 " Perfectly," echoed Jerry. " Perfectly ! nothing 
 the matter with the horse except that he doesn't look 
 very well. Eh, pa?" 
 
 c d 5 
 
50 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 " Ypu're tlTe diviPs own jister, Master Jerry/' said 
 Mike, with a grin. 
 
 "If Sarah would make up a few yards of that 
 pretty green stuff, pa,'' continued Jerry, " into a nice 
 habit, and take a ride on that horse, she'd electrify the 
 camp. And if she should find him a little hard to 
 steer," he added, " why, she can twist his ear. I've 
 always heard when sight was gone the ear was uncom- 
 monly sensitive." And he laughed loudly at his own 
 absurdity. 
 
 But the mother appeared in the door-way and 
 hastened to cut the scene short by telling Mike to re- 
 move the things to the loft ; and, leaving him to his 
 task, the rest returned together to the house. 
 
 The Sunday following, after the service, the white- 
 taired preacher rose to say a few words about the new 
 pastor, whom, with his young bride, they expected the 
 coming week. He was pleased to announce that the 
 parsonage was finished, and that the furnishing would 
 be done by the following Wednesday. He thanked 
 the people heartily for their sympathy and help, and, 
 as the contributions were all in, he would proceed to 
 read the names of the donors and the articles donated. 
 Herewith followed the list. " And last, received yes- 
 terday from our kind brother in the Lord, James Way- 
 burn, a pair of damask curtains, an antique chair, a 
 Baw-buck, and ten green bedspreads." 
 
THE TROPHIES. 51 
 
 There was a smile, faint at first, which broadened 
 and deepened and hung suspended. Then a clear, con- 
 tagious laugh rang out from somewhere near the door- 
 way, and the spell was broken, A wave of laughter 
 rippled and swelled, and in a burst of uncontrollable 
 mirth the congregation dispersed. 
 
 For a moment Ellen Wayburn's head was bent in 
 humiliation, then leaning over, she took in her own the 
 wrinkled hand and whispered, softly, "It was very 
 kind of you to send them, father ; I love you dearly.'* 
 And all unconscious of what had caused tlie amuse- 
 ment, with a light heart the old man followed his 
 daughter home. 
 
CHAPTER VIL 
 
 THE ROMP OF THE CAMP. 
 
 James Wayburn's little foible, while it furnished 
 thus a pleasant enough relaxation to himself, had the 
 awkward faculty, so peculiar to foibles, of involving 
 others in its consequences. 
 
 Some people are born with an accommodating dis- 
 position which accepts its fate as the victim of events 
 and upbraids not ; which receives as a finality the law 
 of reaction in the moral world, and sees in itself a 
 natural barrier to catch the recoil. Of such were 
 Mrs. Way burn and Ellen. All through life the re- 
 sults of the old man's folly had struck liardest upon 
 them, yet they were the least reproachful. In the 
 mind of each there was at times a suspicion that the 
 other, like herself, doubted his responsibility. Was 
 he not in this one element of character an undeveloped 
 child, repenting to the uttermost at each transgression, 
 yet transgressing again at the next temptation ? Many 
 men carry through life a faculty that remains' forever 
 in the germ, and several such germs seemed to have 
 fallen to the lot of James Way burn. 
 62 
 
THE ROMP OF THE CAMP. 53 
 
 But the other members of his family were not 
 equally iudulgent. An instinct for the vicarious is 
 not universal. Some are inclined to resent being the 
 penalty that others may be the offence, and Sarah 
 Wayburn was emphatically one of these. 
 
 It was her favorite theory that her temper, which 
 was at times a trifle acerb, was all the outgrowth of 
 her father's provocations; that his constant lapsing 
 from grace, like the steady dripping of a drop, had 
 worn away even the adamant of her patience. Possi- 
 bly this was only one of the ingenious little fictions 
 which human nature delights to invent in apology 
 for its defects. Possibly, however, there was a phan- 
 tom of truth in the statement, for his misdeeds struck 
 no one so in the light of a personal affront as they did 
 Sarah. On the other hand, no one had her genius for 
 disturbing the placidity of the old gentleman. She 
 succeeded at times in making him almost uncom- 
 fortable, which was surely a cruel retaliation for his 
 innocent diversion. 
 
 To another inmate of the house, however, the old 
 man's trophies were a source of unfailing delight. 
 They furnished material upon which her ebullient 
 energy could exhaust itself and the resources of her 
 fertile intellect find fruitful exercise. If by any 
 chance James Wayburn failed to extract the full 
 measure of annoyance by his misdeeds, she sup- 
 
 6* 
 
54 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 plemented him and rounded the full circle. In her 
 hands his eflPects had the unhappy power (which must 
 have been induced like electricity) of becoming in 
 turn causes and involving the household in further 
 consequences. One of these domestic events was 
 being discussed late one afternoon, and the interview 
 was somewhat spirited. 
 
 " Ada ! Ada !" Mrs. Wayburn was exclaiming in a 
 tone wherein distress and reproach were scarcely veiled, 
 "whatever am I going to do with you? You keep 
 us the talk of the neighborhood with your pranks." 
 
 "Pranks! Grandma, I haven't done a single 
 thing," Ada insisted, blandly. 
 
 "Why can't folks let that child be?" came a dis- 
 gusted voice from the kitchen. " Everything she does 
 is talked about and swelled till it's the size of th' big 
 butte. Times 's pretty dull if people can't find nothin' 
 better to think 'bout." 
 
 "She's always gettin' into trouble," sighed the 
 grandmother. 
 
 " Ma dear, she don't git into no more trouble than 
 other girls. Them old nose-'bouts is jealous of her 
 because she's smart and pretty, that's th' rub. Last 
 week skatin' she fell down. Half a dozen stupids 
 that had no business there at all, sence they couldn't 
 hold on to their own feet, tumbled over her, and it was 
 * that awful Ada Howard.' Then she took the Dean 
 
THE ROMP OF THE CAMP. 55 
 
 cliildren ridiu' in th' wheelbarrer, Isaac rolled out, 
 and it was ^ that careless Ada Howard/ " 
 
 ^' She shouldn't a took 'em in it at all. Then there 
 wouldn't hev been no one hurt." 
 
 " I notice that Dean family's mighty willin' she'll 
 take care of th' young uns all the same. It's only 
 when somethin' happens that she ain't in demand. I 
 don't go much on that kit no way." 
 
 Sarah had been growing excited, — a mention of 
 the Deans always excited her. Mrs. Wayburn feared 
 that she was precipitating what she dreaded most of all 
 things, one of those lawless outbursts in which her 
 daughter " straightened out" the little community of 
 her acquaintances. These were the days of reckon- 
 ing when they all gave her a wide berth, none a wider 
 than old James Wayburn. 
 
 " Well, well," the mother said, in a mollifying tone, 
 " I'd try and be careful if I was her, and I guess she 
 liadn't better ride Jenny again; it ain't safe. She 
 might have got killed yesterday pitchin' over the 
 critter's head. It ain't reliable, and Ada ain't very 
 reliable herself." 
 
 " What business has pa got keepin' that blind 
 cay use ?" persisted Sarah. " She'll walk over anything. 
 'Tain't the child's fault, — Jenny can't see. If you keep 
 stumblin' horses, what's to be expected but that folks 
 '11 be thrun off and killed?" 
 
56 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 " It's always your way, Sarah/' said the mother, 
 severely, " to stick up for her right or wrong/' 
 
 " Right or wrong ? Now, mother dear, there never 
 is any right, and that's what makes me so mad. It 
 was jist th' same way when I was growin' up. Folks 
 got it into their crotchety heads I was mischievous, 
 and I couldn't do nothin' without I was bound to get 
 a settin' down about it," 
 
 "You was into consider'ble mischief, daughter, if 
 I remember," said her mother, naively. 
 
 " There it is, you see ! I don't wonder I'm a fighter. 
 I've fit all my life for one thing an' another, and I'll 
 fight the whole town for Ada but her fun shan't be 
 crushed out of her." 
 
 " You nice Aunt Sarah," said Ada, throwing her 
 arms about the substantial waist of her young aunt. 
 " I couldn't get along if I hadn't you to back me up." 
 
 "You're more trouble than you're worth," Sarah 
 replied, turning upon her petulantly, but looking down 
 into the mischievous face with a sort of extorted affec- 
 tionateness. She was Ada's protector always, for the 
 girl was her delight, the joy of her life. In all the 
 child's troubles, and they were many, Sarah was the 
 unfailing refuge. She could not tolerate anything 
 that reflected upon her darling. And yet she was not 
 blind to Ada's doings; only, like all jealous lovers, she 
 proposed to sit in judgment and mete out punishment 
 
THE ROMP OF THE CAMP. 57 
 
 herself. But the punishment was slow in coming, for 
 the child in the alertness of her need had learned a 
 trick of throwing her chubby arms about her aunt and 
 looking up with an assumption of trust that disarmed 
 hostility. Now the impatience was vanishing from 
 Sarah's face, and an indulgent smile was hovering 
 there instead. But, as if ashamed of her lenity, she 
 stole a last admiring glance at the petted child, snatched 
 up her dish, and beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen, 
 where she applied herself to her duties once more. 
 
 Quite another phase of Ada's character it was, how- 
 ever, that endeared her to the hearts of the miners and 
 made her the idol of the camp. The adventurous 
 blood of the prospector was in her veins, and her un- 
 tamed nature found the same keen delight in mining 
 that the hunter feels in the excitement of the chase. 
 Almost any bright day she might be seen following 
 her roving fancy and wandering over the hills to her 
 father's mine. She loitered at every shaft along the 
 way, and not a man but paused at his work to welcome 
 her bright young face and respond to her cheery greet- 
 ing. It amused, while it gratified them to hear her 
 questions about the ore, how much they were getting 
 out, how high it ran, etc., etc., and burly giants found 
 themselves telling to this girl simply and truthfully 
 facts no man could have forced from them. She knew 
 the condition of every property in the district, the 
 
58 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 owners and the leasers, and hailed them all by name. 
 What wonder if out in these solitary places the little 
 groups of men felt her coming like a sudden flood 
 of sunshine in their midst, and took as an omen of luck 
 the good wishes she expressed? She had hosts of 
 champions in these horny-handed, strong-limbed men, 
 men of fierce, wild passions and impulses, who would 
 yet have throttled the voice that could breathe a coarse- 
 ness in her presence. Such flowers were too rare in 
 the arid desert of their lives for them to permit a 
 breath of evil to scorch its velvet petals. 
 
 But they felt a claim to Ada beyond that of 
 their affection, for was she not one of them, John 
 Howard's girl ? As she passed on her way, many a 
 hard face, looking after her, grew softened with the 
 memory of its own home and childhood, and many a 
 heart yet vibrant with her parting uttered an earnest 
 " God-speed" to John Howard of the Eucher for the 
 sake of this sunny-haired daughter of the miner. 
 
CHAPTER yill. 
 
 A DISCUSSION OF PRINCIPLES. 
 
 While Sarah was engaged with her dishes suddenly 
 a form darkened the outside door-way, and she looked 
 up. 
 
 " Jerold Bray !^' she exclaimed, transfixing him with 
 the disdain of her black eyes. "Why don't you go 
 'round to the front door ?" 
 
 " Tm not proud. I always make for whatever door 
 is nearest or smells most like cooking, and that's gen- 
 erally this one." 
 
 "Well ! well ! get 'long in where the folks is. Mar- 
 cia ! Ada ! here's Jerry." 
 
 A salutation came from the sitting-room, and, fol- 
 lowing it, Jerold sauntered in where Mrs. Wayburn* 
 and Marcia were seated sewing. He leaned over the 
 back of a chair with the careless grace that attended 
 all his movements, and, "Why don't you ask me the 
 news ?" he said. 
 
 "What is it?" they cried, leaning forward in expec- 
 tancy. 
 
 " Oh, I'll tell you by and by," he replied, with pro- 
 voking nonchalance. 
 
 69 
 
60 ^ BfjIND LEAD. 
 
 " Tell it now I tell it !" cried Ada. But Sarah stood 
 listlessly against the wall, her bare arms crossed behind 
 her, a picture of easy indifference. Not that she was 
 less interested than the rest or less impatient for the 
 gossip, but she knew it would be impossible for Jerold 
 Bray to keep his information long in the secrecy of his 
 own bosom. Like other narrators, he was seeking ef- 
 fect by tightening the tension of curiosity, and the less 
 eager they appeared the sooner his own zest for sur- 
 prises would precipitate a disclosure. 
 
 " Hain't got anythin^ to tell," she ejaculated. Cross- 
 ing the kitchen, she picked up the water-bucket and 
 walked to the door. But Jerold was not going to be 
 cheated of his audience in that way. Taking the 
 bucket from her, he hurried out and away along the 
 adjoining block to the common hydrant, for the luxury 
 of water in the house was a thing little known in 
 Colusa. Ada hurried after him, and in a few minutes 
 they came back. One might judge that the trip had 
 not been altogether uneventful, for Ada's curls were 
 wet, Jerold's attire had lost some of its wonted fault- 
 lessness, and the bucket was only a quarter full. 
 
 The noise had attracted Ellen, who now entered the 
 room, her face lighting happily as she welcomed Jerold 
 and took the chair which he drew up for her beside his 
 own. 
 
 "You're just in time to hear the news," he said, 
 
A DISCUSSION OF PRINCIPLES. 61 
 
 unable longer to restrain himself: " Miss Hudson has 
 been privately married." 
 
 "For mercy^s sake!" "You don't say so!" and 
 "Gracious on us!" came out simultaneously. 
 
 "Who's she married to?" some one at last found 
 breath to inquire. 
 
 "That's the surprise; to— Koger Forsythe." 
 
 " Roger Forsythe !" sang all in a chorus. 
 
 *' Roger Forsythe ! AVell, she struck pay rock that 
 time, sure," added Sarah, the practical. 
 
 " How in the world did she come to marry him ?" 
 asked Marcia. " He's sixty if he's a day ; and so ugly." 
 
 "The Meadow-Lark and a million will cover as 
 many defects," replied Jerold, sagely. 
 
 "Why, Jerold," said Ellen, "you don't mean us 
 to think she married him for his money?" 
 
 " What else did she marry him for, innocence, his 
 years or his good looks, which ?" 
 
 " But why because a girl marries a rich man must 
 the world set it down at once that she chose him for 
 his dollars?" 
 
 "Because the world has found out by experience 
 that nine cases out of ten she does choose him for his 
 dollars. It is, alas ! a conclusion reached by the induc- 
 tive method, in examining the motives impelling to 
 the decision of the aforesaid nine." He drew a long 
 breath and leaned back. 
 
62 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 "Well, I'm going to believe that Miss Hudson's 
 the ingenuous tenth," said Ellen, frankly. " She has 
 shown herself true and unselfish in everything else, 
 why shouldn't she in this ?" 
 
 " And what, pray, could be more unselfish than to 
 marry rich old Forsythe? He needs a wife badly 
 enough, that is reason number one. She needs a home 
 badly enough, ditto number two. The camp needs a 
 sensation badly enough, ditto number three. Alto- 
 gether a very commendable choice, very commendable 
 indeed." 
 
 Ellen looked at him with puzzled uncertainty. Was 
 he chaffing, or expressing genuine sentiments? The 
 smile on his face only confused her the more, for it 
 was genial but defiant. 
 
 " Do you think any reason would justify her in 
 marrying him if she didn't love him?" she asked, 
 seriously. 
 
 " Do I ? Well, most certainly I do. I have some 
 saving common sense left, I hope. Worldly wisdom is 
 what this age needs; it's getting too sentimental alto- 
 gether." 
 
 Ellen winced ; clearly his remark had struck some 
 chord that was sensitive. It was only a question of 
 utilitarianism or idealism, but it revealed the natures 
 of the two, — these two who had chosen to go through 
 life together. They were very unlike, Ellen and 
 
A DISCUSSION OF PRINCIPLES. 63 
 
 Jerold. Possibly too, though Jerold had never dis- 
 sected it, it was this very difference in Ellen that had 
 been the subtle power of her attraction for him. In 
 the rush of the busy money-getting camp there was 
 something unique in her quiet, isolated soul, with its 
 long range of purpose and impractical ideas. It re- 
 freshed him to find a woman who was not interested 
 in mines; who was personally unconcerned whether 
 the camp boomed or collapsed to-morrow; who did 
 not look forward to being rich or distinguished, and 
 yet who was not conscious that she was an anomaly. 
 But though Jerold recognized Ellen's superiority, he 
 was constantly incited, as now, by some erratic impulse, 
 to an attack upon the very distinctions he most ad- 
 mired. Was it the weakness common to us all that 
 envies the good it does not possess ? Or the prompt- 
 ings of doubt that sought the reassurance that its idol 
 was not like itself — dust? 
 
 "Suppose she doesn't grow to love him?" Ellen 
 asked. Her pertinacity seemed heedless of the thrusts 
 it might incur. 
 
 "Well, what proportion of the people that marry 
 are possessed of any such lofty ideal as you uphold ? 
 One-twentieth do you think ? And of that twentieth 
 what number carry it through life? Very few. 
 We're all human, and the ideal in love, as in every- 
 thing else, is hardly nutritious enough for steady diet." 
 
64 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 " Why, Jerold, you traitor !" she exclaimed, with a 
 smile that was half reproachful. 
 
 " Traitor it may be, but to my mind good sober 
 respect and esteem are more enduring, and so better 
 motives for choice than love. Most love is too spas- 
 modic to bear life's high pressure.'* 
 
 " If love won't bear it, I'm sure esteem and re- 
 spect won't." 
 
 " I don't count much on any of them for standing 
 a strain," he replied. "People endure in this world 
 because they must, not because of any principle." 
 
 Ellen's lips opened to reply; she checked herself, 
 however, and a pained expression lingered upon them 
 instead. Jerold's discordant views she generally passed 
 over, burying them out of sight in that deep gulf that 
 silence covers. No two minds could be forced into the 
 same mould ; diversity was as essential as unity, and 
 opposing theories were to be expected in the world. 
 She was too large-natured to fix the bounds for his 
 opinions and too generous to arraign him. But to-day 
 their minds seemed to clash on what to her were vital 
 questions, and after a pause she came back to the dis- 
 cussion. 
 
 "Her husband's life — his character?" she asked. 
 "How is that?" 
 
 " Oh, his character's no worse than other men's. I 
 fancy when a man has kicked about from one mining- 
 
A DISCUSSION OF PRINCIPLES. QQ 
 
 camp to another for thirty years the less said about his. 
 character the better. Bat then he is honest, respected, 
 as I said, no worse than other men. What more can 
 she ask?" 
 
 "She can ask no more, evidently, since she has 
 accepted him, but for me, — may Heaven spare me 
 from such a union." 
 
 " Heaven promises faithfully to spare you from such 
 an alliance with a millionaire," he answered, with an 
 amused laugh. 
 
 She blushed and smiled at the personal issue of the 
 conversation. The talk diverted to indifferent themes 
 now, but Ellen did not engage in it ; she was thinking. 
 
 There was much in the camp-life about her passing 
 unnoticed, or accepted as legitimate, that forced itself 
 before the tribunal of this girPs conscience. But with 
 the charity of the humble she forbore judgment. 
 One might have imagined now, had he glanced in, 
 that some faint idea of an imperfection in her lover 
 bad penetrated Ellen's mind, but that would have 
 been an error. Imperfection could not associate itself 
 with Jerold Bray in her loyal heart. Yet her next 
 question, sprung upon him abruptly, seemed to the 
 young man like an indictment. 
 
 '^Do you think any reason, even love, justifies a 
 woman in marrying one whose character she cannot 
 thoroughly respect ?" 
 
 e 6* 
 
QQ A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 "That's a bad way to express it/' he answered, 
 coldly, satisfied after a moment that he had been 
 needlessly alarmed. " Character is a variable ; what 
 one would call unblemished another would hold de- 
 filed, w^iat you might consider indispensable another 
 wouldn't require at all. No man is perfect. The 
 measure rests entirely in the standard. If the nature- 
 measuring is loftier and applies its yardstick, his char- 
 acter may fail to reach to the required length. If 
 you apply a shorter yardstick you may find that there 
 is a good piece left over." 
 
 "Oh, do stop discussing," put in Ada, "and tell us 
 about the wedding and what she wore." 
 
 " Ada, don't snatch us out of the abstract so sud- 
 denly," said Jerold, in a distressed tone. " I hate ends 
 of discussion lying around loose. Besides, this point is 
 of great importance. Who knows? I may be rushing 
 away to forbid the further sacrifice of the innocent." 
 
 "Sacrifice," repeated Ada. "I'll wager she was 
 glad enough to get him. I guess Mrs. Roger For- 
 sythe '11 be of lots more consequence than plain Kate 
 Hudson, — if she was pretty." 
 
 Jerold laughed airly at the incidental endorsement. 
 
 " You see, Ellen, my statement is likely to find con- 
 firmation pretty near home. Ada's yardstick certainly 
 differs from yours both in length and quality, and I 
 can assure you Ada's is much nearer the world's idea." 
 
A DISCUSSION OF PRINCIPLES. 67 
 
 " It isn't the true idea for all that/' she said, de- 
 cidedly. 
 
 " Oh, I know you're wedded to your theories." He 
 glanced oflf furtively. "I sometimes wonder how 
 they would stand the test." 
 
 She crimsoned and closed her eyes a moment, as if 
 to shut out the hurt look that crept into them, then 
 answered, slowly, — 
 
 " We are all lower than our ideals ; lower in act, 
 even, than in our soul's thought and habit ; but prin- 
 ciple is not without life for all that. I should wish 
 at the call to show its power in deed, since my words 
 have so poorly vindicated it." 
 
 She folded close the hands that lay idly in her lap, 
 and looked out through the window to the jagged 
 granite cliffs. Upon the mountain-sides the snow had 
 vanished, for it was September, but down from the 
 top, here and there, it shot in radiating streaks like 
 thin locks falling upon an old man's shoulders. The 
 clouds, rich in the opal lustre of the sunset, were 
 floating along the crests; through them she could 
 catch the faint outlines illumined with the same mel- 
 low splendor. But the peaks, like upturned human 
 faces, were gazing beyond the lights of earth and cloud 
 and sun up into the dreamy mystery of the blue. She 
 felt a twinge of pity for the senseless, earth-bound 
 things, that had caught man's folly of longing. 
 
68 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 Better the barren waste of rocks below that glittered 
 like steel where the rays struck their flinty edges, con- 
 tent to reflect the changing world around, than these 
 cold, pallid peaks glaring into the beyond. Her 
 revery was interrupted by the sound of her mother's 
 voice. 
 
 "This here's been a great year for weddin's," she 
 was musing. 
 
 " I should think so," assented Marcia. " What's to 
 become of us spinsters? There are no marriageable, 
 that is, rich marriageable, men left." 
 
 " Oh, there's old Thomas Burke yet," replied Sarah, 
 maliciously. 
 
 "And 'dear Deacon Frost,'" she retorted. "So 
 you are provided for." 
 
 "And Robert Hall — but I'm going to have him," 
 said Ada. 
 
 " Robert Hall marry ! An elephant fly !" exclaimed 
 Jerold, with contempt. 
 
 " And why not, if he got a nice, sensible girl like 
 me?" 
 
 " That would be a match ; I'll have to suggest it to 
 him." 
 
 " Anyway, he's the nicest man in this camp," said 
 Marcia. 
 
 "All the family want him? Robert the silent 
 seems to be in demand." 
 
A DISCUSSION OF PRINCIPLES. 69 
 
 " You can't say anything against his character, that's 
 certain," she insisted, warmly. 
 
 " Not if we allow that he has such an attribute as 
 character. Why in the world do the women all favor 
 that fellow, when he never takes the slightest notice of 
 any of them ? that's what I wonder. He's the biggest 
 bundle of negations I ever saw." 
 
 " Negations ? What do you" mean ?" asked Ellen. 
 
 " Did you ever see him show a touch of feeling over 
 anything or display affection for a living creature? 
 He is reserved, silent, and haughty, and, in my 
 humble judgment, half the qualities that are bestowed 
 on mankind in general were left out in his composi- 
 tion." 
 
 The color deepened in Ellen's cheek, but she an- 
 swered, calmly, — 
 
 " No one who has known Robert Hall as we have, 
 who knew him when a mother and a sister remained 
 to share his life, could ever accuse him of lacking af- 
 fection. The love he lavished upon them was the 
 deepest, tenderest, and most unselfish I ever saw. 
 You certainly wrong him sadly." 
 
 "You interested, too?" queried Jerold. "Robert 
 ought to be here. If this array of championing 
 beauty didn't melt him, he must be stone itself." 
 
 " And his goodness !" said Marcia. " What would 
 the poor and unfortunate of Colusa do without his 
 
70 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 wealth ? Yet he gives so quietly that one-half the good 
 he does is never known. I just tell you Robert Hall 
 is good enough for this family, and he can take his 
 pick." 
 
 "With a reservation," observed Jerold, smiling to- 
 wards Ellen; but the color had left her face, and a 
 strange, evasive look appeared in her earnest eyes. 
 
 "He can have me, anyway, sure," said Ada; "I 
 told him so." 
 
 " That was frank enough, at least," remarked Jerold. 
 "Did he accept?" 
 
 "He said he thought I was a trifle too old and 
 sombre to fill his need." 
 
 "Well, he was right for once. You are too morose 
 to match with such a lively young fellow as he is." 
 With which parting shaft he withdrew, and left them 
 to discuss at their leisure the episode that had occa- 
 sioned his call. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ROBERT HALL. 
 
 It was Sunday, one of the clear, balmy days of 
 early autumn. The sun was out rich and warm, and 
 in its transmuting rays the rugged landscape was 
 almost glorified. It seemed so, at least, to the beauty- 
 loving spirit of Ellen Wayburn, as, in quiet revery, she 
 sauntered along down towards the little creek. She 
 was enjoying the play of the sunlight upon the moun- 
 tain-sides and the gleam, as of uncounted diamonds, 
 upon the snowy peaks above. Gazing up at the frozen 
 summits, she seemed to feel more by contrast the deep 
 luxuriance of the autumn day, and she opened her 
 whole being to its sweet influence. The air was lush, 
 a sort of dreaminess pervaded everything, and she felt 
 in harmony with the hour and all nature around her. 
 
 She was musing, as she strolled along, upon her life, 
 — the past that was gone, and the unknown future be- 
 fore her. How dreary it seemed to look back to the 
 time when, a young girl scarcely eighteen, she had taken 
 up her burden and gone to teach those rough, rebel- 
 lious mining children ! It had been a school for her 
 
 71 
 
72 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 as well as for her pupils : the constant tax upon her 
 patience, the call for self-command and self-suppres- 
 sion, — these had been her discipline. How often her 
 heart had quailed before the issue with some insubor- 
 dinate boy, or hope had forsaken her over some stupid 
 girl ! Kebellion, hot and fierce, had been in her soul 
 for days together ; but, little by little, she had crushed 
 it out and brought herself to submission. 
 
 Then how the days seemed to take on a brighter 
 tint and the old duties to grow less galling since Jerold 
 had come, — Jerold, to whom her heart had cleaved from 
 the very hour of their meeting ! How her spirit had 
 gone out to blend with his in the rapture of the first 
 confession ! How her life had been redeemed in the 
 strength of that pure, deep love ! He had come fresh 
 with the dews of his college days about him, and had 
 stolen her heart away with his cheery laugh and 
 boyish happiness. 
 
 Jerold was more than the men about him. She 
 was proud of that. He had received the benefits of a 
 liberal education and had come here backed by influ- 
 ence. This it was that brought him his position as 
 manager at the silver mill, and he filled it ably; she 
 was proud of that also. 
 
 He had seen the fine manners and stately ladies of 
 older civilizations, and yet he had chosen her, her the 
 simple school-teacher, and had waited now these three 
 
ROBERT HALL. 73 
 
 years uutil she should be free. Who could be so noble, 
 so brave and unselfish, as her Jerold ? 
 
 And what a happy home they would have together 
 some day, Jerold and she ! They had picked out the 
 spot, and he had even bought the ground already. It 
 stood high up on the hill and overlooked the town, 
 the valley, and the whole range^ of magnificent moun- 
 tains. They had drawn plans of the little cottage 
 many times ; she had furnished every room over and 
 over again, and had a hundred little devices for orna- 
 menting them. Every detail of that prospective home 
 was dear to her, and within was an abiding gratitude 
 for the good that was in store. 
 
 To a woman of her character love was the summing 
 up of all things, and into her love for Jerold she threw 
 the nobility, the enthusiasm, and the trust of her na- 
 ture. She idealized him. She looked into his dark 
 eyes and saw deep down in his soul all the elements of 
 her perfect man, for to her he was faultless. 
 
 They differed sometimes in their views, but it was 
 more difference in expression, she fancied, than in 
 thought, in shadow than in substance. They were one 
 in spirit, in sympathy for the right, and for a high 
 mission of life. She had thrown over him the pure 
 white lustre of her own soul and saw in the light 
 something native to him. Is it not a necessity of 
 love to thus reflect itself? If she was blind she was 
 
74 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 happy, and happiness is sometimes better than knowl- 
 edge. 
 
 Full of her thoughts and sweet meditations, she 
 wandered along; the peace of the day in the air and 
 in the scene about, and the peace of the day in her own 
 pure heart. 
 
 She heard the sound of approaching wheels, but she 
 did not turn. The horses passed close beside her, 
 when they were checked up short and a pleasant voice 
 addressed her. 
 
 " Come and try ray new horses, Ellen." 
 
 She looked around suddenly. As she recognized 
 the speaker, she hesitated, then recovered herself, and 
 answered, frankly, — 
 
 " Yes, indeed, with pleasure." And in a moment 
 they were speeding across the country behind the 
 spirited bays. 
 
 " It seems to me you indulge in rather lively horses, 
 Robert," said Ellen, fastening tighter the strings of 
 her simple bonnet. 
 
 " Yes, horses is my one luxury ; I keep 'em for 
 companions. You can't tell the company a man gets 
 out of a horse ; they're like human beings ; — better'n 
 most men a long ways." 
 
 "Rather dumb companionship, though, isn't it?" 
 
 " That's how you look at it. Horseback's my way 
 of goin'. If you're on a horse, he feels your mood and 
 
ROBERT HALL. 75 
 
 falls right in with it. If you^re light-hearted, he'll 
 canter along quiet and peaceful ; but if you're fierce 
 lie knows it, too, — pricks up his ears, holds his head 
 high, and tears away till the madness 's knocked out of 
 man and beast together." 
 
 " That's a new use for the noble steed. ' The horse 
 the restorer of man's equanimity,' — ^how would that do 
 for a text?" 
 
 He looked at her askance to assure himself no covert 
 ridicule lurked in her words, though the moment he 
 did so he turned away, ashamed of his suspicion, and 
 said, seriously, — which was due rather to the nature of 
 the man than to any special graveness in the subject, — 
 
 "Your equanimity, I s'pose, never needs restorin', 
 but the rest of us ain't built so." 
 
 " My equanimity ? I was just thinking, before you 
 drove up, of the hard struggle I'd had through all 
 these years to get my will under training. I must have 
 had a very wicked nature to start with if I needed all 
 this discipline." 
 
 " Do you like school-teach in' ?" he asked, abruptly, 
 turning and looking in her face. 
 
 " No," she answered, with decision. "No; I hate 
 it, but ' tell it not in Gath.' You know it's treason for 
 a teacher to work for anything but love, and I hate it." 
 
 "Well, now jest you holler out loud to these hills 
 an' tell 'em so. I know how things will boil inside 
 
76 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 sometimes, an' it does a body good to shout 'em 
 out." 
 
 Ellen laughed aloud at the proposed relief. " Yes, 
 I have felt that boiling inside, now you speak of it, and 
 longed to let off a little steam.'' 
 
 " My horseback-ridin' does that very thing. Some 
 take the fire out of 'em in liquor, an' some in a fight, 
 an' some in wand'rin' off alone an' broodin' ; I take 
 mine out in horses, an' I want 'em fiery. Just you try 
 hollerin' out." 
 
 " I've as much as I can do now holding in. These 
 bays are pretty frisky," 
 
 " I'm forgettin' you," he said, contritely. " I most 
 never have a lady with me, an' when I do I don't 
 know how to take care of 'em. You always was a 
 little timid thing." 
 
 "Yes," she answered, with her light low laugh, 
 " I'm considerable of a coward yet, if you must have 
 confessions and " 
 
 " I didn't say coward. I know better than that, a 
 pile better than that. I said timid." 
 
 He drew the light robe over her and tucked it in 
 carefully to shield her from any dust. Then he stopped 
 the horses and let down the top, so that she might have 
 a better view. " Now I'll put 'em to a steady trot." 
 
 "So they think you'd ought to love teachin', do 
 they?" he said, after a pause. 
 
ROBERT HALL. 77 
 
 '* Yes, and I'm sure I don't see why, either/' she 
 answered. " Take the young men working in offices 
 day after day and year after year, — do their employers 
 ever require that their hearts shall be wedded to their 
 drudgery?" 
 
 "There ain't much sent'ment wasted in business. 
 No work's pleasant," he answered, in the measured 
 monotone of his deep bass voice. 
 
 " And yet there is, I believe, for each a work so con- 
 genial that it ceases to be work and becomes pleasure." 
 
 " I never struck it." 
 
 " No ; very few, I fancy, do strike it," she replied, 
 thoughtfully. "Our occupations are determined by 
 our needs and circumstances rather than by congeni- 
 ality ; but it won't always be so," she added, absently. 
 
 He looked at her as though he thought her jesting, 
 but her face was serious. 
 
 "No? When d' you look to see the world trans- 
 formed?" A touch of humor sat j)leasantly on his 
 strong, impassive features. 
 
 " Hardly soon, I fear. Wisdom is of slow growth, 
 and till it is matured man must go through life chained 
 to a work he fights against, bearing along the con- 
 sciousness that in the right place all might be so dif- 
 ferent from what is. This unsuitableness of work is, 
 I think, almost the greatest of the mysteries and 
 miseries that oppress us." 
 
 7* 
 
78 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 He did not offer a reply. He seemed to be mentally 
 weighing the observation and deciding whether or not 
 she had generalized truly. He was given to taking 
 in remarks in this manner, — passing them before the 
 mirror of his mind and dropping the subject if the 
 reflection there was at all distorted. It explained the 
 lapses into silence that were so common with him. 
 Ellen's observation appeared to have stood the test, for 
 he said, presently, — 
 
 " If there's somethin' suited to ev'ry man's wants, 
 why can't he hunt it out and find it?" 
 
 " Well, for a great many reasons. I think, though, 
 our method of education has much of the blame to 
 bear." 
 
 " How's that now ?" he asked, with interest. 
 " Well, each child is unlike every other, and each 
 looks out upon this big universe with different-toned 
 faculties. The course laid down in schools ministers 
 to what these minds have in common, but gives no 
 growth to what they have individually. Now this 
 individuality, it seems to me, must be the first and the 
 last thought in a true education. His own latent gift 
 must be the child's and the teacher's constant study. 
 But it is ignored entirely, and the child's mind is gen- 
 erally lield up to him as such a stupid little possession 
 that he is half ashamed of having such an encumbrance 
 at all. He is treated as nothing but an embodied 
 
ROBERT HALL. 79 
 
 memory. Every energy is spent upon absorbing. It 
 is knowledge, — knowledge at the expense of power, — 
 until the individuality is almost entirely lost." 
 
 "And how does that bear on findin' his callin'?" 
 
 " Just this way. The field of work nature intended 
 the child for lies rio;ht alonoj that line of his individ- 
 uality. There is waiting the one thing he is fitted to 
 do, the one thing he will be happy in doing. Find 
 him that, and you will have a man in harmony with 
 the world, with himself, and with God, for all three 
 are drawing in the same direction. That man will 
 add to the sum of good. Put him anywhere else and 
 you see the result, in discontented, distracted men, who 
 toil because they must, and upbraid destiny ; who can 
 never bring their holes to fit their spirits, or their 
 spirits to adjust themselves to their holes." 
 
 "It's a pity, if that's so, that things can't get 
 straightened out a little down here," said Robert, 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 " Things will bo straightened out more and more as 
 the world gets truer ideas of mind-training. How 
 often we see middle-aged and old men looking back 
 over the years, recognizing at last the vocation to 
 which nature had consecrated them, and wondering 
 that all the way, till too late, they had somehow missed 
 it. These might have been directed in childhood, and 
 that is why I hate and hate this teaching. It is false 
 
80 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 to the plan of creation and false to the child's highest 
 and holiest good ; for in crushing out his individuality 
 it robs him of his birthright." 
 
 Eobert remained for some moments intently thinking, 
 and Ellen let her eyes wander musingly over the won- 
 ders about her. Afar through the rifted crests she 
 could see where the glamourous sky had stolen down 
 and appropriated the beauties of the earth. There 
 tliey were, misty crags and phantom peaks pendulous 
 among the clouds, and all in the airy unreality of a 
 dream. The nearer mountains too had something of 
 phantasy in their illusive shimmer ; but the corrugated 
 granite walls before her, they were real, living things, 
 that seemed writhing and straining their distorted 
 limbs like some grim Laocoon in agony. Their 
 wrinkled front met and tore the sunlight, as some reef 
 might tear the breakers beating shoreward from the sea. 
 
 Why did she glance from the laboring crags to the 
 calm, still man beside her? What could they have in 
 common, that they should be associated in her mind ? 
 Robert was still thinking, unconscious that he was 
 linked with Ellen's reflections. He was oblivious to 
 her scrutiny as he raised his eyes and observed, 
 quietly, — 
 
 " You seem to have a reason for everything, Ellen ; 
 you kind of open up a new country to me when you 
 talk." 
 
ROBERT HALL. 81 
 
 " And your generous sympathy leads me into a great 
 deal of talking, I am afraid. I don't know why I 
 speak out my heart with you as I cannot with any one 
 else." 
 
 An expression part pleasure, part pain, came into his 
 face, that self-centred face that revealed so little. 
 
 They had been driving along a road hard and smooth, 
 of nature's own paving, which led by a gradual ascent 
 up to the divide of the Rockies. Standing here, the 
 mind, with its wondrous reach of sight, could follow 
 some little drop trickling down the rock, through 
 ravine and gulch, in brook and creek and river, down 
 to where the Columbia rolled its waters to the sea or 
 the mighty Missouri poured its flood to the Gulf and 
 the far-off Atlantic. Imagination, too, could sweep 
 over the vast country that lay below and catch an 
 echo from the distant cities. 
 
 Here on the very summit of the range, in the midst 
 of crags and broken heights, in some unaccountable 
 freak had been set a park. It was covered every- 
 where with thick bunch-grass, whose deep yellow made 
 a striking contrast with the blackened granite piles 
 and the varied hues of the forest-clad slopes. Through 
 the ravines danced little snow-fed brooks, whose mar- 
 gins were fringed with willow and the full-branched 
 cottonwoods. The brooks blended at last into a 
 clear stream, which crept leisurely through the plain, 
 / 
 
82 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 and near its farther limit crossed the road. Here 
 the level dipped suddenly, and the mountains that 
 had opened to receive into their bosom this grassy 
 prairie closed in again. 
 
 Down through the narrowing gap and past the en- 
 trance to the boulder-canyon, Nature, as if to assure 
 herself of her own possibilities, had concentrated her 
 charms. The sparkling stream broke in a succession 
 of cascades, and leaped from rock to rock; and 
 where for a space it found a level course one could 
 watch the speckled trout asleep above the pebbles. 
 
 Off from the canyon here, one came upon delightful 
 little glades where the sun streamed through the open 
 branches and lay warm along the tufted grass. The 
 bright tints of the autumn leaves and the dark hues 
 of the evergreens were rivalled in the colors of the 
 wild-flowers, though their spring-time brilliancy had 
 given place to a more subdued loveliness. 
 
 As they reached this spot the young man, whose knit 
 brows hinted some mental debate, stopped the horses 
 and turned to his companion. 
 
 '* We're to the end of the park. Wouldn't you 
 like to walk 'bout a bit?" he asked, quietly. 
 
 "Yes, indeed, I would," she answered. "It's al- 
 ways so lovely out here." 
 
 He tied the horses, assisted her to alight, and to- 
 gether they passed from the roadside. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 IN THE MOUNTAIN PARK. 
 
 They walked along up a pretty glen where the 
 sheltering cliffs gave seclusion, and presently they 
 came upon a little scattered grove, a sweet romantic 
 spot full of shade and mystery. A pretty stream- 
 let rippled down, and the bank that sloped away 
 was embedded in long grass. The air was vocal with 
 chirping squirrels, drumming woodpeckers, chatter- 
 ing magpies, and the occasional delicious notes of the 
 meadow-lark. 
 
 The subdued glory of the autumn day, the pleasant 
 shelter of the leafy bower, and the rich fragrance of 
 the woods combined to fill every sense with deep de- 
 light. 
 
 Ellen^s artist soul stood still to drink in the fresh- 
 ness and the life about her. Trees and grass, flowers 
 and birds, these were something fancy loved to dwell 
 upon, but, alas ! they could not be part of her daily 
 life. Twice before had she been here, driving out as 
 now with Robert Hall, but to-day the place seemed 
 enchanted, and shone to her eyes as a very garden of 
 
 83 
 
34 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 paradise. To a deeply appreciative character like 
 Ellen's such visions are always full of a mystic pres- 
 ence, and now amid the seen she was communing with 
 the unseen. 
 
 They walked along, each occupied with his own 
 special thoughts, both conscious of the witchery of the 
 scene and of the hour, and came upon a nook where 
 a -stout tree spread its branches invitingly over the 
 soft turf beneath, and Ellen, with a little cry of ad- 
 miration, ran forward and seated herself to feast upon 
 the beauty. 
 
 Robert continued a moment in his meditations, then 
 he shook himself, as if casting off the mood that had 
 settled over him, and threw himself carelessly down 
 upon the grass beside her. 
 
 Something, tlie contrast perhaps between these 
 surroundings that she loved and the sterile camp to 
 which her life was linked, awoke in Ellen a passing 
 regret. Would time ever bring to her what she 
 craved ? She mused aloud in that epitome of simple 
 hope that was so often to her an inspiration, — 
 
 " Behold, we know not anything ; 
 I can but trust tliat good shall fall 
 At last— far off— at last, to all, 
 And every winter change to spring." 
 
 "Do you believe that?" Robert asked, looking up, 
 — " that good '11 come at last to all ?" 
 
IN THE MOUNTAIN PARK. 85 
 
 " I believe firmly that every legitimate wish of our 
 hearts will be some time, some way, gratified," she 
 replied. 
 
 " Ellen, if you'd ever had a real sorrow you'd know 
 better. There's things happens that's so entirely wrong 
 that nothing can ever right 'em." 
 
 A real sorrow ! He was thinking, she supposed, of 
 the early loss that had darkened his young days and 
 left him solitary. She knew the history of that loss, 
 and her heart went out to him in pity. 
 
 " It was wrong to you, perhaps, Robert," she said, 
 in gentle comfort, " but surely not to them. Don't you 
 remember how they longed to go, — to get beyond the 
 trouble into peace?" 
 
 His brows contracted suddenly in an involuntary 
 spasm of pain, and he leaned his head upon his hands, 
 as though it had grown too heavy to sustain its own 
 weight. The immobility had left his face now, and it 
 was instinct with feeling. 
 
 She saw that she had misinterpreted him and had 
 recalled scenes she would most willingly banish from 
 his remembrance ; but it was too late. 
 
 " Yes, Ellen, yes," he faltered. '' I'd forgot there 
 was even one bit of light in that blackness. Th' 
 suff'rin' of that time !" he cried. " It haunts me every- 
 wheres. It's with me always. Men say I'm silent. 
 Let any man stand by and watch his mother dyin' 
 
 8 
 
gg A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 an' dyin' afore his eyes, an' needin' such a little — 
 Don't tell me she died of age ; 'twas want, Ellen, want ! 
 An' I looked on ! Why didn't I steal for her ? Kill 
 for her ?" And with fierce energy he rose and paced 
 the ground. 
 
 " You did better, far better, Robert. You worked 
 for her." 
 
 "Worked? Yes, a boy's work in a new camp, 
 with cabin-rent at forty dollars and flour at ten a sack. 
 She would pay off that mor'gage on the mine, and we 
 went without to scratch it together. My mother, my 
 poor mother !" 
 
 He threw himself upon the ground again and turned 
 his face away a moment to control his emotion, but his 
 mind was not to be diverted. " And Ruth," he con- 
 tinued, speaking more calmly. " Our poverty was like 
 th' smelter-smoke, an' her a weak little flower anyway. 
 Slie faded an' faded. Then we struck it in th' mine 
 and was rich, but it was too late ; Ruth was dyin' too, 
 Ruth was dyin' too. Do you wonder when I think of 
 it, in my misery I curse th' mine ? Yes, I curse th ' 
 mine an' th' money." 
 
 He bowed his head, and his strong frame shook 
 with the violence of his emotions. She could see the 
 powerful chest rising and falling with his labored 
 breath, and knew the strength of the memories that 
 after so many years could still move him thus. He 
 
IN THE MOUNTAIN PARK. 87 
 
 was living over the sufferings and privations of those 
 early days in the mining-camp. His grief and his 
 memories were sacred to Ellen. She did not seek to 
 intrude upon them. She only rested her hand gently 
 down upon his to remind him of her close sympathy. 
 
 The light touch roused and thrilled him, and a 
 tremor passed visibly over him. 
 
 He clasped in both of his her delicate hand, and his 
 eyes as he raised them to hers were very tender. 
 
 " And yet, I wouldn't give it up, — my money," he 
 said, in a voice grown strangely soft. " There's still 
 somethin' I'm livin' on for, — a life dearer to me than 
 ever was even my mother and Ruth." 
 
 "Do not, Robert, do not," she said, imploringly; 
 " not for the world would I add to your sorrow." 
 
 " I must speak out now, Ellen. You silenced me 
 before, when I come to offer you my new-got wealth. 
 I came then in hope an' in joy, — yes, joy, even with 
 my two graves jest dug. I come now in despair, but 
 I must be heard out." 
 
 " I know it all, Robert ; do not speak." The tears 
 were in her eyes, and her lips trembled, but he went on : 
 
 " Years ago, when we was all happy back in the 
 old homestead, before your father and mine come to 
 try their luck in this camp, we childern used to play 
 t'gether. I was courtin' you then, dear, and you 
 promised when we growed up you'd be my wife. 
 
88 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 That hope sunk into my soul, — ih' one stay in sorrow, 
 th' one tie that held me t' livin', when them that I 
 loved was gone. After all the bitterness of my life 
 and the long patient years IVe waited, give me one 
 joy, Ellen, love, — one t' live on for.'* 
 
 But she was dumb. Helplessly her head sank upon 
 her bosom, and for a moment she felt an undefined 
 terror of this silent, gloomy man, whose pent-up feel- 
 ings had burst their bonds and were pouring forth in 
 this torrent of language. 
 
 " Ellen," he went on, impetuously, " I know how 
 much 'bove me you are. I never had no chance t' 
 make myself anybody, — no education, no refinement, — ■ 
 nothing an' nothing ; but only try me. V\\ do any- 
 thing, be anything. No man can bear for you nor no 
 man can try for you what I will. Your heart's free. 
 Why, in time, if I was so good t' you, shouldn't you 
 come to care for me a little, — even a little ?" 
 
 She raised her eyes, dim with the misery of her en- 
 forced cruelty, and looked into the hungry, pleading 
 face of the man, so true, so loyal, so unselfish. 
 
 " Robert," — but the voice died away and the words 
 were unspoken, 
 
 " Tell me, Ellen, my love, — tell me that some day 
 you'll be mine. Some day, no matter when. I'll 
 wait my life out, only say at last you'll be my 
 wife." 
 
IN THE MOUNTAIN PARK. 89 
 
 Twice she strove to answer, but could not. At last, 
 with a strong effort, she mastered herself, and, bending 
 close, she whispered, so low it seemed as if some pass- 
 ing spirit had stooped and whispered it instead, — 
 
 " I cannot, Robert, I cannot ! Haven't you known? 
 — I love — another." 
 
 A gleam as of lightnings flashed in his eyes a 
 moment, then they became hard and set. He had 
 half raised himself in the eagerness of his entreaty, 
 but now he sank slowly back, and his head fell buried 
 in his arm. His aspect was that of one stunned, and 
 no sign revealed that he was conscious. He lay be- 
 fore her there, -silent and motionless, and she gazed 
 down mute at what she had wrought. She thought 
 he was insensible, he lay so still. "Better oblivion 
 than consciousness to such as he," she said in her 
 heart, and left him to his peace. 
 
 He lay so long she began to fear for him, and, draw- 
 ing close, she laid her hand upon his head. A shud- 
 der passed over him at the touch. Slowly he turned 
 and raised his eyes to hers, and in them was a look so 
 broken she knew that he had lived a lifetime in those 
 moments. 
 
 "Let us go," he said, rising dazedly and moving 
 forward. 
 
 "No, no! not yet," she answered, eagerly. "Sit 
 here beside me. Forgive me, Robert, my friend, my 
 
 8* 
 
90 A BLIND LEAD, 
 
 truest friend, — oh ! forgive me for the sorrow I have 
 brought upon you, and let me comfort you/' 
 
 "I'm past comfort now," he said, in a voice that 
 she scarcely recognized. 
 
 "Yes, Robert; but somewhere it will be made 
 right." 
 
 He looked at her vacantly, as though trying to 
 grasp her meaning, 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Yes, surely, some time, somewhere, your heart's 
 cry will be answered and your love satisfied." 
 
 " I can't understand you ; I don't know what you 
 are saying," he answered, blankly. "Come, now, 
 come; I must go back." 
 
 As in a trance he moved forward and made his 
 way to the carriage. Then he helped her in and 
 tightly grasped the lines. The horses struck wildly 
 out; but mechanically he held them back, as they 
 sj:)eeded impatiently the long way home. Not a word 
 passed his lips. When, in the gloom of the evening, 
 they reached the gate, he helped her to alight, but the 
 hand he extended was very cold. Then silently he 
 took up the lines again and drove on into the camp. 
 
CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE PROSPECT. 
 
 The winter bad come to Colusa and gone again, — a 
 simple record that of time, a blank, a void till events 
 are set to fill the spaces. 
 
 To strangers following the range of the thermometer 
 it might have seemed that Montana was having a 
 severe winter, but had the stranger been present and 
 suggested the idea, he would probably have found the 
 citizens to a man insisting that the climate was equal 
 to any upon the globe. It was pure and bracing, — 
 very bracing indeed. Had any one arraigned the 
 winters, the Montanian would have proceeded 'to con- 
 trast the Territory with the earthquake-smitten East, or 
 the cyclone-haunted interior, or dared him to compare 
 it to the rain-soaked Northwest. He might even have 
 gone to the extent of including California, whose cli- 
 mate, he would say, was not at all what enthusiasts 
 had represented it, but hot, dry, and dusty. Reflections 
 upon the country are apt to be construed into reflec- 
 tions upon the people, and the Westerner is a little 
 delicate upon personal matters. 
 
 91 
 
92 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 Among themselves, however, they had execrated this 
 
 same climate and pronounced the weather " tough." 
 
 Reports were beginning to come in now of losses 
 among the cattle on the great ranges off to the north- 
 east, and these were indisputable registers. 
 
 The rigor of the winter was not due to the degree 
 of cold, though the thermometer stood at twenty below 
 for weeks together, and even dropped to forty at times 
 to break the monotony. For, as a rule, during these 
 intervals there was no wind ; only a clear, crisp cold, 
 that seemed to throb upon the still air in ever-freezing 
 pulse-beats. The Jarge red sun, riding up, shot its 
 tardy beams along the crusted mountain slopes, but 
 they glanced off, powerless to pierce the icy film. The 
 whole landscape seemed holding its breath in the ten- 
 sion of the cold. Then this mood of frozen stillness 
 would pass off and the snow come falling noiselessly, 
 but so thick the encircling world of peaks was blotted 
 out, and the camp stood on the rim of a dense nebulous 
 universe. The wind now rose with its fitful humor 
 and swept the snow into huge drifts packed knee- 
 deep, — great boulders and ledges of snow ; as if those 
 rocky masses above in the disguise of their white 
 mantles had 8li])ped down and were prowling about 
 on secret errands, — restless vagrants these, ever shifting 
 to some new and unexpected station. 
 
 After such storms it became a serious matter to force 
 
THE PROSPECT. 93 
 
 a way from the camp to the outlying mines. The 
 large works were accessible by stages, for money can 
 overcome difficulties greater than those of transporta- 
 tion, but the isolated miners had no alternative but to 
 break a path on foot. 
 
 At the beginning of the season most of these inde- 
 pendent workers had abandoned their claims tempo- 
 rarily and hired out at the larger mines; but some 
 brave souls still faced the worst and fought the terrors 
 of the winter. Of these was John Howard. Any 
 morning his tall, lean form might be seen ploughing 
 its way through the drifts to the Eucher, a dogged 
 purpose in his face that defied physical evil. Others 
 might falter, they were privileged, but this wrestling 
 with fate, was it not the price every true man was 
 ready to pay for the treasures of home and wife and 
 children ? 
 
 Times there were, not a few, when John Howard 
 needed all his strength, moral and physical, to uphold 
 him. The test came, not when the dead cold settled 
 down and the snow lay in ridges upon the ground, 
 but when the sudden blizzard broke like a whirlwind 
 sweeping down the mountain-sides. It cut the face 
 like needles and burned like living fire. It swept 
 the snow as dust before it, piled up hills in the 
 valleys, and changed the very features of the country. 
 Out in it a man was at the mercy of chance, for he 
 
94 A "BLIND LEAD. 
 
 could not penetrate its density a foot. It blinded, and 
 at the same time it swept away all traces of the trail, 
 and more than one fated miner wandering about in the 
 mazes of the storm lay down and froze within hail of 
 his own cabin. 
 
 Yet the winter had much to redeem it. After one 
 of these intervals of cold and storm the Chinook with 
 its hot breath came blowing in, and the snow was gone 
 as by magic. The thermometer in a few hours crept 
 up even into the sixties. The drifts were flowing 
 streams, and the aspect of Nature was that of one 
 laughing at the surprise she had occasioned. 
 
 Now, however, the winter was gone. Again men 
 were shouldering pick and shovel and starting upon 
 prospecting tours through the neighborhood, — Ameri- 
 cans these, for the Cornish men and other foreigners 
 are mostly content the year round with wages, but 
 with the coming of spring the native miner gets out 
 his tools and starts off again to seek his independent 
 fortune. 
 
 On one of these spring evenings John Howard had 
 returned late and was seated at supper in his simple 
 cabin. Elizabeth had set everything within reach and 
 had drawn up a chair at the other side of the table for 
 company. As she sat watching her husband, her mind 
 seemed a little troubled about something, for she re- 
 marked, anxiously, — 
 
THE PROSPECT. 95 
 
 "Stop in at tli' drug-store on yer way home 
 t*-morrer, John, an' git southing fer thet cough. I 
 don't like it haugin' on so." 
 
 " Pooh ! thet little cough ain't nothin'," he answered, 
 carelessly. " Ye're too tender o' me, woman. Besides, 
 'tain't much use payin' fer med'cines an' standin' in the 
 water all day. It's the gittin' wet an' standin' in the 
 chill histin' ; thet's what's lieepin' on th' cough. But 
 Lord ! thet's nothin', nothin' at all." 
 
 " I hope 'tain't. I shouldn't like it 'ud git a grip 
 enter ye. How's the water, — bad ?" 
 
 "Wal, ruther. It's gainin' on us some. Didn't 
 think ter see so much seepiu' in no way. Ye see by 
 th' time we've histed fer three hours the morn'in's 
 pretty wal along. Our freshness goes inter the water; 
 there's eighty foot lift, ye know. Thet's why we git 
 ahead so slow." 
 
 " Yes, 'tis discour'gin'," she said, with sympathy. 
 
 " But then I ain't discour'ged ; not a bit, Liz'bith. 
 It's hard sinkin* an' the work don't count fer much es 
 it orter, but the rock's thar, better'n better right straight 
 'long, an' we'll fetch her yet." 
 
 The miner's faith, like his courage, was not to be 
 shaken, and, as all deep convictions, it had a way of 
 insinuating itself into other minds with much of its 
 native force. 
 
 "I hope so. I hope it '11 be comin' soon," Eliza- 
 
96 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 betli said, drawing a little sigh. "We thought fust 
 by winter we'd be out uv our pinch, an' here it's spring 
 now an* th' ore ain't half covered 'spenses." 
 
 " Thet's true, wife/' His tone was a trifle irritated. 
 " We'd a been down on her long 'go ef this water hedn't 
 troubled so. It's been fightin' it ev'ry step. Some- 
 times when we clum out to the win'lass the clothes on 
 us 'ud freeze in th' cold though we war covered in, 
 an' us so stiff ourselves we could scarce push the car t' 
 the dump. It's been a hard winter, a hard winter an' 
 no disputin'." 
 
 " Ye'd better a quit in th' fall, hedn't ye?" asked 
 Elizabeth, in mild reproof. 
 
 " No, I hedn't ; not a bit uv it." The voice was 
 very positive. " I wouldn't sell my half uv thet Eucher 
 fer ten hull thousand. Ev'ry assay's richer'n th' last 
 one, — an' the weather's comin' fine now," he added, 
 " so we don't mind changin' from th' shaft t' out-doors." 
 
 Elizabeth felt that her implied doubt had ruffled 
 the miner's temper, so, woman-like, she leaned over 
 and refilled his cup as a propitiation. The tea ap- 
 peared to have a soothing influence, for he remarked, in 
 a mollified voice, — 
 
 " Hall come down yesterday an' tuk a look 'roun'." 
 
 " Indeed ! did he?" eagerly. " What did he say?" 
 
 " Said th' ore looked wal ; thought we hed a good 
 prosj)ect. Man, but he's a strong un ! See him wind 
 
THE PROSPECT. 97 
 
 up thct bucket with one hand ye'd a thought it war 
 empty. He served his own time at th' winMass, too." 
 
 Elizabeth was about to make a remark, but suddenly 
 she paused and passed the bread instead. Perhaps the 
 miner's temper needed further strengthening before she 
 ventured another charge upon it. She waited till he- 
 had buttered his slice and was incapacitated for speecli, 
 when she said, without raising her eyes, — 
 
 " I wish he'd buy ye out, John." 
 
 He choked a little in his frantic haste to reply. 
 " Wal, I don't, then," he thundered. " Thet's the way 
 o' 't ; we poor cusses enters a claim, puts in our work 
 an' opens her up ; then when th' ore's in sight an' we're 
 bust through developin', 'long comes one uv them 'ar 
 money fellers, buys it up fer a song an' git's all th' 
 profits. I've spent my time an' I'm broke, an' wus too 
 fer debts, an' now I'll tie to it." 
 
 " But, John, a little money in hand 'ud be a big lift 
 t' us. Think uv the winter ye've put in." 
 
 " It's thinkin' uv thet makes me dead sot ter holdin' 
 out. I've done the sowin' an' I'll do the gatherin'. 
 Why should I sell out t' him now fer a few thousand 
 Avhen in a month I might git es many hundred thou- 
 sand? 'Tain't sense. Besides," he continued, more 
 moderately, " he didn't offer t' buy ; he jest come down 
 to look 'roun' an' see Magee." 
 
 " Still, I can't help wishin' he'd made ye an offer," 
 
 E or 9 
 
98 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 she persisted, gently. "Tbey^*e beginnin' t' hint 
 money down to the store, an' I'd like dreadful wal we 
 could pay 'em up." 
 
 " So we shall, Liz'bith, so we shall right soon. I'll stop 
 in thar an' tell 'em it's a-comin' shortly ; an' ye mustn't 
 worry. Lord ! what's a month arter sech a winter ?" 
 
 Truly, what was a month after such a winter ? 
 
 " Ef we was cert'n we'd hev it in a month," the 
 wife reflected. 
 
 " We'd hev it in half thet time now ef th' water 'ud 
 hold off; thet's th' scratch. We can work a good bit 
 yet though agin thet. We'll hev struck th' big pay 
 shute long 'fore th' water heads us off. It ain't but 
 twenty -five feet now t' whar the rich ore lay in th' 
 Peerless. We could hold on an' stope an' git out a 
 little money, but we think we'd like to keep sinkin' 
 tell we strike it." 
 
 He applied himself to his supper again, and Eliza- 
 beth leaned mechanically upon the table and watched 
 him. She could hear the low crunching of the stamp- 
 mill ; the rattling of the stage and the strident voice 
 of the driver uttering his weird call to the men going 
 up for the night shifts in the mines. But it all seemed 
 strange and distant to her to-night, so alert was her 
 mind to its own personal concerns. 
 
 "Ye still feel sure th' ore's thar, d'ye, John?" she 
 said, raising her head and addressing her husband. 
 
THE PROSPECT. 99 
 
 He laughed a short gratified laugh. " Sure I I don't 
 care ef 'taiu't. Let it keep on es it's been, an 'fore 
 we're much further down it's bound ter be all we'll 
 need fer th' rest uv our days. Lord, woman," he 
 added, with a cheery smile, "ye're wus'n Thomas any 
 day on doubtin'." 
 
 " Not es I doubt but tb' Eucher's got good ore," she 
 hastened to explain, " unly can we hold on till it's got 
 out?" 
 
 " We'll hold on all right, Liz'bith. Keep up heart 
 a bit longer. I'm tired now an' I guess I'll turn in, 
 so's ter be up bright an' early. I must look in at th' 
 childern fust, though. I hope we'll hev Ada home too, 
 soon," he said, as they leaned together over the chil- 
 dren's bed. ♦ 
 
 "I'll fetch her home es soon es we can do what's 
 right by her. We must do the squar thing by th' 
 childern." 
 
 He stooped and kissed fondly both the pretty 
 sleepers. 
 
 " There'll be 'nother little head lyin' in thar 'fore 
 long, Liz'bith," he said, affectionately. 
 
 The mother blushed and turned away. 
 
 " We'll be rich 'fore the next comes," he said, assur- 
 ingly. " I've been thinkin' I'd like ter buy thet Lynn 
 place down th' side yer mother's. We'd be nice an' 
 comf'table in thar, an ye'd hev the folks fer comp'ny. 
 
100 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 Ther's a good bit o' ground Voun' it fer th' babies to 
 play in, an' the rooms is big an' sunny." 
 
 "It 'ud be jest ev'rything we'd want," she said, 
 clasping his arm in her eagerness and her face radiant 
 with delight. "So near the home folks, too; it 'ud. 
 be a great comfort." 
 
 " Ye'll hev it, Liz'bith, fust go. I'll git ye all settled 
 in it nice an' comf'table ricrht soon now." 
 
 She smiled contentedly, and with bright visions of a 
 pleasant home with " big sunny windows and a bit uv 
 ground fer th' babies," the miner and his faithful wife 
 retired to sleep the deep sleep of the weary. 
 
CHAPTER XIL 
 
 THE " SILVERLINE." 
 
 One of the attractive features of Colusa is its clubs. 
 As the town is not in the line of any of the great con- 
 tinental highways, it is not visited by the celebrities 
 who might by chance drop down occasionally were it 
 on their route; nor is the local theatre sufficient in 
 itself to allure the shining lights from their natural 
 orbits. The bulk of the population is composed of 
 simple, rough, honest toilers, who are content with 
 the very mediocre in amusement as in everything 
 else. Tiie more discriminating class of the community, 
 therefore, is thrown upon its internal resources for 
 diversion, and naturally the first organization was the 
 club, — it was one of the necessities of existence. The 
 balls and the parties, indeed, the entertainments of 
 every description, are projected by one or another of 
 these circles. 
 
 The most aristocratic of the clubs, " the club" par 
 excdUnce, is the " Silverline." This is honored by the 
 membership of the substantial men of the place, — the 
 merchauts, the capitalists, and the gueat mining kings. 
 
 9* 101 
 
102 • A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 Here, as in everything else, the democratic quality of 
 the camp is revealed, for many are members, frequent 
 its halls and share its privileges, whose callings would 
 deny them, elsewhere, access to a club of such preten- 
 sions. Poor book-keepers and clerks scrape together 
 the money necessary to meet its dues (which are by no 
 means light), and enjoy the honors of its connection. 
 They are treated in no way other than courteously by 
 their moneyed superiors. In very many instances they 
 are men of better minds and cultivation, who are ad- 
 mitted on the basis of their attainments, as others on 
 their wealth, their record, or their connections. 
 
 On Sunday afternoons the club-rooms are a rendez- 
 vous for numbers of its devoted members. To the 
 laborers (the miners and their immediate directors), 
 Sunday as a day of rest is a thing unknown, but the 
 other classes allow themselves generally the indulgence 
 of its intermission. It seems always, however, a day 
 " hard to put in," as the saying is. The camp boasts 
 no library or place of general resort, and the men who 
 are without homes are at a loss to dispose of them- 
 selves. 
 
 It is curious to note in this assembly of unmarried 
 men tlie interest displayed in everything pertaining to 
 the households and the families of the camp; home 
 has a deeper meaning and family a sweeter significance 
 than where numbers have made them more common. 
 
THE ''SILVERLINE.'' 103 
 
 Into the "Silverline" one afternoon in the early 
 spring sauntered a group of young men. They walked 
 leisurely about through the rooms taking note of 
 those present, meeting acquaintances and exchanging 
 remarks. Most of the older members were engaged 
 in reading or absorbed in cards, and the atmosphere 
 of the place seemed dull and uninteresting, so they 
 drifted together again and gathered in a knot about 
 one of the windows. Some of the other younger 
 spirits, drawn by the affinity of years, perhaps, dropped 
 their cues or their magazines and joined the group. 
 
 " What a stupid day Sunday is !" observed one, in a 
 disgusted tone. " I slept till noon, and now I wish I'd 
 stayed asleep all day.'' 
 
 "Whatever was Sunday made for?" inquired a 
 second. 
 
 " Blessed if I know, if it wasn't to sleep on," replied 
 the somnolent member. 
 
 " I wish. Jack," said the other, turning upon him in 
 irritation, " you'd go to bed and stay there long enough 
 to get your sleep out for once, — hanged if I don't. It 
 makes me sleepy to hear you forever talking about it." 
 
 "Got no other way to kill time in this forsaken 
 spot." The tone was half humorous, half doleful. 
 
 " Why do you stay in Colusa, then ? Why don't 
 you get out?" impatiently. 
 
 " Stay in Colusa ! Guns ! I haven't enough to get 
 
104 ^ BLIND LEAD, 
 
 out of it. When I was back in the States nothing 
 would do but I must try my luck in a mining-camp. 
 I hadn't anything, and somehow the chances I thought 
 w^ere waiting around haven't chased me up very smart. 
 Blamed if I don't expect to be the last man left in 
 Colusa, because I want to get out so bad." 
 
 " Yes, I believe you will, Jack, for the camp '11 bust 
 up some day while you're asleep, and everybody '11 
 light out for other parts and leave you here." 
 
 They laughed all around at Jack's expense, and with 
 easy good nature he laughed too. "* 
 
 " Well, I know one that's likely to keep me com- 
 pany, unless the walking's good," he said, shrewdly. 
 
 "Who's that?" 
 
 " That's your very own self, Jo Barrow. Richley's 
 down to eight and a half and going lower." 
 
 " Lord !" exclaimed Barrow in surprise ; then added, 
 angrily, " What confounded cheats and rascals those 
 mining men are! Now they gave out that the drift 
 had struck the Juuebug lead, and I bought when 
 shares were sixty ; put in the three hundred dollars 
 I'd been a year saving up and went without an over- 
 coat all winter. Well, I am scooped." 
 
 " That you are, Jo, and I gave you a history of my 
 luck before you did it," said Cass ; " but you wouldn't 
 be advised." 
 
 "Advice to thunder! Because you lost was no 
 
THE '' silverline:' 105 
 
 reason I'd got to. I'd have doubled my money if I'd 
 sold out at the right time. That was the mistake." 
 
 "Never mind, old boy, never mind," said the other, 
 consolingly. "You'll sell out at the top notch next 
 time." 
 
 " Yes, I'm so likely to have three hundred again. 
 I've got the rheumatism and the quinsy fastened to 
 me for life from freezing so, and what I've suffered 
 in chilblains — there, I feel 'em coming into my toes 
 now while I'm talking." 
 
 "Never mind, Jo," said Ludlow, a genial, whole- 
 souled fellow. "I'll stake you again if you wait a 
 little. I'm into a scheme, — big thing, solid men back- 
 ing it." 
 
 " What's it shut down for, then ?" asked Cass, dryly. 
 
 " Got to buy machinery." 
 
 " The old story," shaking his head. " The same old 
 yarn. They'll freeze you out sure. Bob; put in big 
 works, assess you your proportion, sweep away your 
 little pile before you can wink, and then where are 
 you ? Take my advice : sell out to them, take what 
 you can get, for if you wait you'll get nothing." 
 
 "Advising seems to be your strong point," said 
 Bob, icily. " But then this is a vile place ; the rich 
 men own the camp and every one in it, body and 
 soul." 
 
 " Buy a ticket and get out," said the irrepressible 
 
106 ^ BLIND LEAD, 
 
 Jack. " If you cau't buy a ticket, walk, but get out 
 some way. My advice to every man is ' get.' " 
 
 With an undisoruised sioch Barrow drew a chair to 
 the table and, ringing for a pack of cards, motioned 
 his chum to join him in a game. This last tumble 
 in Richley had thrown a gloom over the young man's 
 spirits, and he wished to distract his mind from 
 his unlucky venture. Three or four others drew up 
 chairs and tilted them back comfortably within range 
 of the cards. But one. Mills, a dignified, important 
 sort of chap, attired in all the faultlessness of a Western 
 exquisite, looked down for a time in bored contempt 
 at the game and the pitiful mock interest of the on- 
 lookers. Then he remarked laconically, "This is 
 rather stale." 
 
 No one seemed impelled to contradict the statement 
 or vouchsafe an explanation or a condolence, so turn- 
 ing to the group in the suddenness of an inspiration, 
 " I guess I'll go over and call on Miss Pizer," he said. 
 " Who of you gentlemen will accompany me ?" 
 
 " Every one of us, — every last man of us." And 
 they all arose. 
 
 "Thank you, I never knew you all so obliging 
 before," said Mills, with a smile. " But who of you 
 has ever been invited ?" 
 
 " Why, you just invited the crowd yourself." 
 
 " Yes, but did the lady invite you ?" 
 
THE ''SILVERLINE.'' 107 
 
 "Oh, tbat^s another matter." And they reseated 
 themselves with feigned solemnity. 
 
 "What! none of you? Then Til go alone." He 
 threw up his head and inflated his chest in token of 
 his superiority, adding, — 
 
 " I guess I'll stay to tea." The boys groaned, and 
 Mills, with a dignified bow, walked pompously to- 
 wards the door. 
 
 There was a season of quiet now, in which they 
 all turned to watch the game, while Rierson seated 
 himself on the window-ledge, where he could see the 
 players and the passers-by at the same time. He 
 drew out a cigar-case, handed it around, then pro- 
 ceeded leisurely to light his cigar. The others followed 
 his example, and the smoking went on for a space in 
 silence. The sidewalk along this street was the best 
 the camp afforded, and was the general promenade. 
 On this lovely spring afternoon all Colusa seemed to 
 have shaken off its winter torpor and ventured forth 
 to sun itself. 
 
 " Look, boys, there goes the bride," Rierson said 
 presently with interest; "do see how old Forsythe 
 is tuckered out ? How unnatural he must feel !" 
 
 They glanced out, but only for a minute, for the 
 players seemed to have reached a critical point. Bar- 
 row sat with some chips in his uplifted hand eying 
 his opponent and uncertain whether or not to put 
 
108 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 them down. He looked furtively at his companion, 
 at the cards, then slowly dropped them, and the 
 other jubilantly raked them in. 
 
 Poor Jo sat like a stoic. He felt that he was 
 merely a football for Fate, and hadn't the courage to 
 even conjecture where her maliciousness might spin 
 him to next. It was all due to the drop in Richley. 
 If some national calamity had been announced sud- 
 denly he would have felt it was only natuml after 
 that last drop in Richley. 
 
 Rierson's queer raucous chuckle broke out just then, 
 so at variance with his melancholy he glanced up. 
 
 " That girl's possessed of a hull legion of imps," 
 he was saying as his eye fell upon some one passing 
 in the street. 
 
 " Who's that ?" Barrow asked, stretching his neck 
 to reach an angle of vision. 
 
 " Why, that Ada Howard. You heard of the last 
 game she set up on Judge Black, didn't you ? I tell 
 you if she wasn't as pretty and obliging as she is she'd 
 be locked up for a general plague." 
 
 Their eyes followed the sprightly figure with 
 amused indulgence. It was evident that Judge Black 
 would make out but a sorry case if he chose his jury 
 from the young men of the club. No very severe 
 criticism was to be got from lips that smiled with such 
 open admiration. It said too plainly that Ada's 
 
THE '' SILVERLTNE." 109 
 
 winsome beauty would excuse a little elasticity of 
 behavior. 
 
 They were diverted from further comment by the 
 arrival of some new-comers. More chairs were drawn 
 up, several new packs were brought out and dealt, 
 while a few of the group returned to their cues and 
 magazines. 
 
 Rierson and Cass still continued by the window. 
 They had left the honors and excitement to the ener- 
 getic, for themselves they preferred the indulgence of 
 doing nothing. Poor fortune-hunters ! they lacked even 
 the enthusiasm needed to kill time. These two for a 
 bribe to Chance had thrown in their splendid young 
 manhood, and she was tossing them back — what ? dis- 
 appointment and atrophy of powers. Social life, in- 
 tellectual life, they had left them behind, and were 
 unconsciously trying to delude themselves into accept- 
 ing as an equivalent this effervescence of an hour. 
 They had been gazing out, occupied (if such can be 
 called occupied) in the luxurious indolence of smoking. 
 Perhaps the clouded mists about their heads lent 
 visionary beauty to the outside world, or the narcotic 
 influence seemed to belong with the day. Suddenly 
 Rierson pointed with his finger across the street and, 
 removing his cigar, called out, — 
 
 "Come here, boys; come here. There goes Jerry 
 Bray and his bride that is to be." 
 
 10 
 
110 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 The words fell lightly, but as they fell a man 
 peated at a little distance reading dropped his paper 
 and looked out. His eyes were sharp, eager, intense. 
 "Bride," he repeated to himself. "Everybody knew 
 it but me. Oh, blind I blind ! none so blind as them 
 that won't see." 
 
 As they passed along the street Ellen dropped some- 
 thing, and Jerold stooped gracefully and restored it, 
 bestowing as he did so a faint caress upon her ex- 
 tended hand. It was slight, too slight for common 
 notice, but the eagle eye of the watcher had detected it. 
 With a smile, in which satisfaction and pain were 
 strangely blended, "She is happy; it's best so," he 
 murmured, and quietly resumed his paper. 
 
 " She's an uncommon woman for these parts, don't 
 you think so?" questioned Cass. 
 
 "She'd be an uncommon woman anywhere," the 
 other answered. " And she ain't suited to Jerry Bray. 
 She's so quiet; tries to carry the hull world on her 
 shoulders, and Jerry, he's such a devil-may-care, easy- 
 goin' chap, he'll let her take the worryin' all through. 
 It's a pity she didn't take a fancy to some other kind 
 of a fellow," with a faint sigh. 
 
 " She'd a been just the wife for Lucas now," said Cass. 
 
 " Or Osborne. She'd have put his money where it 
 would do some good," said Barrow, looking up from 
 the table. 
 
THE '' SILVERLINE.'' IH 
 
 . The man who had been silent during this conversa- 
 tion rose now and folded up his paper. His presence 
 inspired the irreverent Jo with a thought, and he con- 
 tinued : 
 
 " Yes, or you, Mr. Hall. You need a wife. As a 
 trustee you owe something to the teachers. She'd be 
 just the one for you now. Why didn't you speak for 
 her?" 
 
 " Gentlemen,'' replied Robert Hall, with a cold, calm 
 dignity, forcing back the tremor from his voice, " I've 
 had the honor of proposing to Miss Wayburn an' been 
 declined." And, lifting his hat, he passed from the 
 room. 
 
 " The — devil I" broke slowly from Jo Barrow's lips. 
 " Well, I wouldn't have believed there was a girl in 
 Colusa would have said ^ no' to Robert Hall." And in 
 his surprise the cards fell unnoted upon the table and 
 lay open to the full gaze of his opponent. 
 
 " No more would I," said Rierson. " That's the best 
 morsel of news we've had since the Forsythe blow- 
 out. I'll tell everybody I meet." 
 
 He was as good as his word. Before the week was 
 over the one theme of conversation in the camp of 
 Colusa was Ellen Wayburn's refusal of Robert Hall. 
 For a time Ellen was looked upon with a new interest, 
 for the glory of being proposed to by such a man, and 
 Jerold for being preferred before him. 
 
112 A BLIND LEAD, 
 
 To the latter it brought an awakening. In the con- 
 sciousness of how utterly Ellen's heart was his, the 
 thought of another suitor had never presented itself. 
 Now, however, since in such formidable guise a rival 
 had come he began to feel suspicious. No other 
 woman, in such a choice, would have cleaved to him ; 
 lie felt that. And though Robert had failed once, 
 might he not succeed for a second asking ; or if not 
 he, some other ? It roused his jealousy and gave her, 
 even to his own eyes, a greater preciousness. He felt a 
 new pride in himself too, that his betrothed had put 
 away such an alliance to be his wife. " She is a noble 
 girl," he thought to himself, " and I am unworthy of 
 her ; but she is satisfied," he added, complacently. " I 
 certainly love her, and will do all a man can to make 
 her happy. I must secure her at once; I'll take no 
 more chances. Yes, it must be fixed up now; Fll go 
 there this very night." 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 ARRANGED. 
 
 True to his resolution, that evening found Jerold 
 Bray in attendance upon the Wayburns. His engage- 
 ment to Ellen had been accepted from the first as a 
 settled fact, but their marriage had always partaken of 
 that indefiniteness that pertains to things in the haze 
 of distance. It might or it might not occur, and one 
 prayed nightly that some unknown providence might 
 come in time to rescue Ellen from this union. 
 
 " Jerry Bray ain't no ways good enough for Ellen," 
 Sarah constantly insisted to her mother, but, with a 
 sisterly affection, the nobler since her nature resented 
 such enforced silence, she refrained from a public ut- 
 terance of her opinion. There were times when Mrs. 
 Wayburn herself thought of Ellen's future with fore- 
 bodings, — of what, she could not say. But Mrs. Way- 
 burn was unconsciously much of a fatalist, and even 
 had she seen distinctly what she saw only in dusky 
 tangles of shadow, she would probably have clasped 
 her hands and left destiny to work out its mysterious 
 way. 
 
 h 10* 118 
 
114 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 Jerold realized that there were obstacles in the way 
 of his immediate marriage with Ellen, but, like all 
 lovers, he had an undefined faith that circumstances 
 would ally themselves to his cause. Love cannot 
 brook the gross sway of necessity ; it belongs with the 
 secret forces that overlie the natural, and uncon- 
 sciously it trusts their linked influence. Difficulty, 
 defeat, it defies them, for its free spirit is not to be 
 shackled or held by the bars of the impossible. In 
 the awakening of purpose that had come from Robert 
 HalPs proposal Jerold was ready to leap any barrier to 
 his goal, — ^he was in for success, and success at any 
 cost. 
 
 The subject of their marriage had been discussed 
 with no member of the family but Ellen. It was all 
 so unsettled that he had just drifted along, waiting for 
 some fate to release her from the burden of support. 
 Now, however, he felt that he must boldly avow his 
 wishes and plead for their realization. Accordingly, 
 after the first general conversation, he stole quietly to 
 Mrs. Wayburn's side and whispered that he wanted a 
 private interview, and together they withdrew to the 
 parlor. 
 
 Jerold was in the gracious humor of one who sees 
 within reach some coveted prize, and he felt very 
 warmly to the kind old woman, soon, he hoped, to be 
 his mother. With gentle care he seated her in Hie 
 
ARRANGED, 116 
 
 home-made arm-chair, turned the -lamp that the h'ght 
 should not shine into her face, and lowered the window 
 lest the night air should prove chilly. 
 
 The young man had a way at times of throwing 
 into his smallest attentions a grace and a courtesy that 
 made them appear like princely favors ; no one knew 
 better than he how to pay those delicate civilities that 
 give men such a power with women. Alas ! the pity 
 was that he should hold his courtly manners unfitted 
 to a camp and have degenerated into the easy indiffer- 
 ence of the frontier. Now, however, in the exaltation 
 of his love his native charms returned, and when a lit- 
 tle after he drew a chair up close and laid his shapely 
 hand upon the old lady's, he saw in her pleased smile 
 something that bade him hope. 
 
 Since the announcement of Robert HalFs proposal, 
 which had been to the household as much of a sur- 
 prise as to the camp, Mrs. Wayburn had been on the 
 sharp edge of expectancy. Something must follow it 
 was plain. That Jerold would grow anxious she 
 knew, for he seemed incapable of understanding that 
 feature of Ellen's character which, to her mother, was 
 the key-note of it all. "Ellen's faithful to death 
 when she's gev her word." It pained the honest 
 woman that Jerold should entertain the doubt which 
 his anxiety implied; how little he comprehended the 
 secret springs of the girl's being when he thought she 
 
116 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 could be tempted to disloyalty. Still, Ellen^s happi- 
 ness was centred in this man, and now that matters 
 had come to a crisis it seemed, to the mother, unjust 
 that they should be longer denied. 
 
 The thought of her misgivings was floating farther 
 and farther away, for the young man in the eagerness 
 of his desire was throwing a new eloquence into his 
 soft musical voice and a deference into his speech that 
 was shading into a low entreaty. 
 
 When at last with his gathered forces he pleaded his 
 long love; pledged himself in those golden promises 
 that seem so real to the dauntless heart of youth, and 
 drew those bright pictures of the future, that rise 
 before the enamoured eyes of love, the impetuous 
 appeal carried everything before it. Poor old lady ! 
 she had listened to them all before in her own day, 
 but that day was so long ago she had forgotten the 
 language of sentiment. It all seemed in Jerold's fer- 
 vid outpouring so new and sweet and certain she 
 yielded without a qualm, — and so the victory was won. 
 The young man went happily home that night, for hope 
 was high and love promised its sweet fruition. 
 
 It came to Mrs. Wayburn when he was gone how 
 rashly she had engaged to intercede; how blindly she 
 had bound herself to his will. How was Ellen to be 
 spared? How could they live? Who would take 
 her place? The way was very dark and she could get 
 
ARRANGED. 117 
 
 DO light upon it. In a sort of grim hopelessness she 
 summoned, as she always did in matters of importance, 
 her three daughters for a consultation. Then without 
 waiting for ceremony or any studied introduction she 
 came to the heart of the subject at once. 
 
 " Jerold's visit," she said, " was to ask that him an' 
 Ellen might be married without any more delay. 
 It's my opinion it's best, as he says," she added, with 
 diffidence, " so I've called you all to talk over if we 
 can fix it." 
 
 There was silence for a time, in which the sisters sat 
 lost for words, though, in truth, they had all in a gen- 
 eral way anticipated what was coming. Still, now it 
 was come, no one had any hold upon language. Ellen's 
 face was suffused with a gentle glow of pleasure, but 
 she held her eyes against the floor, as though afraid 
 some tremulous thought might peep out and disclose 
 itself. 
 
 Marcia was the first to recover. With the unselfish- 
 ness of her nature she threw herself into her sister's 
 arms. 
 
 " You must, Ellen, you must ! I'll do the teaching 
 and you'll get married." 
 
 " You, you child !'' said Ellen, whose face, now that 
 it was raised, was a study with its alternating smiles 
 and blushes. "Do you think I could let you wear 
 your little life away so ?" 
 
118 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 " I^m as old as you were when you commenced, — 
 and I know a great deal more than you did/' she 
 ventured, frankly. 
 
 "So you do, dear; but I'll never agree that you 
 shall be sacrificed. I'm old now, twenty-eight, and 
 hardened by this time, so I don't mind it much ; but 
 to bid you drag through your years as I have, never, 
 darling, never, never!" 
 
 " I don't think I'll need to do it long," Marcia whis- 
 pered bashfully, and hid her crimson face in Ellen's neck. 
 
 " So that's the story, is it, you rogue ? Why, you 
 naughty little mischief, you've been keeping it a secret, 
 have you ? Who would ever have believed it ?" And 
 she pinched and petted by turns the soft cheek nestling 
 beside her own. 
 
 " My dear daughter," the mother began. But Sarah 
 rushed over, snatched up the slender figure in her arms, 
 and bestowed upon Marcia what was doubtless in- 
 tended for a hug, but resembled a good shaking more. 
 Then she deposited her again in Ellen's lap and re- 
 seated herself. 
 
 " But, daughter," the mother commenced anew. 
 
 " Now don't, ma, look injured that way," said Marcia, 
 entreatingly, "as if I hadn't trusted you. Ben wasn't 
 ready and neither was I. It wasn't time to tell it. 
 Ellen surprised it out; it's all her fault." Hiding her 
 head again in her sister's neck. 
 
ARRANGED. 119 
 
 *^ There, there, child," said Ellen, soothingly. " You 
 needn^t be ashamed. Ben's a nice manly fellow, and we 
 haven't a word against him ; only you're pretty young." 
 
 "Yes, Ben and I talked it all over. He expects a 
 better position by and by. When he got it, then we 
 were going to tell you all. And now, till we are 
 ready, you must let me take your place and teach. 
 You will, won't you, since I've told you about it?" 
 She lifted her eyes to Ellen's face. 
 
 " Yes, Ellen, I think Marcia's the right of it," put 
 in the mother. " You've done for us now ten years, 
 an' I'll not hear to your doin' it no longer. I've gave 
 it a pile of thought of late. Besides, you're all givin' 
 out. We'll manage some w^ay, dear," she said, waving 
 back the protest upon Ellen's lips. " We'll manage 
 some way, an' don't you doubt." 
 
 Sarah, during the conference, had sat in silence. At 
 first her forehead had wrinkled and her mouth shut 
 hard. There was opposition in her heart ; but when 
 she saw the happiness in Ellen's face and heard the 
 brave proposal from little Marcia her spirit broke ; she 
 felt that she could not lift a finger against Ellen's 
 lover. Nay, more, for her sister's sake she must bury 
 her feelings and help too. The struggle was sharp, but 
 it was soon past. She sat quietly biding her time, and 
 now, in the silence, she spoke out quick and determined 
 after her manner. 
 
120 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 " We^ll manage, yes, an* I know how we'll do it. 
 IVe been oookin' up this goose for six hull months, 
 an' now it's done brown an' ready for carvin'. There's 
 no use anybody say in' no. I've made up my mind, an' 
 that ends it." 
 
 " You must put it to the vote, daughter," said Mrs. 
 Wayburn. 
 
 " Put nothin' to the vote ! I say I'll do it, an' I'll 
 do it. See if I can't pervide for this fam'ly." 
 
 ""Well, what is it? Do tell us what it is," said 
 Marcia. 
 
 " Don't you be too inquisitive. Miss Sly. I notice you 
 don't tell all you know nor wait much for advice." 
 
 " But I was going to tell you, Sarah. You know I 
 never meant to keep it a secret." 
 
 " Molasses ! Don't you try to wind me 'round your 
 finger, Marcia Wayburn," she answered, giving her 
 another shake. 
 
 " But tell us your plan, Sarah," said the mother. 
 
 " I've been up to Julie's, an' she's comin' to take my 
 place here an' " 
 
 " But goodness, Sarah !" began the old woman, " we 
 never can, never " 
 
 " Don't Sarah me now," the daughter went on im- 
 petuously. " Julie's comin' here an' she's comin', an' 
 I'm goin' down to the store an' I'm goin'." 
 
 " Bravo I bravo !" shouted Marcia, " I always 
 
ARRANGED. " 121 
 
 knew you'd turn up somewhere yet. You're a regular 
 find." 
 
 " There's no reason, as I can see," continued Sarah, 
 "why that store shouldn't pay, an' I'm agoin' to make 
 it pay." 
 
 But the mother and Ellen looked on deprecatingly. 
 
 "I don't think it'll work, Sarah, girl. This is a 
 hard place, this minin'-camp, an' the men ain't always 
 gentlemen." 
 
 "I'll take my chances," said Sarah, unconsciously 
 setting akimbo an arm that daily labor had made hard 
 and firm. 
 
 "And father," said Ellen; "I'm afraid you will 
 have a task persuading him to resign the management 
 to you." 
 
 " You let me 'lone with father. I'm the only one 
 in the house he minds, anyway. If he can't s'port his 
 fam'Iy, it's high time he let some one as can. This 
 foolin's done; I wish I'd had the grit to take it up 
 long 'go." 
 
 The mother and Ellen were full of objections and 
 hard to be convinced. Their arguments were many 
 and reasonable, but Sarah doggedly fought them down. 
 In truth, the more her scheme was discussed the more 
 feasible it really appeared, and at last the objections were 
 reluctantly withdrawn and the resolute will triumphed. 
 
 So it was settled ; Marcia should take the school the 
 y 11 
 
122 » ^ BLIND LEAD, 
 
 succeeding year; Sarah try her luck with the store, 
 and Ellen, — in the bright days of June Ellen should 
 be Jerold's bride. 
 
 They had talked far into the night and rose to break 
 up the meeting, all gathering about Ellen, whom 
 they felt now for the first time they were really going 
 to give up. They hung over her, kissing and caress- 
 ing and wishing her joy. The practical Sarah was 
 even betrayed into tears, and called her " a cruel thing 
 to run off so, first chance, and leave them all." But 
 the mother clung to her with that lingering mother-love 
 that shrinks so from giving up its treasures. 
 
 They separated at last and went each to her own 
 room to catch what sleep she might before the dawn, — 
 all but Ellen ; for her was no sleep and no desire for 
 sleep. 
 
 The joy in her heart was unrestrained to-night. 
 The load she^had borne so long and faithfully was 
 lifted at last, and oh, the relief! In the newness of 
 freedom her spirit seemed to swell and soar away, as 
 might some bird long caged, who felt again the strength 
 within its wings. 
 
 And this was life, the life she had suppressed so 
 long, rich with love and happiness ! She seemed new- 
 born, viewing the world with eyes just opened to its 
 beauties. Melody was everywhere, but the sweetest 
 melody sang itself over in her heart. She looked out 
 
ARRANGED. 123 
 
 into the midnight sky; how bright it was with its 
 myriad stars; how peaceful in its silence! She ex- 
 ulted in the vague consciousness of enlarged powers; 
 this brightness, this beauty was for her, with her new 
 faculty for perceiving it. Her soul was suddenly at- 
 tuned to all the joy and harmony in the universe, and 
 she was dumb for very gladness. She longed to give 
 uttemnce to her feeling, but no sound came; even in 
 her heart it found no word, but surged and throbbed 
 in one sweet sense of completeness. Her happiness 
 was full, and sinking at last upon her couch, the wild 
 tumult broke forth in that mysterious cry that voices 
 those emotions of the soul too deep for human language. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 A CHANGE OF HEADS. 
 
 AccoEDiNG to the plan agreed upon in the council, 
 the following week Sarah Wayburn prepared to take 
 charge of her father^s store. 
 
 There had been an interview long and spirited 
 between father and daughter; the former maintaining 
 his inalienable right as head of the house to manage 
 and direct his own affairs; the latter insisting that the 
 success of the business was the first concern, the pro- 
 prietorship altogether secondary. 
 
 Although the discussion was prolonged through 
 three whole days neither party was convinced, nor did 
 either seem likely to convince the other. Since words 
 effected nothing, early Monday morning, securing the 
 key, Sarah, undaunted, walked leisurely down and 
 took possession of the store. When her father ar- 
 rived she was settled in all her majesty, an incubus 
 he was helpless to remove. Nothing remained, there- 
 fore, but for him to accept the inevitable with as good 
 a grace as might be. 
 
 He went about in silence, looking as stern and for- 
 124 
 
A CHANGE OF HEADS. 125 
 
 bidding as he could with his naturally gentle counte- 
 nance, but Sarah was impervious to demeanor and 
 calmly held her ground. In a few days the bitterest 
 of the hostility had spent itself, and the old man was 
 gradually falling into his easy way of accepting facts 
 and making the best of them. Still he never, even in 
 his most submissive mood, was betrayed into anything 
 that approached a reconciliation to her presence. She 
 was tolerated, that was all ; and that only because she 
 could not be got rid of. 
 
 Sarah remained the first week content with simply 
 fastening herself as a fixture ; the next week she be- 
 gan her reforms. Every nook and corner was ex- 
 amined and its contents brought to light ; every book 
 was taken down, every shelf cleaned, every window 
 washed, the floor scrubbed, and all so thoroughly 
 cleansed that it was jokingly told of old Wayburn 
 that three times in one day he passed his own place, 
 not recognizing it, and went into Jacob's old second- 
 hand store instead. 
 
 Barah then carefully sorted the stock, putting each 
 book upon the shelf where it might be displayed to 
 the best advantage. She arranged some of the showier 
 works neatly in holders, and set them upon a table, 
 and spread temptingly in sight the magazines and 
 weeklies. Then she arranged the show-case with 
 stationery, pens, and such knick-knacks as offered. 
 
 11* 
 
126 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 Her chef d^ceuvrCy however, was the window. Here 
 she displayed her choicest attractions, and arranged 
 everything so artistically that the very wares seemed 
 transformed under her touch. She set chairs in- 
 vitingly within reach of the books, and assuming her 
 most business-like manner, was ready to attend upon 
 the public. 
 
 Altogether the little store was now one of the most 
 attractive spots in the camp, and seemed to need only 
 acquaintance to insure it profit and popularity. " That 
 girPs got a business head" was the judgment of many 
 who passed and lingered to survey. " She'll do better 
 than her father.'* 
 
 The success at first was not, however, dazzling. 
 The air of general good-for-nothingness that had per- 
 meated the old institution seemed linked with the 
 place in the minds of the people. Besides, Colusa 
 was not a reading community. The miners confined 
 themselves, when they did read, to the daily papers, 
 and the rest of the populace was content with maga- 
 zines and the cheaper form of novel. To widen the 
 range of custom she determined to vary the stock a 
 little, and got in a supply of toys, some fine china- 
 ware, a little sheet music, and ventured upon four steel 
 engravings, which she hung in the best possible setting. 
 
 Presently the public began to find out that Way- 
 burn's wasn't such a bad place to patronize after all. 
 
A CHANGE OF HEADS. 127 
 
 The young men too gradually concluded that it was a 
 little plcasanter to buy their trifles from a buxom lass 
 (who certainly had a very cheery smile when she chose 
 to unbend and display it) than from the prosy men, 
 whose smiles were masculine smiles at best. 
 
 Upon the innovations made about his premises 
 James Wayburn looked with open disapproval. His 
 independence seemed gone and his harmless ease with 
 it. In every way Sarah tried to respect his dignity 
 and reconcile him to the new regime, but she was 
 scarcely likely to succeed. At last two events trans- 
 pired which brought a rupture. 
 
 But six weeks remained till the end of school, and 
 the little home sitting-room began to give evidence 
 of unusual activity. The sewing-machine was drawn 
 close to the window, the table-cover was removed, the 
 large shears were in readiness, and everywhere about 
 were patterns, linens, laces, and dress-stuffs, which 
 promised to develop under the mother's and Marcia's 
 agile fingers into garments of service and of beauty. 
 " Ellen's trousseau '11 be my gift," Sarah had promised 
 herself, and little by little, sure enough, the money had 
 been gathered together, until now the material was in 
 the house for everything but that crowning glory, — 
 the wedding-dress. "That '11 be a beauty, a reg'lar 
 beauty," Sarah resolved mentally, and redoubled her 
 efforts. She arranged the window afresh, added some 
 
128 ^ BLIND LEAD, 
 
 cheap musical instruments, expanded her smile, and 
 endeavored with all her ingenuity to hasten sales and 
 secure the coveted robe. 
 
 One day there entered the store a daughter of one of 
 the wealthier citizens. 
 
 "I'm going down to the country, Miss "Wayburn, 
 to spend a couple of months on brother's ranch. I 
 tliought I'd take along some light reading, — Tom 
 don't keep much of a supply on hand, — and I want 
 you to help me select it." 
 
 Sarah hastened from behind the counter, and to- 
 gether they examined a pile of the latest novels. They 
 picked out six with the most promising titles, and the 
 lady took out her pocket-book to pay for them. The 
 old man had stepped back for a pamphlet he wanted, 
 and now he came leisurely forward. 
 
 "Indulging your literary tastes, Miss F ?" he 
 
 inquired, pleasantly. 
 
 " Yes ; laying in some reading for the ranch." 
 
 " What have you chosen ?" he asked, taking the books 
 Uf) separately and scanning the titles. 
 
 He laid each down with a sort of grunt, and said, 
 disgustedly, as he replaced the last, " Trash, trash, the 
 whole lot I I've read 'era, every one, and they're not 
 worth the paper they're printed on." 
 
 " Indeed ! is that possible ? Miss Wayburn thought 
 they'd be very interesting. Well, I guess I'd better 
 
A CHANGE OF HEADS. 129 ' 
 
 not take them if that's so. Come to think of it, they 
 would load up my trunk ; and the freight's going to 
 bankrupt me anyway," she added, laughing. 
 
 Sarah choked back the rage in her heart and smiled 
 faintly. 
 
 " As you wish,'' she answered, as courteously as she 
 could, and, without a purchase, the lady went on. 
 
 " Now, father," said Sarah, the ferment of her wrath 
 to be withheld no longer, " we ain't goin' on this way 
 no longer ; that's the fourth good sale you've stopped in 
 three days. You may be the propri'ter or anything 
 else on earth you like, but I'm salesman, an' I won't 
 be interfered with." And in her burst of feeling she 
 slammed the books back upon the shelf. 
 
 " I'd like to know where Ellen's things 's goin' to 
 come from at this rate," she protested, disconsolately. 
 Overpowered with the thought of injury she retreated to 
 the rear of the store, hid her face in her hands and cried. 
 
 Now Sarah was not of the crying kind, and the old 
 man felt that he had exasperated her to the uttermost, 
 and he returned to his pamphlet somewhat discomfited. 
 He was sorry he had spoken so inopportunely, but the 
 habits of a lifetime were not to be conquered in a day. 
 He was sorrier yet because, in some way, Ellen must 
 suffer for his folly. He revolved in his mind how he 
 could make it up to her and retrieve his disgrace ; but 
 no way seemed to commend itself to his judgment. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A GREAT BARGAIN. 
 
 About a week later Sarah called her father. A bill 
 was to be paid, and the place where she must go to pay 
 it was right in the midst of the worst dens of the 
 camp. She had made it a point to never require her 
 father's services; but this taking the place of a man 
 was new to her, and she was not yet hardened to all 
 its disagreeable features. She shrank from subjecting 
 herself to the scrutiny of the low profligates among 
 whom she would have to pass. Besides, armed hos- 
 tility had raged again since the episode of the books ; 
 and Sarah thought she might perhaps restore the spirit 
 of tolerance if she seemed to share interests with her 
 father ; so she called him. 
 
 " Here's this bill of King's, pa. Wouldn't you go 
 down and settle it? I thought some of lettin' it wait 
 and gettin' Ellen's things; but more I think, more 
 I guess we'd best pay up the bills and wait for the 
 profits." 
 
 He hesitated a moment, as if uncertain whether or 
 not to accept the olive-branch, but at last he seemed 
 somewhat mollified, for he answered, "Yes, I'll go. 
 130 
 
A GREAT BARGAIN. 131 
 
 'Tain't a fit place for a woman down there in the 
 slums. Women^s place is at home tending to their 
 own concerns." 
 
 Sarah took no notice of the insinuation. " There's 
 the bill; get the receipt. And here's the money," 
 handing him iifty-five dollars in gold. " I do so wish 
 it didn't have to be paid. I'd get Ellen's present 
 then," she remarked, in her last vain protest. 
 
 " It's a point in business t' always pay bills first," 
 he answered, with dignity, and marched slowly out. 
 
 Since Sarah's arrival the handling of the money had 
 been withdrawn entirely from the proprietor. Now 
 the feel of the cash in his pocket was like the clasp 
 of an old friend. He regained his spirit immediately; 
 he was his own natural self once more ; his confidence 
 in his own methods was restored, and he became again 
 a factor in the life and progress of the camp. He 
 seemed to have acquired suddenly a fresh vitality, for 
 he carried his head erect with a feeling of new impor- 
 tance. Yet he walked very slowly, as though realizing 
 how temporary is all joy, and wishing to prolong to 
 the uttermost this short lease of freedom. 
 
 He went along uneventfully until he got nearly to 
 his destination. As he reached the corner of one of 
 the lower streets, however, he was attracted by the 
 sight of a crowd, and going over, he discovered that 
 the centre of interest was a horse auction. Five ani- 
 
132 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 mals were being paraded about the enclosure; three 
 had been sold, and but two remained. One of these 
 the auctioneer was closing out now. As the old man 
 came up, "Goin* — ^goin' — gone," the hand fell, and 
 the fourth was disposed of. 
 
 " A bargain that, I should say," commented one of 
 the onlookers. 
 
 "Yes, there's no bidders to-day, and they're goin' 
 cheap. There's been too many horse sales lately. 
 That last lot Lewis brought in he had to ship back, 
 the market was so overstocked." 
 
 But the auctioneer had opened again. " What am 
 I offered for this last animal, the finest o' th' lot? I 
 always keep th' best to th' last. Come! I've given 
 away the rest. Look at her there, fat and sleek. 
 Let's see a sight of coin on this 'ere. How much fur 
 'er? How much am I bid?" 
 
 " Twenty-five dollars," came timidly from a voice. 
 
 "Twenty-five dollars!" repeated the auctioneer, in 
 tones of the most withering disdain. " Twenty-five dol- 
 lars fur that mare! I wouldn't. I wouldn't really risk 
 so much. Say six bits ; make it six bits an' be safe. 
 You might lose, ye know." And the crowd laughed. 
 
 He waited some time, but no one seemed disposed to 
 offer more. The situation was becoming strained and 
 the laugh bid fair to be continued at the expense of the 
 auctioneer. 
 
A GREAT BARGAIN. 133 
 
 " Wal, I 'spose, since our friend is afeard to run too 
 great risks, we'll have t' take his twenty-five fer a 
 starter," he said, resignedly. 
 
 " Twenty-five, twenty-five, twenty-five for that beau- 
 tiful creatur' ! Why, gentlemen, you don't know what 
 you're biddin' on. Look at her I Examine her ! If 
 you find a flaw, yes, if you can even find a crooked 
 hair, I'll give her to you. She's worth two hundred 
 if she's worth a cent. Come, bid up, gentlemen. 
 Twenty-five, — thirty, — thirty-five dollars. That's it, 
 bid 'er up ; you haven't bid th' worth of her tail yet. 
 Forty, forty, forty dollars; make it forty. That's 
 right, forty it is; forty, make it forty-five, forty- 
 five,—" 
 
 But there was a long stop at forty. " You'll never 
 get another chance like this. Why, 'er hide's worth 
 more'n I'm offered for the hull boss. This beast ain't 
 raised in this 'ere sage-brush kentry, lem me tell you. 
 She's imported, imported, — that is, her ancestors was, — 
 an' she's straight from Kentucky, th' blue grass region. 
 She's got reg'lar racin' blood in 'er, she has. Why, 
 she'll win you a thousand any day down 'ere on th' 
 track, and I'm offered forty dollars, forty-five, forty- 
 five, — make it forty-five. That's it. Forty-five it is. 
 Some of you fellers that ain't biddin' '11 be cussin' your- 
 selves all th' way home when I knock 'er down soon. 
 Forty-five ! forty-five ! Take 'er, man, an' sell 'er for 
 
 12 
 
134 ^ BLIND LEAD, 
 
 old bones! You'll make money. Forty-five, forty- 
 five, forty-five dollars I'm offered. Forty-five, forty- 
 five!" 
 
 He took out his large yellow-bordered handkerchief 
 and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. 
 
 " Forty-five ! Well, I can't stand 'ere bakin' in th' 
 sun all day. I'll have to throw 'er away, I see, after 
 all. Here's to you then. Forty-five goin'! Forty- 
 five goiji' I forty-five " 
 
 "Fifty," came in scarcely audible tones from the 
 end of the line. 
 
 "That's right; speak up, man. Fifty, fifty, fifty, 
 goin' once, — fifty, goin' twice, — fifty, three times and 
 sold, — to our old friend, James Wayburn." A smile 
 spread over the man's countenance that might have 
 awaked suspicion in any one more wary ; but the old 
 man was innocent of any thought of guile. With a 
 happy heart he took the halter and led the horse away. 
 He had got his wish; here now was a present, and 
 what a fitting present ! for Ellen. A horse was not an 
 extravagance, it was a very necessity. She would have 
 all her time to ride presently, and what pleasure and 
 profit she might derive from the use of it ! And this 
 horse was a credit too ; Ellen need never be ashamed 
 to ride her. No blindness here; she was a racer; a 
 graceful, supple-limbed, agile creature, with a glossy 
 black coat, full mane and tail ; just the kind of a gift 
 
A GREAT BARGAIN. 135 
 
 he would have selected. How opportunely he had 
 chanced along! 
 
 In his happy meditations he forgot all about Sarah 
 and all about the bill he had left unpaid. He was con- 
 scious only of the possession of a splendid horse, and 
 of Ellen's anticipated surprise. For an hour he led 
 the animal up and down, studying her fine points and 
 rejoicing in his ownership. 
 
 " What a bargain ! I'm glad I traded old blind 
 Jennie now. Besides, the Deans was always warring 
 about the horse and Sarah was always warring about 
 the hogs, and I couldn't see any way to settle it but to 
 swap horse against hogs. Ma says I lost five dollars 
 on the trade. What of that ? I got all she was worth, 
 every cent she was worth. I always do get all a thing's 
 worth," he added, with satisfied emphasis. "Guess 
 she'll allow I got the worth of my money this time." 
 
 After feasting his eyes and his heart upon the animal 
 sufficiently, he turned the nearest corner and led her 
 home in triumph. 
 
CHAPTER XVL 
 
 NEMESIS. 
 
 As James Wayburn was tying the horse to the fence- 
 post a hand was laid familiarly upon his shoulder and, — 
 
 " What's this ? been buying a horse ?'' said the new- 
 comer. 
 
 *' Yes ; ain't she a beauty V* 
 
 " She is good-lookin' sure enough ; a saddle-horse ?" 
 
 " Yes ; I bought her for Ellen. The weddin's to 
 come off in a month, you know," he whispered, with a 
 confidential wink, " so I thought Fd make her a little 
 present." 
 
 The listener winced slightly, but the old man went 
 on: 
 
 " She's a lady's horse, and very gentle. Ellen's a 
 trifle skeery on horseback." 
 
 "She looks spirited," the other said, walking 
 around the horse to examine her better. "She's a 
 good chest and carries herself well; trim built too. 
 She looks like she might be good under saddle." 
 
 "She's a racer, imported, — that is her ancestors 
 was, — and she's from Kentucky," he said, proudly. 
 136 
 
NEMESIS. 137 
 
 The hearer looked somewhat incredulous, but did 
 not venture a contradiction. 
 
 " We can try her down on vthe course some day. 
 She's won as high as a thousand dollars I think he 
 Buid. I disreraember the amount." 
 
 " She hasn't the gait of a racer I shouldn't say," the 
 other observed, hesitatingly. 
 
 " You can't tell, — you can't tell anything about 'em. 
 Horses are like women, you think you know all about 
 'em, and you know nothing, — nothing at all." 
 
 " I know a pile more about horses than I'll ever 
 know about women," said Robert Hall. " Still I don't 
 know all about horses neither, and mebbe my judg- 
 ment about the racin' qualities of this un ain't of much 
 'count." 
 
 " Well, she was a bargain. Racer or no racer, she 
 was a bargain." 
 
 " What did you have to give ?" 
 
 "Only fifty dollars." 
 
 " What?" And he stared incredulously. 
 
 " Fact ; I bought her for fifty dollars down to the 
 auction." 
 
 A thought looked suddenly out in the man's face. 
 Then there was a pause. 
 
 " Did Rogers sell her ?" he asked at length. 
 
 " Yes, sold five, and this was the pick of the lot." 
 
 There was another long silence, in which the owner 
 
 12* 
 
138 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 continued examining his purchase, and his companion 
 leaned against the fence-post lost in thought. 
 
 Finally the latter seemed to have an idea, for he 
 stepped quietly to the old man's side. 
 
 " I've been wantin' a horse for some time ; this is a 
 nice-looliin' beast. What do you say to sell in' her?" 
 
 " Selling her ? Why, man, I've just bought her. I 
 haven't owned her two hours yet." 
 
 " What o' that ? You can get another ; horses is 
 plenty about camp. I'll go with you and pick one out." 
 
 "I never could get any such bargain as this one, 
 though." 
 
 " Pshaw ! Nonsense ! Money '11 buy the best 
 hoi*se-flesh that's growed. Come, I want this un. 
 What '11 you take?" 
 
 " I couldn't do it, Robert, couldn't do it." 
 
 " You can cinch me a little ; it's right enough you'd 
 have your profit. What do you name ?" 
 
 " If I'd sell her to any one I'd sell her to you. You 
 mus'n't take it ill of me, friend, but she's Ellen's, not 
 mine." 
 
 "Nonsense, Way burn! Business 's business. I'll 
 give you seventy-five. That's raisin' you 'twenty-five." 
 
 "It's a good price, but," he whispered happily, 
 " don't you understand ? She's a bridal gift ; our 
 Ellen's bridal gift." 
 
 "Yes, I know, I understand. But I've taken an 
 
NEMESIS. 139 
 
 uncommon likin' to the mare, and Fd call it a great 
 favor if youM let me have her." 
 
 "Td give her to you, boy, for nothing but old 
 memory^s sake ; but I couldn't find it in my heart to 
 give away a wedding gift. It would be unlucky and 
 bring misfortune." 
 
 While they were discussing, the old man had been 
 leading the horse around, finding always new points of 
 excellence, and stopping now and then to answer his 
 companion's remarks. Now as they stood together, 
 reasoning more earnestly, they glanced at the animal 
 and were struck by its strange appearance. Its eyes 
 were rolling upward, its head was tossing, and it began 
 to plunge violently. 
 
 The old man dropped the halter and stepped back. 
 
 Soon it began to stagger around in the most incom- 
 prehensible manner. 
 
 Old Way burn seemed confounded, but in an instant 
 the shrewd mind beside him took in the situation. In 
 a quick, eager tone he broke out, — 
 
 " I must have her, James, I will have her ; how 
 much ?" And drawing from his pocket a handful of 
 gold, he extended it to the old man. 
 
 "She seems sick. Something seems to be the 
 matter of her," he answered, vacantly. 
 
 "Something is the matter," cried Robert, fiercely. 
 " Can't you see it? Here's a hundred ! a hundred and 
 
140 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 fifty ! two hundred !" But James Wayburn continued 
 helplessly staring at the horse. 
 
 "Do you hear me?" said the other, shaking him 
 roughly by the shoulder. "Til give you two hun- 
 dred." 
 
 But the dazed man was oblivious to everything but 
 the horse. *^ See, she's getting worse. I'm afraid she's 
 very bad," he remarked, stupidly. 
 
 " Say I can have her ! Jest say I can have her and 
 you may name your own price ; say she's mine !" 
 
 Still no answer, and every moment the animal be- 
 came worse. She was circling round and round now, 
 staggering slowly with her head hanging almost to the 
 ground. 
 
 The passers-by had by this time been attracted by 
 the strange antics of the horse, and a crowd was begin- 
 ning to gather. The owner's gaze continued riveted 
 upon his purchase, and his friend seemed powerless to 
 distract him or persuade him to part with it. The 
 latter stood a moment baffled, then with a quick reso- 
 lute step he walked to the mare's head. 
 
 " By God ! you shall," he said firmly, " for I'll take 
 her." Seizing the halter, he started to lead the horse 
 away, but it was too late. The creature took one step, 
 then its legs failed ; it sank gradually down and lay 
 still, gasping. 
 
 " Leave her, Robert, leave her !" said the bewildered 
 
NEMESIS. 141 
 
 old man. "She's Ellen's; she ain't mine. She's 
 Ellen's." 
 
 Without a word Robert Hall dropped the halter, 
 put the money again in his pocket, and walked away. 
 He could not stay to witness the humiliation. The 
 crowd became larger. In their faces curiosity was 
 blended with pity and amusement, as they looked from 
 the suffering animal to the helpless being at her head. 
 Several came forward and volunteered their assistance 
 and advice, and one who claimed to be somewhat of a 
 veterinarian went to the nearest drug-store, and re- 
 turning, poured into her throat a mixture he had pre- 
 pared, and for over an hour they labored to relieve the 
 creature's distress. But suddenly the horse began to 
 writhe in a dreadful convulsion. She ground her teeth, 
 her mouth was white with foam, and the veins in her 
 shapely neck were swollen almost to bursting. At last 
 her head dropped on one side, she gave two or three 
 deep gasps, a shudder, and it was over. 
 
 James Wayburn looked upon the wreck of his 
 dreams and hopes, then turnal and silently entered the 
 house. No one asked a question and no one ventured 
 a reproach. His face told plainly that his heart was 
 its own Nemesis. 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE BIT UV MONEY. 
 
 The camp awoke one morning to find itself sud- 
 denly interested in the Eucher. It was reported in 
 the street that they had struck the Peerless vein, and 
 the Peerless was a word that sent the blood in swifter 
 currents through men's veins. 
 
 From the groups gathered upon the corners one 
 could catch in passing the name of John Howard, 
 coupled with various swelling figures, which were 
 probably the chance guesses of the miners as to the 
 size of the pile he was coming into. Rumors were 
 afloat too of the offers he had received for the mine, 
 and speculation was high as to whether he would sell 
 now or hold on and develop it himself. Most inclined 
 to the latter idea, for John Howard's pluck had in it 
 an element of obstinacy that these strong, rough na- 
 tures trusted. Spiritual recognition is the fruit of 
 kindred souls, and there was not one of these stanch, 
 heroic miners but felt the same grim courage in his 
 breast. 
 
 The love of excitement was queerly evinced in these 
 knots of men. Each claimed to have learned some 
 142 
 
THE BIT UV MONET. 143 
 
 m 
 
 new fact, but if the raatter had been sifted it would 
 probably have developed that each knot was making 
 up its facts and then exaggerating them without mercy. 
 
 There were some items concerning the mine that the 
 public was hardly in a position to know, and these 
 the miner was discussing with his wife as they sat with 
 the children on the stone door-step. Elizabeth did not 
 seem so joyous as one might have expected after lis- 
 tening to the gossip of the street, and she was arguing 
 with a pertinacity quite unusual. 
 
 "But we said we wouldn't, John. We said we 
 never would," she was insisting. 
 
 " We didn't know no sech call 's this 'ud come up, 
 Liz'bith," the miner protested. 
 
 " We said no odds what come up, we'd hold on ter 
 thet bit uv money agin a rainy day." 
 
 " An' ef this ain't a rainy day I never want t' see 
 none. When could we need a lift more'n this 'ere 
 blessed minit?" 
 
 " We need it ; yes, I know, but thet's th' last dime 
 in the world, an' ef it 'ud go like the rest, there ain't 
 nothin' fer me an' the children to fall back on, ef you 
 was t' get sick or anythin'. I can't bear to think uv 
 givin' it up." 
 
 " An' I wouldn't ask it, wife, thet's what I wouldn't, 
 ef thar war any doubt uv th' mine, er ef I war ven- 
 t'rin' it, in trustin' to the lead." 
 
144 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 • 
 
 " Ye're quite sure, John ?'' she persisted, anxiously. 
 She had asked the question so often her husband was 
 out of patience, and he replied, sharply, — 
 
 " Why, woman, ain't thar th' assay straight from th' 
 office? What more evidence must ye hev? An' thar's 
 the vein 'fore our eyes. We'd a had 'nough out to 
 replace this money long 'go," with irritation, " ef ye'd 
 been willin' I'd used it a bit. Yes, an' hev fixed us all 
 up comf table besides." 
 
 He turned his head away and, clasping his hands 
 nervously over his knee, drew two or three quick 
 pufiPs from the pipe he was smoking. Elizabeth 
 could not bear even a semblance of a quarrel. She 
 leaned her head repentantly against his arm and said, 
 gently,— 
 
 " It ain't thet I'd cross ye, ye know 'tain't thet, 
 John ; but I can't jest bring mysel' to puttin' our last 
 cent inter machinery." 
 
 " Wal, look how we've been workin' thar th' past 
 month," he said, shamed out of his temper by her 
 gentleness, and making amends by the contriteness of 
 his tone. " The water gainin' an' gainin' an' comiu' in 
 so that ev'ry mornin' we've got to hist till nigh on ter 
 noon 'fore startin' in to sink, an' hard histin' at thet. 
 Then overnight it's all back in ag'in. Now th' pump 
 'ud clear th' thing in half 'n hour an' keep it clear, so 
 we could see where we war." 
 
THE BIT UV MONEY, 145 
 
 " Yes, thet water's play in' the very old mischief," 
 she assented, shaking her head, " more special on yer 
 health. Ef we d'cide f use the money, John, thet '11 
 be th' reason uv it. Ye ain't th' man ye was 'fore ye 
 went inter th' Eucher. It's broke ye up consider'ble. 
 Thet cough ain't no better, ner I don't like this 'ere 
 fever comin' on now ev'ry spell." 
 
 She looked anxiously into his face, and he seemed 
 to mistake her anxiety for reproach, for he an- 
 swered, — 
 
 " I can't help it, Liz'bith," much as though she had 
 accused him of some guilt. 
 
 " No, in course ye can't, man. Fust it's down in th' 
 warm shaft, then up in th' air. Jest's soon's th' mine 
 can stand it at all, ye've got to hire a hand to take yer 
 place. This way uv doin' 'ud kill a stronger man 'n 
 you be now." 
 
 " Don't talk uv killin'," he said, lightly, stretching 
 his legs along the neatly-swept walk. " Ye'll hev me 's 
 bad es yer ole father. Ev'ry time I'm over he's tellin' 
 me how he knows he's goin' ter drop down dead some 
 day like 's mother an' gran'mother, an' him es strong 's 
 an ox." 
 
 " He's gittin' flighty," whispered Elizabeth. " He's 
 
 no more like his mother 'n a cayote. He's a Wayburn 
 
 from th' very shoe leather. Now ef Ellen was t' say 
 
 thet or Marcia, there might be some sense ; they got th' 
 
 Q k 13 
 
146 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 Clay build, an' they're like es peas ter the hull Clay 
 tribe ; but pa, — he's gettin' inter his dotage, I guess," 
 shaking her head. 
 
 "I reckon he is. 'Twas time Sarah tuk hold an' 
 run thin's. Wal, we'll gev 'em a lift soon ; we've all 
 struggled 'long t'gether an' we'll all enjoy the flush 
 times t'gether. Thet's my way uv thinkin'." 
 
 He drew another slow puff from his pipe and leaned 
 back comfortably, as if already he was enjoying his ease 
 and dispensing with gratified liberality the wealth he 
 had acquired. But his wife was too much troubled for 
 illusions. 
 
 " Where's Magee t' git his half?" she asked, suddenly 
 turning and facing him. 
 
 " Wal, ye see, Daniels, when the vein begin to turn 
 rich he told Daniels, an' Daniels he offered t' loan him 
 the money ef th' mine come up ter Magee's showin'." 
 
 "An' is he goin' to do it?" 
 
 " Yesterday he sent down thet expert uv his. Th' 
 expert he made a zam'nation an' he reported favor'ble. 
 She showed up all we claimed ; th' vein gitten wider 'n 
 richer, an' he says ef she jest holds es she showed now, 
 we'd got all th' bricks we wanted. On th' strength uv 
 his own inspectin' an' th' expert's an' assays, Daniels 
 told Magee last night he'd put up the money." 
 
 "An' this money, what share's Daniels to git fer 
 puttin'itup?" 
 
THE BIT UV MONEY. 147 
 
 He looked down over the slanting roofs of the town 
 awhile in silence. Then he said, with deliberation, — 
 
 " Wal, thet ain't settled yet. He'll hev t' git what- 
 ever he asks, I guess. Hugh thinks he might a bor- 
 rowed the money uv Robert Hall, but he'd sooner gev 
 up part uv the profit then be beholdin' ter any one. 
 Thet Hall's the pure quill, though." And he puffed 
 out his approval in voluminous clouds of smoke. 
 
 " Yes, I unly wish Ellen 'd a fancied him inste'd uv 
 Jerry," said his wife, reflectively. " They'd a been so 
 much better suited." 
 
 "Dunno, wife; no tellin' 'bout thet. You 'member 
 way back in our courtin' days, no one thought ours a 
 very likely match. An' ye'd a been wal off to-day ef 
 ye'd takin' t' other offer," he said, looking up with slow 
 earnestness. 
 
 " Bother the other offer !" impatiently. " I'm rich 
 'nough with th' one I tuk." 
 
 "An' ye ain't repentin' uv yer marriage? Ye've 
 hed nothin' but waitin' 'long uv me, Liz'bith. I couldn't 
 blame ye ef ye war disgusted wi' the life I've led ye." 
 
 He looked into her quiet face with that expression 
 that she had learned to interpret so truly, — a mute 
 hungering for a success that was ever denied^ a craving 
 for the praise that no success had purchased. 
 
 " Ye've done nothin' agin my wishes," she said, in 
 comfort. " All ye've ventured ye did with my consent, 
 
148 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 an' so I war ready ter bide th' endin' with ye. Ef ye'd 
 gone inter things es I opposed an' then failed, I dunno 
 's rd a tuk it all so willin'." 
 
 "Thet's it, 'Liz'bith, thet's the very heart uv it. 
 I've hed my faults, an' they're thick es snow-flakes in 
 winter, but I loved ye, an' I let ye hev yer little say 
 an' yer idees in the runnin' uv thin's. It 'ud a sep'- 
 rated most folks goin' through all we hev, but it's knit 
 us closer'n anythin' but death can sep'rate now." 
 
 She did not answer, but in a sudden impulse she 
 took his large rough hand in both of hers and pressed 
 it to her heart. Down in the valley the dense smelter- 
 smoke had settled. It shut off the creek, and lay like 
 a murky river between her and that little "God's 
 acre" on the farther slope. It reminded her to-night 
 of that other invisible river that flowed in very truth 
 between her and the children that slept there. She 
 wondered if ever a^ain she should be called to stand 
 by the shore and watch some loved one vanishing 
 within the mists, or if, when the next summons came, 
 she might herself slip into the stream and be at peace. 
 But she glanced at the children playing and recalled 
 the treason of her wish. Others might long for death, 
 but a mother, she must pray for life, only for life. 
 
 She wondered if her mood had infected her husband, 
 for he too sat in revery, and, glancing up, she asked 
 him of what he was thinking. 
 
THE BIT UV MONEY. 149 
 
 " When I recall all our misfortens, 'Liz'bith," he 
 said, " 1 feel hard an' bitter sometimes with God fer 
 sendin' 'em, but I look 'round an' see you, an' then I 
 say to mysel', I'll fergive him, I'll fergive him. He 
 sent her 'long fust t' comfort me. Many's the man hes 
 money an' p'sition an' all the world can gev an' ain't 
 hed one taste all his life uv the hap'ness I've hed fer 
 seventeen hull years. Yes, I can fergive him." His 
 voice had softened and grown tender, and the last " fer- 
 give him" had almost the accents of a prayer. To the 
 listening Father what truer prayer went up that night 
 than this hand of reconciliation outstretched across the 
 gulf of his apparent cruelty ? 
 
 They had been sitting in their old resting-place on 
 the step. The two children were playing about, for 
 the baby had learned to walk through the winter. The 
 little ones had dug up the sand and mixed it with water 
 from an old tin can, and several round pies set out on 
 a shingle were engaging their attention. Rosie was 
 seized with a new idea now, however, and ran up to 
 her father. 
 
 " Papa, make Osie a shovel ; Osie wants to dig a 
 mine ; quick, quick !" 
 
 The miner went in search of a stick, and securing 
 it, came back. With his knife he sat whittling out 
 the desired shovel, while Kosie leaned over his knee 
 absorbed in the operation. 
 
 13* 
 
150 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 " I tell ye what I'll do, 'Liz'bith," the miner said, 
 returning to the matter they had left unsettled, " you 
 consent willin' to the use uv thet money, an' ef ye ain't 
 sat'sfied with the workin's in a month, I'll sell out. I 
 can sell out now fer a tol'rable fair price; Woods 
 offered us thirty thousand day 'fore yesterday. Ye'll 
 be gittin' big int'rest on yer money, woman, — I b'lieve 
 thet's what yer hangin' off fer," he added, teasiugly. 
 
 " No sech thin', John ; ye know better." 
 
 " Rosie, yer mother's growin' inter a reg'lar Jew. 
 She won't loan yer poor old father a nickel 'thout his 
 note an' s'curity." 
 
 " What nonsense ye are talkin', John !" said Elizabeth, 
 reproachfully. "The child '11 think yer in earnest." 
 
 "So I be; ain't I, Rosie? You'll be papa's little 
 s'curity, won't ye ?" 
 
 " The money ain't no more mine 'n it's yours ; you 
 earned it. Ef ye're sure it '11 be safe, I'm willin' ye'll 
 hev it in course, John." 
 
 "Safe! D'ye think I'd risk the last dollar ye'd 
 scrimped so long t' save fer th' childern ? No ; ef thar 
 war any riskin' I'd never put it in." 
 
 Rosie chanced to glance down the hill, and suddenly 
 dropping her new shovel and kicking over the last 
 baking in her excitement, she went bounding down 
 the walk, calling out, — 
 
 "AuntEllie! AuntElliel" 
 
CHAPTER XYIII. 
 
 CbNGRATULATIONS. 
 
 Ellen and Jerold came leisurely along, pausing 
 every little while to look back at the camp and the 
 swelling arches of the hills. 
 
 Out upon the road a freighter was belated with salt 
 for the mills above. The mules, ten span of tough, 
 enduring creatures, were straining their backs and 
 squaring their breasts against the load, while the 
 driver, with long lash and ready oath, was urging 
 them along the rocky way. Every few feet he was 
 fain to call a halt and breathe the spent beasts, from 
 whose heated flanks the steam rose in a cloud. Then 
 they started again, with fresh oaths as an incentive to 
 their flagging energies, and so, slowly, a few feet at a 
 time, the long train wound its spiral course along the 
 steep. 
 
 The gibbous moon came climbing softly over the 
 peaks, a pensive beauty that turned the earth into a 
 mirror for her maturing charms. She lit up the smoke 
 in the valley, till one might fancy the clouds had fallen 
 asleep on tha bosom of the warm earth. The rocks 
 and crags were leaning over following with startled 
 
 161 
 
152 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 gaze their unrecognizable shadows, and the slim pine- 
 trees were stretching down their limbs like wizards 
 and drawing weird traceries upon the ground. There, 
 upon the spectral mountain height, her beams shone 
 pure and cold, reflecting the heart of a Diana, while 
 here at the yellow base she lay in the warm languor of 
 a Venus. 
 
 She was throwing her white arms about the metalled 
 spires of the town, crusting them with silver, and she 
 was climbing the rounded dome of the court-house and 
 peering in at the curved windows, hanging them like 
 curious frosted lamps athwart the sky. 
 
 Off on the slope above the camp, like a huge cen- 
 tipede in the moonlight, rose a high trestle, and, run- 
 ning along the top, a tramway leading to a big dump. 
 Below, an ill-defined mass, lay the bunkers, and stretch- 
 ing away the smooth curve of the track, along which 
 the ore was carried for reduction. Low in the valley, 
 piercing the smoke like great gleaming eyes, were 
 the bright fires of the furnaces, whose light throbbed 
 and quivered, as if through it spoke some passionate 
 human heart. 
 
 They turned from the pained eyes, and glancing 
 up, saw Rose hurrying along in such reckless eager- 
 ness she threatened every moment to lose her footing 
 and come rolling down upon them. But the provi- 
 dence that attends upon childhood guided her in 
 
CONOR A TULA TIONS. 153 
 
 safety, and soon her arms were about Ellen's neck, 
 and her sweet baby mouth was pressing its repeated 
 welcome. Presently they entered the gate, with Rose 
 dancing along between them holding a hand of each. 
 The little party came blithely up the path, and Jerold 
 and Ellen, stepping forward, seized the miner's hands 
 and shook them heartily. 
 
 " We supposed you'd be expecting congratulations," 
 observed Jerold, seating himself in the chair the 
 miner lifted out to him, "so we strolled up to offer 
 them. If you have any superfluous nuggets, just 
 pass them around." 
 
 The miner's face was wreathed in smiles now, for 
 his happiness shone in every feature of his trans- 
 parent countenance. His wife too brightened up. 
 It made that thing, so illusive to her, a paying 
 mine, seem more real and abiding when it was dis- 
 cussed as an actuality. 
 
 " Not to-night, Jerry ; you must give us a week or 
 two yet." 
 
 "Any time that's convenient. We won't press. 
 Only remember we're ready." 
 
 " I s'pose ye be ; an' so be we oursel's. We'll keep 
 the fust lot t' hum I guess," he said, glancing towards 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 ■ "Well, you've earned it; you deserve success if 
 any man does. But you'll forget your reverses soon ; 
 
154 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 they'll only be recalled when men point out John 
 Howard of the Eucher and tell his history, — another 
 poor man who struck it rich, eh ?" 
 
 " Thet's 'bout it, Jerry," he said, musingly. 
 
 " Do you know," Jerold remarked, after a pause — 
 " I suppose I oughtn't to tell it and shake faith in 
 my mining judgment, but if I hadn't seen it with 
 my own eyes I'd never have believed the Peerless 
 vein cut across the Eucher. I made a special study 
 of that section, — they're down eighty-five feet on the 
 Gopher below you and hope for high-grade ore 
 soon. You know the formation changes more or less 
 around the water-line. I examined all the mines 
 thereabouts, and, taking the strike, I was certain the 
 vein ran through the Daisy or the Elm Orlu." 
 
 " Ye're off yer base fer onct, boy." 
 
 " Yes, I am ; and that's what puzzles me. I don't 
 feel quite satisfied yet that's the true Peerless. I be- 
 lieve the Peerless divides near the end of the claim, 
 and this is a feeder." 
 
 " It's little I care, Jerry, I can tell ye, whether it's 
 branch or orig'nal," he answered, cheerily. "Th' 
 ore's thar, an' thet's all I'm arter." 
 
 " Yes, you've got the rock surely." 
 
 " Which shows," replied the miner with satisfaction, 
 — for a prospector can never quite overcome a con- 
 tempt for college experts, — " which shows thet theory 
 
CONGRATULATIONS. 155 
 
 don't count fer much when it comes to tellin' a feller 
 whar t' strike the pick fer pay." 
 
 "You are right there, John. A mine is a lovely 
 thing to speculate upon. You can get so many the- 
 ories about how the veins lie, and you can look down 
 any one of these holes in the ground till you'd take 
 your oath the stuff was there, if only you could get at 
 it. There's nothing in the world a man can be so 
 credulous about as a mine." 
 
 " An' not a human creetur can tell one thin' 'bout 
 it till he digs down an' sees," went on the miner, ac- 
 centing each word with a tap of his long finger upon 
 Jerold's knee. " It's thar or it's not thar, an' th' one 
 way to know 's to sink an' find out." 
 
 " That's it ; each foot you go you're certain of that 
 one foot and no more. Here may be nothing, and six 
 inches farther down you may strike a fortune. Again, 
 here you may have a good vein and six inches farther 
 down you may have none at all. It's uncertain busi- 
 ness almost any way you look at it." 
 
 " Yes, 'tis, more 'r less till ye've got the lead opened 
 up an' showin'," he assented — but feebly, as one who 
 might perhaps decide to recall his concession later on 
 if the argument required it. 
 
 "What are you going to do about the Eucher?" 
 Jerold asked, changing the subject abruptly. " I 
 went down the shaft one evening last week, after you 
 
166 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 left; the sump was overflowed and the water drove 
 me out. You don't work it in that condition, do 
 you ?" 
 
 " Yes, we hist the water mornin's. It's pretty hard 
 work," he added, in an undertone. " I feel it most in 
 th' chist; but I think I tuk cold in an' out uv the 
 water through the winter an' it's settled. Howsora- 
 ever," he said, aloud again, " thet's all done an' gone, 
 fer we've 'bout decided to rig up a pump to keep the 
 shaft cl'ar, h'ain't we, 'Liz'bith ?" he questioned, turning 
 to his wife. 
 
 " I s'pose we hev, John. It's foolish holdin' back 
 when ye need th' money so. Ye think th' mine a safe 
 'vestment now, don't ye ?" she asked of Jerold. 
 
 " I'd put mine into it too quick if I had any. The 
 vein's there ; there's no discounting that ; and it's rich. 
 Do you know, I can't make out yet," said he, address- 
 ing himself again to the miner, "how that Peerless 
 gets into the Eucher. I believe — by the way, how far 
 down have you got now ?" 
 
 " Ninety-two feet." 
 
 " Close to the water-line. It was a blind lead, wasn't 
 it, — no trace on top ?" 
 
 " Yes. I've a theory th' top got wore off little by 
 little, judgin' by the surface." 
 
 " I wonder now if that could be a feeder, and the 
 croppings of the main lode were eroded too and " 
 
CONGRATULATIONS. 157 
 
 " Oh, for mercy's sake !" interrupted Ellen, depre- 
 catingly, " don't get to speculating and wondering again, 
 Jerold. My brain always begins to grow giddy when 
 that subject is introduced, because I know it '11 be round 
 and round in a never-ending circle. Let's talk about 
 all they're going to do with the money." 
 
 The sound of the word " money" recalled Rosie once 
 more from her baking. She crept into her father's arms 
 and sat eagerly waiting. She had considerable informa- 
 tion to impart as to what that money was to bring par- 
 ticularly to her own small self, and she was ready to 
 enlighten the company ; but as the conversation became 
 somewhat animated just then, she was obliged to wait, 
 and soon she had forgotten her purpose in coming, 
 and was rubbing her eyes drowsily. So her father took 
 her into the house and laid her gently upon the bed. 
 
 Jerold rose and paced up and down awaiting his 
 return; while the two women, left alone, continued 
 the conversation in a low tone. 
 
 " I wouldn't mind th' venter so much," Elizabeth 
 was saying to her sister, " but ye see we've been run- 
 uin' behind on the bills all winter; an' now they're 
 goin' to refuse any more credit till we pay up. I allers 
 felt safe, fer, thinks I to myself, ef it do go wrong an' 
 we hev to shet down, thar's thet bit uv money. 'Tain't 
 much ; but 'twould pay off th' debts an' keep us till 
 he'd hunt up a job." 
 
 14 
 
158 A BLIND LEAD, 
 
 " Yes, but a few weeks' good work will get it all 
 back ; and they won't press down at the store when 
 once they know their money is secure." 
 
 " Thet's allers the reasonin', Ellen. Ef ye'd trusted 
 the weeks es I hev ye'd doubt a'most ef ye hed th' 
 money in yer very hand." 
 
 " Yes, but I don't see how there can be any question 
 of the mine now." 
 
 " Ther don't seem to be, thet's sure. Varey offer'd 
 t' buy 'em out last week an' Woods this. They didn't 
 offer what he thought th' mine was worth by the 
 showin', an' he didn't take up with 'em. I s'pose I'd 
 better gev him the money ; it's thet or shet down." 
 
 "And to shut down now, with a fortune for the 
 taking, that would be folly, Elizabeth." 
 
 " I guess I'll consid'r it done, then my mind won't 
 be dwellin' on 't." And with the calmness of a settled 
 purpose they joined the others. 
 
 The miner had returned, and he and Jerold were 
 back again at the mine, — its formation, its history, its 
 prospects. As they enlarged upon the latter the little 
 group grew almost enthusiastic. The burdens of the 
 past were forgot, the laughter deepened, and with hope- 
 ful hearts they drew pictures of the future, — bright, 
 beautiful pictures, whose sunshine was undimmed by a 
 single shadow. 
 
 Ellen and Jerold arose finally to return home, and 
 
CONGRATULATIONS. 159 
 
 the miner and his wife accompanied them to the 
 gate. 
 
 " Let's see, — a month ; the Eucher '11 be in time fer 
 the weddiu' y^t," the miner said, cheerily. 
 
 " And I'll put up the champagne to drink her down 
 in," called Jerold, heartily. 
 
 As husband and wife stood watching them the 
 miner passed his arm lovingly over her shoulder, and 
 in the moonlight they stood for a long time together. 
 
 They spoke of what had gone by; of the three 
 little children that lay sleeping in the valley, with their 
 graves almost visible in the clearness of the night. 
 Then they talked of the future, telling over and over 
 all they would do for the little ones and each other. 
 The subject was a happy one and evidently inexhaust- 
 ible, for the clock in the court-house tower struck 
 midnight before they turned and re-entered the house. 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 EELEASED. 
 
 The days came and went, the bright balmy days 
 of June ; and at last school closed. Ellen Wayburn 
 was done. The last task had been faithfully per- 
 formed, the last tribute paid to duty. 
 
 Through the years, with the family's dependence 
 ever pressing upon her, she had thrust back all 
 thought of her own hopes, and had put from her all 
 contemplation of the joy that lay in their realization ; 
 but the last chord was broken now and she was free. 
 She threw herself into her liberty with the abandon 
 born of the long repression. She had not known her 
 capacity for happiness before, and the possibilities of 
 her nature swept over her like a wave, filling every 
 pulse with sweetness. She was happy, deeply, com- 
 pletely happy, and upon its excess of gladness her 
 heart pondered continuously. 
 
 All her being was transformed, for the sensitive 
 person caught and reflected the new spirit. The 
 weariness had gone out of the eyes, and joy like a 
 clear flame glowed there instead; the pallor of the 
 
 160 
 
RELEASED. 161 
 
 cheek was tinted with the faint color of excitement, 
 and the slow step became light and elastic. 
 
 In the merry girl flitting in and out of the house, 
 singing snatches of popular ballads and slipping away 
 every little while to peep again at the snowy piles of 
 linen or smooth out some imaginary creases from the 
 lovely bridal robe, one would have scarcely recognized 
 the worn Ellen of the school-room. She was a crea- 
 ture to whom love was as essential as air or light, and 
 in its radiance she unfolded like a flower. 
 
 To Jerold through these days she was a succession 
 of surprises. 
 
 " Why, Ellen, I didn't know you were a singer. 
 You're positively talking to me in poetry. Declare, if 
 I ever before realized how handsome you were ; and, 
 Ellen, if you keep on like this, you'll be as frolicsome 
 as Ada.'' 
 
 Such were the exclamations ever upon his lips, and 
 to all she only laughed and tossed her head. 
 
 It lacked but five days of the wedding. Jerold 
 had hung a hammock a little distance from the house, 
 and now he stood negligently leaning against the post 
 while Ellen sat swinging gently in the morning 
 sun. 
 
 " I don't believe I know anything about you, Ellen," 
 he said, after a long contemplation. " You're not the 
 Ellen I proposed to at all." 
 I 14* 
 
162 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 " Do you like the lost one better ?" she asked, mis- 
 chievously. 
 
 "No! no! The latest is the best. She has all 
 the charms of the other and a hundred that are dis- 
 tinctly her own. Why didn't you show me this one 
 before?" 
 
 " She didn't exist," she answered, laughing lightly ; 
 "she is altogether a late production." 
 
 " It's just as well, perhaps, I didn't meet her sooner; 
 I don't believe I could have waited so long for her." 
 
 " You traitor, you are deserting the old for the new. 
 That is it." 
 
 " Yes, I believe that is it." 
 
 " Still the old one was the better." 
 
 " Well, the present incumbent is sweeter, anyway. 
 She's prettier, gayer, younger, and fresher. The other 
 was dreadfully sober and earnest." 
 
 "She had everything to make her earnest; while 
 this has everything to make her bright and sunny, 
 •That's the difference, Jerold." 
 
 " Well, I'm glad she has ; I hope she always will 
 have. Those dreadfully earnest people are enough to 
 give a man the nightmare." 
 
 " Why did you want to marry her, then ?" she 
 asked, smiling. 
 
 " I'd never seen this Ellen, you know. She was the 
 best at hand, and I had to put up with her." 
 
RELEASED. 168 
 
 "Had to put up with her?" she repeated, assuming 
 an air of offended dignity. 
 
 " Yes, had to put up with her." 
 
 She turned her head away with a coquetry that was 
 bewitching. 
 
 Coming near, he turned it gently to him again. 
 
 "And I'm very glad she is gone," he continued, 
 "very glad indeed, and I have this light-hearted 
 Ellen instead." 
 
 She looked up into his face with a world of devotion 
 in the depths of her eyes, and he stooped tenderly and 
 kissed the pure, sweet mouth. 
 
 They sat for a long time content with each other's 
 presence, talking of nothings, -^those thousand noth- 
 ings that make up the conversation of lovers some- 
 times, wherein is more of wisdom and joy, light 
 and life, than philosophy has ever dreamed of. Ah, 
 the power of a pure true love ! How it broadens and 
 heightens ! How it illumines the spirit, till with far, 
 undiramed sight it skirts the very limits of the uni- 
 verse and feels itself one with all that moves, grows, 
 and aspires ! How it reaches down and grasps the 
 thought, the purpose underlying all things ! How it 
 pierces the mysteries of life, and solves the question of 
 its darkness ! How it leaps the barriers of the Infinite, 
 plants itself in the very heart of the Everlasting, and 
 calmly whispers, " I am part of thee." Ix)ve, the source 
 
164 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 and essence of all being, the inspiration of all good, 
 the hope of all time, pure, unselfish, holy love ! 
 
 To Ellen, in the desolation of a mining-camp, it was 
 as sweet and fresh as it was to that first woman in all 
 the splendors of Eden. 
 
 Immortality had breathed its germ into her soul ; 
 Eternity had stooped and whispered its low secret. 
 She was nestling under the wings of seraphs and 
 breathing in the fragrance of paradise. 
 
 From this sweet communion she was suddenly 
 startled by the sound of a voice calling, excitedly, 
 "Ellen! Ellen! Ellen!" 
 
 She sprang from the hammock and hurried, with 
 Jerold, to the house. At the door they were met by 
 Ada, whose face and manner both bespoke her alarm. 
 
 "Papa's worse, and mamma says you must come 
 right away." 
 
 Ellen snatched up her hat, and with eager haste she 
 and Jerold started for the miner's cottage, and imme- 
 diately after, but more slowly, Marcia and the old 
 mother went toiling up the hill. 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE MINER AND HIS MINE. 
 
 They learned that her father, as Ada had said, 
 was worse, much worse. He had been confined to 
 his bed now over two weeks. The nervous strain 
 of the past year and the constant exposure had borne 
 their fruit. Though the pump and boiler had been 
 set up and did their work efficiently, they had come 
 too late to restore health to the miner. Still he was 
 not dangerously ill, the physician held ; right treat- 
 ment and care would bring him around all right. 
 
 They found Elizabeth exhausted with anxiety and 
 watching. Their repeated offers of help she had 
 refused, insisting that any presence but hers irritated 
 her husband. When now she had met them all and 
 told them what she could of his condition, she 
 returned silently to her post at the bedside. 
 
 Through the night, as at times through many 
 previous nights when the fever was on, the miner 
 had been delirious. His mind wandered fitfully from 
 events of his boyhood to those of recent years, but 
 chiefly the theme of his thought was the mine and 
 the wealth that it promised. Sometimes the experi- 
 
 165 
 
166 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 ence of the winter came back, and he was digging 
 away and fretting at the small results of his labor; 
 but soon he was hoisting the bucket, full of rock, of 
 fabulous richness. Sometimes, too, his mind reverted 
 to the little home, and he cheered Elizabeth with the 
 hope and assurance of success. Strangely, all his 
 peaceful thoughts were linked to the memory of his 
 children. In his delirium he was with them all, 
 the living and the dead alike, but Rose was still the 
 favorite. Even as his mind had turned in health to 
 the sweet innocent ones, unconscious of and apart 
 from his world of strife, so now peace seemed to 
 come with their approach. In their imagined presence 
 he was soothed from his excitement and generally fell 
 asleep. 
 
 He dropped into a doze now, and Elizabeth, after 
 sitting beside him some time, crept out to attend to 
 the duties of the house. 
 
 Meanwhile, Ellen, satisfying herself that there was 
 no immediate danger and feeling that they could be 
 of no service, urged the others to return home and 
 leave her alone with Elizabeth. A number in the 
 small house was but a hindrance, so, with the under- 
 standing that they should be kept informed, the rest 
 prepared to depart, and soon the three passed out of 
 the little gate and took the road homeward. As 
 Ellen stood in the door-way and watched them de- 
 
THE MINER AND HIS MINE. 167 
 
 scending, the old mother leaning heavily upon Jerold's 
 arm, a cloud darkened her thought, a cloud she could 
 not explain or shake off; a gloom that was almost 
 a presentiment. She lingered but a moment, then 
 putting behind her her own fears and emotions, she 
 went to see wherein she could help her sister. 
 
 Elizabeth was in the kitchen walking listlessly to 
 and fro awaiting the arrival of the physicians, for the 
 family doctor had been up some time before and had 
 arranged to return with another for a consultation. 
 
 As it was now the hour of noon and no doctor 
 had yet arrived, Ellen thought she had better set 
 about preparing dinner. She opened the clean high 
 cupboard to take out the materials, and what was her 
 surprise to find that it contained a little oatmeal, a 
 loaf of bread, and a small pitcher of milk. 
 
 " Elizabeth," she cried, in dismay, " are you reduced 
 to this?" 
 
 " I forgot, dear, I forgot it. I'm so anxious over 
 John, I forgot it. I didn't mean ye'd know. WeVe 
 jest run out, — thet is," she stammered, conscious of 
 the little falsehood, " I was jest goin' to lay in more. 
 Take this" — and, turning away that Ellen might not 
 see the slimness of her purse, she drew out a quarter — 
 " and gQt us a few eggs, I ain't hungry, and John he 
 can't take nothin'. To-night I'll go out and see 'bout 
 gettin' a stock." 
 
168 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 As Ellen gazed closer into her sister's face she real- 
 ized for the first time how wan and haggard she 
 looked. "That is not the pallor of watching/' she 
 said to herself; "it's the work of hunger." Elizabeth 
 seemed to read her thought. 
 
 " He's been sick so long, most three weeks, ye know, 
 child, an' ther's unly Magee to git out th' ore. The 
 bills piled up so we couldn't git no more credit. It's 
 been a little close pullin' sometimes." And over the 
 pinched face and into the curve of the mouth came the 
 look of endurance that had grown a part of them. 
 
 "You were wrong, very wrong, Elizabeth, not to 
 let us know your condition. That's why you wouldn't 
 let any of us come up and stay with you," said Ellen, 
 reproachfully. 
 
 " We'd a been free uv debt now an' comf'table, dear, 
 ef John hedn't tuk sick ; an' I can stan' it, yes, stan' 
 ev'rything, ev'rything, ef unly John's spared." She 
 sank helplessly into a chair and burst into tears. 
 
 Ellen threw her arms about her sister's neck, and 
 endeavored in every way to console her. 
 
 " He's going to get well, Elizabeth, of course he is ; 
 why, the doctor said he would. He's a strong man 
 yet, and now, when everything's coming out so nicely, 
 he's going to live, and enjoy it with you for fifty 
 years." By cheering and soothing she restored her at 
 last to somewhat of her old subdued self. 
 
THE MINER AND HIS MINE. 169 
 
 "There now," she said, kissing the white cheek, 
 " you go and sit by John, and leave everything to me. 
 I'll manage and run the house." 
 
 With a faint sigh of relief the overburdened woman 
 rose and returned to the bedside. 
 
 When Elizabeth had gone, Ellen hurriedly put on 
 her hat and slipped away to the market. Soon she re- 
 turned laden with necessaries for the house. She quickly 
 set to work, and in a few minutes a tempting repast 
 was spread on the little table in the sitting-room. She 
 called the children from the yard and the mother from 
 the sick-room, and together they sat down to dinner. 
 
 As they were finishing the miner awoke, and catch- 
 ing the sound of their voices, called faintly for his little 
 daughter. 
 
 " Bjit, John, dear, ye're very weak, an' we're to keep 
 ye quiet the doctor says." 
 
 " Let her come, Liz'bith," he pleaded. The mother 
 yielded, and lifted the child upon the bed. She nes- 
 tled in beside her father, put her little hand in his, 
 and commenced in a whisper her pretty prattle. 
 
 " Osie jest wanted oo, papa," she cooed, softly. 
 
 The father smiled dreamily down into the innocent 
 face. 
 
 *^ Oo must hurry an' pick, so Osie can hev her toys ; 
 she's tired uv waitin' now ; oo must pick hard, papa, 
 hard, hard." 
 
 H 15 
 
170 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 The weak hand stroked her curls and patted the 
 soft baby cheek. What visions passed through the 
 tired, hopeful heart no speech revealed, but that they 
 were cheerful the faint smile gave assurance. 
 
 Presently the physicians arrived and held a consul- 
 tation. As the miner was conscious and resting easily 
 they augured well, and, in proportion, the hearts of the 
 little group took courage. 
 
 "Keep his mind as restful as you can; he's ex- 
 citable. No, you needn't take away the child" (as 
 Elizabeth rose to remove her); "she doesn't seem to 
 disturb him. This trouble is rather hard to control up 
 in these high altitudes ; but he's doing well, very well 
 indeed. Just keep his mind easy, and follow the direc- 
 tions I left this morning. He's got plenty strength 
 yet to pull through, and you mustn't be fretting." 
 
 The miner fell asleep again shortly after they left, 
 rested peacefully, and awoke refreshed. Later in the 
 afternoon the fever rose — it always did as evening 
 came on — and he grew worse. He seemed weaker 
 to-day, and in his delirium he was more excited. 
 
 " Thet's rich, Hugh ; thet '11 go a thousand ounces," 
 he exclaimed once, and then the words became inco- 
 herent. Another time he had come home successful 
 and was enjoying the fruits of victory. 
 
 " Thar ye be, Liz'beth. Thar's twenties, twenties, 
 an' twenties," as in fancy he poured it into her lap. 
 
THE MINER AND HIS MINE. 171 
 
 " Take 'em all ; every one, wife ; they're yours an' the 
 childern's." So the afternoon waned. Occasionally he 
 was conscious, rested or slept, then passed back into 
 unconsciousness. 
 
 At night he was no better. The physicians came 
 and gave him a soothing draught. It was only the 
 natural course of the fever, they said. "There's a 
 good deal of fight in him," commented the old doctor, 
 "and he'll fight this out; just keep him calm so he'll 
 rest all that's possible, and go on with the same treat- 
 ment. He's all right yet." And the cheering words 
 gave fresh hope to the watchers. 
 
 In the dusk, after tea, when in the old time the 
 miner used to sit with wife and children about the 
 step, he came to himself, and reminded perhaps by 
 the hour he called, as he always had, for the little 
 ones. He kissed the baby, and asked that Rosie 
 might be lifted up beside him again. 
 
 " Ye mustn't talk, Rosie, child," the mother whis- 
 pered. " Ye must jest lie still thar b'side papa." 
 
 "All right," she said, delighted to be back with 
 her father. 
 
 He drew her in close beside him, where he could 
 catch the soft fragrance of her breath against his 
 cheek. Then he closed his eyes and lay all quiet and 
 contented. The child looked into his face for a time ; 
 presently the sweet eyes began to blink, the heavy 
 
172 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 lids to droop more and more, and at last she was 
 asleep. 
 
 The mother sat by the bedside for a while ; then she 
 stole out, leaving the door ajar. 
 
 " They're both sleeping she said to Ellen, and to- 
 gether they stepped out to inhale the fresh summer 
 air. They stood a long time talking in an undertone. 
 Presently they heard the click of the gate; some one 
 was coming slowly, very slowly, along the walk. 
 
 " Good-evenin', Mr. Magee," said Elizabeth, as the 
 man drew near. " I was goin' ter send down to yer 
 place. We h'ain't hed any word fer a week back." 
 
 " No, I didn't git up this fur," the man said, eva- 
 sively. "How's John the night?" 
 
 "Pretty low, pretty low, I'm afeerd; though the 
 doctor do say ther's good hopes yet. He's asked arter 
 ye of 'n, an' ef he'd asked agin I was goin' to send 
 down fer ye." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " The trouble is he's conscious so little uv the time 
 I didn't know jest when t' hev ye come ; fer I didn't 
 like to call ye 'way from yer work." 
 
 "We're no workin'," then he recollected himself 
 and broke off abruptly. " Thet is, we're a-waitin'." 
 And again he paused, lost for a way to express him- 
 self. 
 
 "What is it, Hugh? Tell me," said Elizabeth, 
 
I 
 I 
 
 THE MINER AND HIS MINE. 173 
 
 calmly, though her eyes began to grow larger and her 
 thin lips to tremble. 
 
 " I didn't hev nothin' to tell ye/' he said, doggedly. 
 
 " Yes, Hugh, ye did. I*ve a right to know. So'th- 
 in's broke an' the water's in ag'in. Tell 't, tell.'t out." 
 
 " Nothiu's not broke, nor ther ain't a drop o' water 
 in her." 
 
 "Then ye must speak, man; ye must. Ther's 
 so'thin', an' I must know it." 
 
 "Wal, yes, ther is so'thin', Mrs. Howard," he an- 
 swered, slowly. " I'd mend it ef I could, God knows ; 
 but it's past mendin', thet's what it is." 
 
 " Go on ; I'm waitiu'," she said, stolidly. 
 
 " Wal, ye see, it was 'bout a week ago. I hedn't the 
 heart ter come up no sooner an' tell ye, though ev'ry 
 day I meant I'd do it." 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 " Ye see, I was diggin' 'way straight down on th' 
 vein so 's to git out the rich ore quick 's I could, fer I 
 knowed yez was needin' it ; an' fust thin' I knowed I 
 struck a ledge o' granite. Sez I, * What's this mean ?' 
 An' wi' thet I sot to work. I dug the rest o' thet day, all 
 the night, an' till noon o' the next without onct holdin' 
 up, an' then I knowed all it meant, ev'ry word." 
 
 " An' what was it, Hugh ?" 
 
 "The vein" — he lowered his voice instinctively — 
 
 " the vein " 
 
 15* 
 
174 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 " Yes, man, yes." 
 
 " The vein's " 
 
 " What, Hugh ? In Heaven's name, what ?" 
 
 "The vein's" — his voice sank to a whisper — "the 
 vein's — pinched out." 
 
 " Great God ! — pinched out," came like the tolling 
 of a knell from behind them. 
 
 They turned, and there, full in the door-way, stood 
 the tall, gaunt form of the miner, Hfe had recognized 
 his partner's voice and had come thus far to hear his 
 sentence. 
 
 They lifted him quickly back to bed and did all in 
 their power to calm him; but the mind, weakened 
 before, was hurled from its throne by the shock, and 
 his ravings were more those of a maniac than simply 
 of one delirious. 
 
 "Fire th' blast, Hugh! Thar! watch out. Fill, 
 now, an' I'll fer the win'lass. Wind an' wind an' 
 wind. Hell ! this 's too slow ; they '11 starve 'fore we 
 strike it. Hit hard, man, harder." Then, as if the 
 child's voice had spoken it instead of his OAvn, " Papa 
 will pick hard ; Rosie shall hev 'em ; papa will pick I 
 j)ick ! pick !" And the energy of fast-approaching 
 death struck the words out like sparks from an 
 anvil. 
 
 Every little while he half rose, steadied himself, and 
 stared around; now giving orders about the mine, 
 
THE MINER AND HIS MINE. 175 
 
 now fighting back the creditors who were choking him, 
 and now assuring Ehzabeth she would have to wait 
 but a little longer, a very little longer. So it lasted 
 till he was worn out. The eyes were growing fixed, 
 and the hoarse rattling in the throat told that the end 
 was very near. 
 
 With the approach of death the clouded reason 
 cleared for a space, and with eager, hungry eyes he 
 gazed up into the loved faces around him. What 
 visions of the past, what sufferings, what joys, what 
 hopes, and what despair were crowded into that brief 
 moment of intelligence the all-seeing One alone could 
 tell; but, fortunately, consciousness was short; the 
 mind was adrift again and oblivious to everything. 
 
 There was a pause; the spirit was wrestling with the 
 darkness and struggling to regain the voice that would 
 not come. He wished to say something, for his eyes 
 turned towards the child beside him. The words were 
 shaped upon his lips, but no sound followed. At 
 length, with a fierce effort, he raised himself, and bend- 
 ing over, he whispered huskily into her ear, — 
 
 "Papa can't pick, Rosie; papa can't pick. It's 
 pinched out, — pinched out, — pinched out." With 
 each word the head drooped lower; as the last 
 "pinched out" trembled from his lips it sank, and 
 on the same pillow, side by side, the father and the 
 child both slept, — but one would never wake again. 
 
CHAPTER XXL 
 
 WHICH ? 
 
 , Next morning there passed, in accordance with 
 that beautiful custom that prevails In mining towns, 
 a messenger bearing from house to house notices of 
 the death of John Howard. 
 
 Later, deputations from the Miners' Union, Knights 
 of Labor, and other orders held -coui^il and made 
 arrangements for the funeral. Some of these organi- 
 zations claimed him as a member, others honored him 
 as one of the camp's pioneers, a citizen more respected 
 as more known, and a representative miner. 
 
 On the third day, the delegates met at their various 
 halls and proceeded to the cottage, to accompany the 
 body of their comrade to its final resting-place. When 
 the bereaved family had taken their last look and bid- 
 den their tearful farewells, the coffin was sealed and 
 resigned to the committee appointed to conduct the 
 funeral. The various orders formed again in place, 
 the pall-bearers took their station beside the hearse, 
 the band began its melancholy dirge, and slowly, 
 with uncovered heads, the procession took up its line 
 of march. 
 176 
 
WHICHf 177 
 
 It was an earnest body of mourners, this, that 
 wended its way down the hill-side. Death seems a 
 presence more near and more real in such a commu- 
 nity than elsewhere, for each hour it comes without 
 warning, in some form of accident or violence. Every 
 man stands ready, knowing not what moment may 
 bring his summons, or in what guise the destroyer 
 may visit him. It was, therefore, with hearts full of 
 reverence that these rough, honest men followed their 
 fellow-miner. 
 
 They marched slowly down through the main thor- 
 oughfare, and as they appeared, suddenly the uproar 
 was hushed; not a sound was heard but the minor 
 wail of the music The man with the dice-box held 
 it in his hand unshaken, the reveller with his glass 
 upmised set it down untasted. Outside, every head 
 was lowered ; even the little Arab pulled off his relic 
 of a cap and stood head-bare in respect. 
 
 Below, a rope had been stretched from roof to roof 
 across the street, and an impatient crowd was clamor- 
 ing for the athlete. He stepped to the railing and 
 ventured one foot upon the rope, but glancing up, 
 he beheld the long file and withdrew it again. The 
 crowd too caught the echo of the music, and quietly 
 dividing, pressed back along the sidewalk. Then 
 patiently, with bowed heads, they waited the coming 
 of the funeral. As the procession passed and slowly 
 
178 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 wound its way down and down the slope, they still 
 stood, nor did they break the silence until the last 
 turning hid the column from their sight. 
 
 Past the creek, on across the valley, moved the 
 dark line. At last they reached the cemetery and 
 stood by the newly-made grave. Here they rested 
 the coffin tenderly, and all gathered about it. 
 
 The simple service for the dead was read, a few 
 honest words of praise were spoken, — plain words to 
 hearts that responded truly, — the coffin was lowered, 
 and John Howard was consigned to his earthly 
 rest. 
 
 They waited a few minutes, standing about a short 
 distance off, that the relatives and nearer friends might 
 have a little time to linger by the grave. Then 
 they formed in place again and returned to the 
 camp. 
 
 As they reached the street corner Ellen whispered 
 to Jerold, — 
 
 " Take Elizabeth home to mother's. I will go up 
 to the house and bring the children by and by. 
 They must all be with us till the newness of this 
 grief is spent." Leaving them, she turned aside and 
 took the path again to the cottage. 
 
 Slowly, oh I so slowly, now that she was apart, 
 Ellen picked her way up the hill. In her lieart 
 was a struggle, and who can tell its misery ? What 
 
WHICH f 179 
 
 should she do? What could she do ? Elizabeth was 
 alone now with Rose and the baby, and another so 
 soon to be added ; with debts and no means of pay- 
 ing them; with a future full of nothing but priva- 
 tion and suffering. Could she look into the pinched, 
 patient face and bid her go back to her cottage, to 
 the want that must be her portion ? For what refuge 
 was left ? 
 
 And she, Ellen, that in two days more would be 
 a bride, could she bear her life of comfort and know 
 of her sister's condition? And yet, and yet, after 
 her own years of waiting, her joy and her brief 
 sweet happiness, could she put it all from her and 
 take up her cross again? She moaned aloud and 
 wrung her hands in her wretchedness. She passed 
 the house of the neighbor where the children had 
 been left during the funeral. There, in a corner, 
 sat Rosie with an old box-cover and a few peas, and 
 beside her the baby sucking a piece of meat that 
 had been given to keep him quiet. It was a picture 
 of loneliness, and the aunt's heart smote hard against 
 her bosom. She walked on and into the cottage 
 alone. 
 
 Everything was clean and orderly as usual. Here 
 was the polished stove, and there the shining tinware 
 and spotless kitchen-table. Here was the white smooth 
 bed on which the miner had given up his spirit, and 
 
180 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 there the extemporized couch on which the body had 
 rested. As Ellen went from room to room, she was 
 suddenly impressed by their barrenness. She had not 
 noticed before, when the immates filled up the meagre 
 space, what she noted now, that the house was almost 
 destitute of furniture. What had become of it? It 
 took no very deep thought to answer that question. 
 It had gone for the necessaries of life ; it had gone for 
 food. She gazed steadily, as if fastening the picture 
 on the memory. Then in a torrent of feeling, in which 
 pity and generosity, love and despair, waged terrible 
 conflict, she threw herself down beside the bed and 
 wrestled with her soul. All that was highest in her 
 called to a sacrifice, and all that was human appealed 
 to her to take that one short step and secure her own 
 happiness. 
 
 For a long time the crouching figure wrestled and 
 prayed, while tears like rain fell from her distracted 
 heart. The watches of the afternoon crept by, the 
 twilight deepened into dark, and still she did not 
 move. When at last she rose, her eyes shone with a 
 light that was not of earth, and the smile on her lips 
 was resolute though very sad. She clasped her hands 
 tightly across her breast, she raised her head, and 
 firmly, but in the faintest whisper, " I will choose the 
 nobler way : guard Thou the rest," she said, and, with- 
 out faltering or waiting to look back, she passed from 
 
WHICHf 181 
 
 the house, crossed to the neighbor's, got the children, 
 and hurried homeward. 
 
 The next evening in the journal appeared a para- 
 graph which created both wonder and comment. It 
 read as follows : 
 
 "The trustees take much pleasure in announcing 
 that they have again secured the services of Miss Ellen 
 Wayburn. She will resume her duties as teacher with 
 the beginning of the new year." 
 
 "What<jould it mean? What was it all about?" 
 Surmises were as many almost as questions, but to one 
 heart in Colusa it brought no surprise. 
 
 16 
 
CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 A HIGHER CALL. 
 
 It had been a long day to the Wayburn household, 
 that succeeding the funeral. Where but a short week 
 before the soft silk and laces of bridal rob«s had lain, 
 was now the heavy folds of mourning. Instinctively, 
 the inmates walked softly and talked low. Their 
 thoughts were full, and full not so much of the dead 
 as of the living. Each heart had the weight of its 
 own loss, and the heavier weight of Elizabeth's ; while 
 unspoken but just as real was the common grief over 
 Ellen. 
 
 Elizabeth had begged earnestly to be left to herself, 
 assuring them that some way she would provide for 
 her little ones. But Ellen only smiled that sad reso- 
 lute smile that seemed now her natural expression. 
 
 When she told her decision to Jerold he received it 
 almost angrily ; but in vain he tried to dissuade her, in 
 vain to reason, or plead, or remonstrate. " My duty is 
 first, Jerold, before even you," she said, and the tear- 
 less eyes closed that he might not see what the words 
 cost her. 
 182 
 
A HIOHER CALL. 183 
 
 " I suppose I must bear it," he answered, and noth- 
 ing more. 
 
 The day had been a weary one truly, and the fanaily 
 had withdrawn early to rest, — all but two. In the 
 shadow of the door-way sat Ellen and Elizabeth, each 
 with her own un uttered sorrow. 
 
 As they sat, they discerned through the dusk, close 
 before them, a man. He came up to the door and, 
 perceiving some one, paused. 
 
 "Good-evening, Robert,^' said Elizabeth, rising 
 quietly. " You're kind to come to us." 
 
 " I'd have come right soon, Mrs. Howard, if any 
 word of mine could a comforted you." 
 
 " No, words can't comfort much," she said, drearily. 
 " Still, people's kind to want to comfort." 
 
 " I thought mebbe if I couldn't say nothin' I might 
 p'raps be of some help some other way." 
 
 " No, no, thank ye," she answered, quickly, with 
 that sensitiveness of the unfortunate. "We ain't 
 needin'^ no help." 
 
 " Me an' John was old friends, Mrs. Howard, very 
 old friends." 
 
 " Yes, I know it, Robert ; but we've enough. We 
 don't need no helpin'." The poor woman shrank bagk, 
 and a pained, humiliated look flitted across her face. 
 
 He hesitated a moment, then remarked, " I come up 
 t' see Ellen on some business ; is she in ?" 
 
184 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 Ellen arose from her seat, which had been concealed 
 by the shadow, and came forward. " She'll go in," she 
 answered, simply ; and, leading the way into the long, 
 low parlor, she lit the lamp and stood waiting. 
 
 " IVe got a good deal to say to you. It takes time 
 to say it all out straight, so I guess you'd better take 
 it easy an' sit down," he remarked, quietly. 
 
 " I forgot to sit down," she said, absently. " Excuse 
 me." 
 
 He looked at her searchingly, as if settling some 
 conjecture in his own mind. He seemed convinced, 
 for without remark he came to the purpose of his visit. 
 
 "I hear you're goin' back to teachin'. Is it a 
 fact?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I thought you'd gave it up for good ?" 
 
 "So I had, but I decided to take to it again." 
 
 "Ain't it a ruther sudden move?" 
 
 "No. I don't generally take such steps without 
 reflection," she answered, smiling faintly. 
 
 " Reflectin' ! Yes, on ev'rybody's needs but your 
 own." 
 
 " I am the best judge of my own needs," she an- 
 swered, coldly. 
 
 "Ellen!" The voice was a little hesitant. "I 
 didn't come to hurt you. I wouldn't hurt you. You 
 must know that." 
 
A HIGHER CALL. 185 
 
 " Forgive me, Robert !" slie said penitently, realizing 
 from his voice how much she had wounded him. "I 
 don't seem just myself to-night. It's my own choice 
 this taking up my work again. What I feel and 
 know is the only worthy thing to do, and of that 
 choice no one can judge but myself.'' 
 
 "How did you chance to find out it was the only 
 worthy thing?" 
 
 "Chance?" she repeated after him, and her voice 
 betrayed that she in turn was stung by the doubt his 
 question implied. " Robert, there are times when the 
 right is obscured to us, but there are times when it is 
 made plain and authoritative, when it stands out high 
 above cavil, or reason, or doubt ; a fact not to be ques- 
 tioned, a power not to be denied. We must choose it 
 then at whatever cost. It is not that the mind is un- 
 certain," she said, slowly ; " the mind knows but too 
 truly ; it is the heart, the weak, selfish heart, that I 
 fear to trust." 
 
 "And why the heart?" 
 
 " Why ? — you ask it, — why ? I should hurl prin- 
 ciple from me, and conscience and right, — what are 
 they to me, — what but misery? — ^and be happy." 
 With nervous haste she paced the floor. 
 
 For some time neither spoke. In her heart was the 
 old tumult, and in his — who knows? His jaws were 
 tight-set and his lips were parched and hot. 
 
 16* 
 
186 -4 BLIND LEAD. 
 
 " Your heart speaks the truth, Ellen," he said, with 
 effort. "Life ain^t nothin' without happiness. No 
 one's a right to call you away from it." 
 
 She turned on him almost fiercely. " What do you 
 know about right?" 
 
 " Nothin^ almost, nothin'. But I say again no one 
 should be stripped of his happiness." 
 
 " I was happy, so happy ! The days were all sun- 
 shine, and the nights all song. To-morrow it would 
 have been mine forever, forever." She was speaking 
 to herself now, not to him, and only an occasional 
 tightening of his mouth betrayed how deep her words 
 were cutting. 
 
 "How beautiful life seemed!" she went on in a 
 dreamy tone. " How I hailed the morning and the 
 gladness of the light ! How all nature was vocal to me, 
 and even the desolation around bloomed like para- 
 dise ! How " 
 
 " Yes, Ellen !" His voice was harsh and strained. 
 "Yes!" 
 
 She turned to him in the reaction of her thought, 
 and her reproach was heedless of consequences. 
 
 "Why did you come to me?" she cried, bitterly. 
 "Why did you betray me into thinking again upon 
 what I had given up, upon what must never 
 be?" 
 
 "It shall be," he said. 
 
A HIGHER CALL. 187 
 
 "It cannot be; we are both beside ourselves to- 
 night, and we had better keep to the practical/' 
 
 She laughed, a faint hysterical laugh, and me- 
 chanically straightened some books that lay awry 
 upon the table. 
 
 " Yes, it was to speak of the practical I came up 
 here," he said, quietly. 
 
 She paused waiting for him to explain, but for a 
 moment he was silent. He hardly knew now how he 
 had better express himself. He ventured, however, 
 upon the thought uppermost in his mind. 
 
 " Ellen, your health is failin', an' it's unjust to your- 
 self that you'd try to stand in the breach any longer. 
 You need to give up workin' an' take a long rest if 
 you're goin' to get back yer strength." 
 
 She turned her head away and her lips trembled 
 slightly as she answered, — 
 
 " I cannot, Robert ; truly, I cannot." 
 
 "And why?" 
 
 She hesitated and did not speak. 
 
 " And why ?" he repeated. 
 
 " Simply that I cannot." 
 
 " Ellen, I know it all. Magee told it, every word. 
 You've got nothin' to hide from me, child," he said, 
 tenderly. 
 
 She looked squarely at him. 
 
 " Then you know that I cannot." 
 
188 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 " That oughtn't and it sha'n't stop your marryin'/' 
 
 "And how not?" 
 
 "Because, Ellen, the pervidin' for John Howard's 
 family I'll do myself." 
 
 She stared into his face a moment, then the great 
 tears welled up into her eyes, her bosom heaved, and 
 the hand she extended to him was unsteady with her 
 feeling. 
 
 "You are very noble, Robert," was all that she 
 could say. 
 
 " Then you will let me ?" 
 
 She did not answer him, but, locking her hands 
 together, she paced the floor again. All the desires of 
 her soul rose in petition. Here was freedom. The 
 need of the family was met. What further claim was 
 there? For a time her heart throbbed with its old 
 delicious ecstasy. He saw the struggle she was going 
 through and sought to tip the balance by persuasion. 
 
 "What's the money to me? I'm givin' ten times 
 that ev'ry day to others; why shouldn't I give to 
 my old friend's wife? She won't know it," he con- 
 tinued, as if quieting another doubt. " I'll fix it so's 
 there won't be no charity about it. I'm above that 
 anyhow, an' I'll do for her better'n you could, Ellen, 
 much better'n you could." 
 
 Every tone sank into the listener's ear like a 
 strain of delicious music. The call of the tempter 
 
A, HIGHER CALL. I39 
 
 was in the words, and ah ! the magic of his seduc- 
 tive voice. Her heart leaped to its release. The 
 old rapture came surging back, and as in a delirum 
 she lived over the days of her short happiness. In 
 the impulse of renewed life she took one quick step 
 forward, and, standing close beside her deliverer, she 
 extended her hand to accept his ransom, when sud- 
 denly before her eyes flashed the picture of Elizabeth 
 as she had shrunk from this man's hinted assistance. 
 Could she purchase her own happiness at the price 
 of deception? Could she accept for Elizabeth by 
 stealth what the honest woman would scorn to take 
 openly? Could she betray her sister by committing 
 her to the bounty of her own rejectee] lover? 
 
 She stopped, she stood ; slowly her hands fell, and 
 she moaned, — 
 
 " I cannot ! I cannot !" 
 
 " What is it, Ellen ?" asked Robert in dismay, but 
 she did not heed him. Her eyes were raised and her 
 lips moved, but the sound was inaudible. As she 
 stood there, slowly the feverish glow left her cheeks ; 
 her lip quivered slightly like the lip of a little child. 
 Then into the upraised face there came gradually a 
 beautiful expression he had never seen before. Her 
 eyes grew calm and trusting, her mouth restful, and 
 over all there brooded a sadness and a peace that were 
 born of a conquered spirit. 
 
190 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 Robert watched her in amazement. 
 
 "Ellen," he gasped, "you're clean, out of your 
 mind." 
 
 She turned to him and answered, gently, — 
 
 " No, Robert, I'm in ray mind now. IVe just re- 
 covered it." 
 
 " Then if you have, I hope you're willin' to listen to 
 reason, an' let me have my way." 
 
 "My friend, I thank you sincerely, but I am 
 pledged to ray work," she said, firmly. 
 
 " An' you won't let me free you ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 For a moment he was dumb with surprise and dis- 
 appointment. In all the forms that her objections 
 might take, as he had pondered them, this one he had 
 never counted, that she should feel bound to the work 
 as a duty, and he was silenced. 
 
 As he looked at her sitting there, colorless, frail 
 yet strong, noble and self-sacrificing, all his thoughts 
 rushed into the one supreme desire of saving her from 
 a destiny that seemed so unjust. In a burst of pas- 
 sionate appeal he broke forth, — 
 
 " Do you know, woman, what you are putting away ? 
 Think of how you love him, how sweet it 'ud be 
 married, you and him, bein' always with each other, 
 
 an' the joy an' the comfort of home, an' — an' " 
 
 But a low muffled sound like a sob choked his speech. 
 
A HIGHER CALL. 191 
 
 " Oh, Robert ! How selfish I have been ! Do for- 
 give me, I entreat you. How wickedly cruel I have 
 been !" She reached her hand to him in the return of 
 sympathy, but he waved it firmly away. 
 
 " Don't; you mind my feelings," he said, striving to 
 keep back his emotions. " Them don't matter much ; 
 but you,'' he added, with his old rigidity, "you can 
 have love an' hope an' home. 'Tain't right you'd give 
 'em up. 'Tain't right." 
 
 "You have borne your destiny," she answered, 
 gently ; " surely mine is lighter than yours, for 1 am 
 loved, and always shall be." 
 
 "I hope so," — he spoke in such earnestness she 
 looked at him in wonder, — " for your happiness is price- 
 less to me, an' I come up here to-night to give you back 
 to his arms, though I tore my own heart out to do it. 
 Ellen," he said, turning to her and speaking in a 
 voice firm and deep, "I'm a man. I can read men 
 and you can't. I can jedge men an' you can't. I can 
 see changes that you can't. Now I warn you. Marry 
 Jerold Bray, an' marry him now, for ef ever my cross 
 ud be laid on your shoulders it ud crush you, — do you 
 hear? — crush an' kill you." But her mind was far 
 away, renewing its strength, and the words flitted across 
 her brain as in a dream. 
 
 " No, Robert. It must not be. It is all clear to me 
 again." 
 
192 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 "Ellen!" 
 
 " It is useless ; do not try to move me. We must 
 both bear patiently, for victory waits upon the patient." 
 
 She leaned her head against the cushion of the 
 chair ; her large clear eyes looked fixedly ahead, and 
 in them was the light of a quiet content. 
 
 Meekly, reverently, as in the presence of a higher 
 being, the young man sat. Something within him 
 awoke, strangely responsive to her words. A dim re- 
 flection of another hope seemed to steal into his heart. 
 He longed to speak, but seeing the pure face before 
 him, he forbore. Softly, without disturbing her, he 
 departed. And presently, when Ellen rose and glanced 
 about, she was alone. 
 
CHAPTER XXIIL 
 
 THREE YEAES AFTER. 
 
 Three years had passed over Colusa, and time had 
 brought with it many changes. The camp was having 
 a boom ; people were flocking to it by hundreds, ad- 
 venturers from every country, to try their chances in 
 its destiny. The small mounds, looking in the distance 
 like gopher-hills, that marked the path of the pros- 
 pector, now dotted all the slopes. Prospects had 
 become productive mines, and new leads and strikes 
 were reported from every direction. 
 
 In the camp three big smelters had been erected and 
 several large mills for strong companies were at work ; 
 foreign capital was pouring in and properties were being 
 opened up. Money was plenty and times were good. 
 
 In the street, the bustle and confusion was redoubled. 
 Everywhere were groups of men excitedly discussing 
 some new find, or canvassing the possibilities of some 
 new district. Speculation was transj^rently the order 
 of the day, since every one who owned a dollar or 
 could raise such was staking it in one of the hun- 
 dred new ventures, which, however unlikely, found 
 I n 17 193 
 
194 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 investors, for chance was the enthroned divinity of the 
 place. 
 
 The one business street had grown now to three. 
 The primitive log house of the early miner had in 
 many cases been disguised by a pretentious front, and 
 was doing duty as a grocery or a saloon, for the camp 
 was aspiring to the dignity of a city. 
 
 A new opera-house was one of the latest additions, 
 and it had been built on a scale of elegance that would 
 have graced a town of twice the size. The best artists 
 stopped over now to reap their harvests here, for Colusa 
 was no longer a place to be ignored ; its position was 
 sure; its claims vindicated. 
 
 And the prices kept pace with the prosperity. 
 Business rents advanced to incredible figures, and 
 quarters for the multitude pouring in were scarcely 
 to be had at all. Boom was stamped in plainest let- 
 ters on every enterprise, on every structure ; and boom 
 was stamped with equal plainness in the faces of the 
 people. 
 
 Yet back from the din and the strife lay the same 
 quiet homes, orderly, pure, peaceful, — homes that held 
 high the banner of morality, to give the lie to that 
 which flaunted in the public street; homes in whose 
 sacred bosom, harmony and rest set their contrast to 
 the turmoil without. 
 
 Into these had come but little change. They were 
 
THREE YEARS AFTER. 195 
 
 owned mostly by the older citizens of the camp, 
 men who had lived out their day of venturing into 
 wild schemes, who had found some reasonable invest- 
 ment, mercantile or mining, and stuck to it. Home 
 is to man the antidote for business; the greater the 
 excitement of the one the more cherished the quiet of 
 the other, and perhaps nowhere were the hearths more 
 truly domestic than among the better classes of this 
 very mining-camp. • 
 
 To the Wayburns the intervening years had brought 
 little change. They were not directly engaged along 
 any line of the camp's growth, and so were not in the 
 course of events. To Sarah, however, in the capacity 
 of storekeeper, had come her share in the general pros- 
 perity. Not in vain had she applied herself and smiled 
 from behind the show-case. Where before had stood 
 the musty, dusty shop of old James Wayburn, was now 
 one of the most artistic and attractive little stores in 
 the camp. So much had her skill achieved, that while 
 under the old regime seldom a dollar could be with- 
 drawn to meet the family needs, for the past six 
 months the entire expenses of shop and home had 
 been met from its profits. 
 
 As soon as the business proved equal to the strain 
 Marcia had resigned her school, and was now a quiet 
 little matron in charge of her own small domicile. 
 
 As for the rest, Elizabeth still kept her simple 
 
196 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 cottage on the hill, and Ellen still taught the sturdy 
 children of the miners. But though the years had left 
 the family in outward circumstances so nearly as it 
 found them, changes had crept silently in, changes 
 unknown, perhaps, or unacknowledged, but none the 
 less real and lasting. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 A PARTY. 
 
 Up the hill, where so often before we have followed 
 them, were climbing again Ellen and Jerold Bray. 
 
 Ellen, with her natural reserve, and the added 
 duties of the years, had gradually drifted away from 
 social life, till now she seldom found leisure or inclina- 
 tion for visits outside her own family. When, through 
 the long evenings, or on Sunday afternoons, Jerold 
 proposed going somewhere, the answer naturally came 
 to be,*^* Let us go up to Elizabeth^s." This visit was, 
 however, also one of business. As they reached the 
 door, Jerold knocked and they entered. 
 
 The house was altered some since we last saw it. 
 It had an air of sufficiency and comfort now. Indeed, 
 there was almost a suggestion of luxury in the d-ish of 
 tempting fruit which Elizabeth had set out in anticipa- 
 tion of their coming. 
 
 Elizabeth herself was there, dressed plainly but 
 neatly in black, and appearing like her house, more 
 healthful and prosperous. 
 
 "IVe looked up the matter of the lease," Jerold 
 17* 197 
 
198 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 observed, as he crossed the room and seated him- 
 self. 
 
 " Yes ! What d ^e find V* asked Elizabeth. 
 
 " The fellows seem all right, — ^poor, of course, but 
 sober and industrious. Tliey're new-comers; been 
 down prospecting in Arizona, but the Apaches made it 
 rather lively, so they got out and came up here." 
 
 " What makes 'em want to try the Elm Orlu V 
 
 " Well, you see, two of the mines down the hill have 
 dropped into a pretty good thing lately, and as a con- 
 sequence the sanguine see ore everywhere for a mile 
 around. You know how it is with these late arrivals ; 
 they think they've located the camp, and can tell you 
 more of the lay of the leads and the right way of 
 opening them than the oldest miner." 
 
 " An' ye think I'd best let 'em hev it ?" 
 
 " I don't see what harm can come of it. Not that 
 I expect any good will come of it; I wouldn't count 
 on that." 
 
 " Don't fear, Jerry ; my days uv stakin' on a mine's 
 past. Ef I'd never heerd tell uv a mine I'd a bed my 
 John alive to-day." 
 
 She rested her head upon her hand a moment and 
 glanced in the direction of the window, as though her 
 sight by some mysterious attraction was drawn through 
 blinds and deepening dusk to the lonely precincts of 
 the valley. 
 
A PA RTF. 199 
 
 " Perhaps yoa might and perhaps you mightn't ; no 
 one can tell. It doesn't do any good to think of such 
 things," he answered, coldly. 
 
 Elizabeth looked at him with her dull pathetic eyes, 
 but made no comment. 
 
 " I don't see why you mightn't as well give them a 
 lease," he remarked, after a pause. " You'll never do 
 anything with the claim yourself." 
 
 " Thet's mighty cert'n," she said, emphatically. 
 
 "These fellows are enthusiastic and bound to dig 
 somewhere, so I suppose they might as well burn up 
 a little of their powder on this claim as anywhere." 
 
 " Poor men I" said Elizabeth, with pity. 
 
 " Poor men, indeed I Poor foolish men !" echoed 
 Ellen. 
 
 " Poor nonsense !" said Jerold, with contempt. 
 "I'm getting tired wasting sympathy on men who 
 will stick to mining in the face of experience and 
 figures. Statistics show that about one in eight hun- 
 dred strikes it rich in a mine ; yet every man rushing 
 in here expects to be that eight hundredth. Such self- 
 delusion is beyond the range of sympathy." 
 
 " Thet's why I pity 'em so much," said Elizabeth ; 
 "ther chances 's so slim. Do them men know 'bout 
 the Eucher ?" she asked, timidly, of Jerold. 
 
 " Know it ! Woman alive ! Of course they do. 
 Everybody in the camp knows that." He checked 
 
200 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 the smile at her simplicity, and she hung her head and 
 was silent. 
 
 "I thought mebbe, p'rhaps," she said, at last, 
 "they'd be discour'ged from tryin' ef they knowed 
 our 'sper'ence." 
 
 "A leaser discouraged by another man's failure!" 
 And he laughed loudly at the idea. "Why, other 
 men's failures are the basis of his hope. If they had 
 succeeded the ore wouldn't be left for him, would it? 
 while now it lies waiting only his coming. Besides, 
 the Eucher experiment narrows down the possible lines 
 in which the lead can lie; that increases the chances 
 for these fellows by just so much. Oh, there's no 
 discouraging a leaser." 
 
 " I'm sorry," she answered, " sorry to see any man 
 stake a hope on what's got so little show; an' sorry 
 fer any woman thet's got to live th' life uv waitin' an' 
 worryin' I did." 
 
 '* You can set your mind easy about the woman," 
 said Jerold, "for they are all bachelors. Most pro- 
 spectors are too wise to load themselves up with a 
 wife; you can't shoulder her, like your pick, for a 
 trip of a few hundred miles into the mountains. I 
 tell you in these mining countries most women are an 
 incumbrance." 
 
 " And Heaven deliver us all," struck in Ellen, 
 "from a country where women are an incumbrance." 
 
A PARTY, 201 
 
 Jerold laughed, the old hearty, boyish laugh. It soft- 
 ened the cynical curve that had begun to linger in the 
 corners of his faultless mouth, and restored the frank, 
 genial nature that had surreptitiously made its way 
 into the heart of every man and woman in the camp. 
 
 " I'll declare, Ellen, I didn't know you had so much 
 fire left in you," he said, gayly, but she only smiled in 
 reply. 
 
 " I had the lease drawn up," he remarked, turning 
 to Elizabeth, " when I found the men were all right. 
 You may as well sign it. IVe given the usual terms, 
 — one-quarter to you, — ^and left the time short, — six 
 months. Is it satisfactory?" 
 
 " Yes, ef you say it's right. I don't know nothin' 
 'bout sech thin's." 
 
 He spread the document on the table before her. 
 
 " You sign here, and Ellen and I will witness." 
 
 She signed as directed ; Ellen and Jerold beneath 
 her ; then the latter folded and returned the paper to 
 his pocket. 
 
 " Now for the babies !" he cried out. 
 
 It was time. At regular intervals the kitchen-door 
 had opened softly, and through the crack a pair of 
 bright eyes had peeped and a little voice pleaded, 
 " Please now, mamma ?" but mamma was not yet 
 done with the business ; so lingeringly the door had 
 closed again. "" 
 
202 ^ ^LIND LEAD. 
 
 Now, however, it was flung wide open, and Rose 
 and Jerry, a sturdy boy of four and a half, came 
 bounding in, while after them toddled the baby whose 
 face its father had never seen. They piled upon Jerold, 
 drew him down on the floor, and for an hour, while 
 the sisters were visiting in the kitchen, they rolled and 
 tumbled about the sitting-room, making such a racket 
 as only four active noisy children can make. I say 
 four, for Jerold was as much of a child in the frolic 
 as either of the other three ; more, if the capacity for 
 making a noise was a measure. Jerold was every- 
 where the beloved of childhood ; the little ones looked 
 upon him as their special possession, and hailed his 
 coming as the promise of a good time. 
 
 When, at last, they were all tired out with their 
 romp and the children were sitting about on the floor 
 panting after their exertions, Jerold arose, and looked 
 at his watch. 
 
 " Why, it's nearly nine o'clock. Ellen !" he called 
 out, "are you going to stay all night? I promised to 
 take the lease to those fellows, and I've got to be 
 stirring.'' 
 
 She came back into the sitting-room without Eliza- 
 beth. 
 
 " I think I will stay awhile yet, Jerold," she said, 
 in a low voice. "The evenings are so long to Eliza- 
 beth alone.' The June nights, too, recall John to her 
 
A PARTY. 203 
 
 mind, and she frets. You go along with the lease, and 
 I'll come back by myself." 
 
 " Won't you be afraid down the dark hill ?" 
 
 She laughed lightly. "I'm pretty old to be afraid 
 of the dark. Now if you had said ghosts, I might 
 have hesitated.'-* 
 
 "It isn't just the right thing, but, if you're not 
 afraid, I guess I'd better go, for they will be waiting." 
 He bade her good-by and hurried off. 
 
 Partway down the hill he met one of the men, and 
 delivered the lease. It was still only a little after 
 nine. He paused, therefore, thinking he would go 
 back and wait for Ellen, but suddenly he recalled a 
 little party to which he had been invited that night ; 
 and, upon second thought, he hurried home, dressed, 
 and went there instead. 
 
 The house looked very attractive to Jerold as he 
 ascended the steps and walked in at the open door. 
 The rooms were all thrown together; the place was 
 ablaze with light, and everywhere were gayly-dressed 
 ladies and their cavaliers. If sometimes the attire 
 impressed him as a little gaudy or the manners a trifle 
 provincial, it was more than redeemed in the general 
 heartiness. Welcome and hospitality beamed from 
 the countenances of host and hostess and true good 
 will from those of the company. Jerold recalled the 
 
204 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 polished hypocrisy of the fashionable circles he had 
 known, and the sincerity affected him pleasantly. 
 
 Dancing was the entertainment provided, but the 
 musicians had not yet arrived, so games had been 
 substituted as preliminaries, and when the young man 
 arrived every one was engaged in them*. 
 
 In one large parlor sat the older people, distributed 
 about tables and engrossed in that standard diversion 
 of a camp, — cards. In another had gathered all the 
 younger guests, and a merry company they formed too. 
 Here the festivity was at its height. They were play- 
 ing at that primitive but always amusing game "For- 
 feits," and a lady stood in the middle of the room 
 with her hands full of trifles. 
 
 " Here, I'll take them, Ada," called out Jerold from 
 the door-way. 
 
 " Yes ! yes ! Jerry ! Jerry I" was echoed on all sides. 
 In an instant he was blindfolded and set in the midst, 
 and Ada proceeded to hold the forfeits one by one over 
 his head, while he sat in judgment upon the luckless 
 owner and pronounced sentence. 
 
 Jerold was at his merriest, ready, careless, frolicsome. 
 He was always fertile in resource, but to-night he 
 seemed unusually happy in his inventions, for the situ- 
 ations and exploits to which he doomed his victims 
 kept the company in convulsions of laughter. The 
 unfortunates groaned and pleaded for mercy, but he 
 
A PARTY. 205 
 
 was inexorable ; and the rest upheld him in his most 
 absurd penalties. 
 
 They had reached the last of the forfeits and were 
 about at the end of the sport, when one who had suf- 
 fered the most keenly at his wit and had unwillingly 
 furnished the most ridiculous spectacle of the evening, 
 called out, — 
 
 "Make him give a forfeit himself. It's our turn 
 now." 
 
 " No ! no !" he insisted, striking out wildly in front 
 to ward off any attack. But Ada slyly unbuckled his 
 necktie at the back and pulled. It was secured in 
 front, however, and before she could unfasten it he had 
 torn the bandage from his eyes and caught in his both 
 the hands that were encircling his neck. She struggled 
 still at the necktie, but firm and close her arms were 
 pinioned, and she was powerless. 
 
 A man passing along the street at this moment glanced 
 in through the open window ; his eyes swept leisurely 
 over the company, but in an instant were riveted upon 
 the couple in the centre. Like the balls of a tiger his 
 eyes gleamed a moment, then his fists clinched; he 
 leaped forward, and, placing his hand upon the sill, 
 he stooped to clear it at a bound, but as suddenly he 
 paused; his hand left the sill again, and slowly he 
 turned and walked away. 
 
 . A little later, as full of his thoughts he strode along, 
 18 
 
206 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 he saw the figure of a woman coming quietly down the 
 hill-side. He stepped into the shadow that she might 
 not see him, for he shrank from the sight of his kind 
 to-night and wished for solitude. 
 
 ' As she came quickly along, she passed so close her 
 sleeve touched him where he stood. He glanced into 
 her face and started, but he did not speak or address 
 her. Silently, at a distance, he followed after, keeping 
 her always in sight. Thus they walked on to the out- 
 skirts of the camp, nor did he leave her till she had 
 passed through the gate and the closing of the door 
 told him she was at home and safe. 
 
CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 A GREAT DAY. 
 
 Perhaps the greatest change that could be charged 
 against the intervening years had come in the life of 
 old James Wayburn. His repeated sins in diverting 
 money to foreign uses, and his innocent but fatal in- 
 terferences in his daughter's sales, had at last brought 
 about a serious encounter with that choleric young 
 lady, in which the result was not altogether favorable 
 to the ex-proprietor. Little by little the entire man- 
 agement was usurped by the adroit Sarah, and the old 
 gentleman was deprived of even the poor privilege 
 of playing at storekeeping. 
 
 This bore upon him the harder in that it shut him 
 off from all chance for indulging his little hobby, so 
 gradually he withdrew entirely from the place that 
 seemed his own no longer, and, in the absolute hunger 
 for a speculation, took to unearthing the long-buried 
 treasures of the barn-loft. But barter was very stag- 
 nant in the camp. It was taking on the methods as 
 well as the airs of a city. 
 
 One day an idea seemed to come to the old man. 
 
 207 
 
208 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 He paced excitedly up and down the yard and mum- 
 bled ; he leaned against the house and figured ; then 
 smiled, looked mysterious, and walked again. As a 
 hen over her eggs he brooded many days over his idea, 
 and at last it was ushered into active existence. 
 
 One Monday morning he put on his oldest suit of 
 clothes, tossed aside his hat as a superfluity, asked his 
 wife for the loan of her rag-bag, locked himself into 
 the barn, and was invisible till noon. What was on 
 the tapis no one ventured to ask. When his wife re- 
 monstrated gently upon the awful condition in which 
 he presented himself at dinner, he looked so injured 
 the family knew this was another of his many schemes, 
 and forbore questioning. 
 
 Throughout the afternoon he was lost to sight again ; 
 but sounds of pulling, hammering, and rubbing led 
 them to suspect that James Wayburn was house-clean- 
 ing. The next day and the next the old man continued 
 in his solitude, and so for a week. 
 
 By that time his clothes were so tattered and be- 
 grimed and his whole appearance so woe-begone, that 
 he might have passed for the commonest tramp in the 
 country. His enthusiasm, however, never left him. 
 All through the week his thin voice came through the 
 chinks of the barn piping some melody of other days. 
 At meal-time he kept winking knowingly, as if to give 
 a sly hint of the secret he had to himself, and smiling 
 
A GREAT DAK 209 
 
 in anticipation of the treat he had prepared. In spite 
 of the dirt and dilapidation he was happy. 
 
 At last, one morning, he walked down-street and 
 returned with a truck. The horses stopped at the 
 barn-door, and two stout men began to load up. Such 
 a collection ! The small boys from the whole camp 
 were gathered to watch and wonder. The loaded 
 truck drove away, but returned presently and loaded 
 up again ; so it continued all day, and when evening 
 came the barn was empty. 
 
 That night James Wayburn doffed the remnants of 
 his old clothes, and in the morning he appeared at 
 breakfast in his holiday best, with shining boots, smooth 
 hair, and a white necktie. 
 
 He hurried away from the table without a word, 
 and went off smiling and muttering to himself, — 
 
 " What an old dolt not to think of it before I My 
 mind must be getting weakish. The camp's full of 
 men, and they '11 go off like hot cakes. It '11 be fine 
 to see other folks bidding on my traps for once; IVe 
 bid on theirs times enough. Mercy ! how the long fast 
 has whetted up my appetite ! I'll have a day of it this 
 time." So he talked along till he came to Rogers's 
 auction-house. 
 
 Here a great red flag was suspended over the middle 
 of the street, and the incessant ringing of a cracked bell 
 told the public that a special auctipn was to be held, 
 o 18* 
 
210 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 The store was crowded already with people, mostly 
 loungers or miners ofif shift. And gradually the sight 
 of the crowd attracted others, till the men stood all 
 about the door and on the sidewalk. 
 
 Then the work commenced; and all day long the 
 hammer of the doughty Rogers was heard striking 
 away James Wayburn's treasures. The simple crea- 
 ture stood himself by the auctioneer, a veteran in the 
 midst of carnage. Ever in the height of the din his 
 voice could be heard urging them on. " Bid up, gen- 
 tlemen ! bid up ! Now's your chance. Secure a bar- 
 gain while you can." And the honest face of the old 
 man appeared a voucher for many an article that their 
 own five senses told them was worthless. Prices were 
 nothing. When there was no bid he turned to some 
 one in the audience, "Give me your knife, your 
 tobacco, anything for it." 
 
 He looked upon the affair as a sacrifice in his honor, 
 a holocaust in which he, James Wayburn, was devotee, 
 high-priest, and divinity all in one. What wonder if 
 he was beside himself with joy and excitement? 
 
 He did not go home for dinner, but paced majestic- 
 ally up and down the counter till the entertainment 
 was renewed. Then he took up his position beside the 
 auctioneer again, and continued his oflBces as assist- 
 ant. The interest and delight lasted all day. When 
 the closing hour arrived and the crowd was dispersing. 
 
A GREAT DA r. 211 
 
 the old man walked up to the auctioneer and said, 
 solemnly, " This has been the greatest day, Mr. Rogers, 
 the greatest day in my life." And the wily Rogers re- 
 sponded " Yes, indeed," as solemnly. 
 
 Late in the evening one load drove back to the 
 barn-door. That was what remained, that he could 
 neither sell, trade, nor give away. Shortly after, with 
 a face fairly radiant in its happiness, home walked old 
 James Wayburn. Standing squarely in the middle of 
 the sitting-room, he counted out slowly and laid in 
 heaps upon the table three twenties, four tens, eight 
 fives, seven ones, and some change. 
 
 "Mrs. Wayburn," he said, "didn't I tell you Pd 
 make money out of them things yet ? Well, there it 
 is." And as slowly, gathering it all back, he walked 
 into the little bedroom and retired. 
 
 That night the voices of the old couple were heard 
 for a long time in discussion, she coaxing and he pro- 
 testing. His tones, however, grew gradually more and 
 more amicable as hers more persuasive; and at last 
 they seemed to have come to an understanding. 
 
 In the morning the discussion was explained, for the 
 old mother whispered to Ellen, " He gave me a hun- 
 dred for Ada's graduatin', but I couldn' git the other 
 forty odd out of him no way." 
 
CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 The summer had come again, and announced itself 
 in one of those premature spells of intense heat that 
 sometimes occur in June. The past few days had been 
 fairly sultry, and Colusa, unsheltered by trees or 
 foliage of any kind, lay baking in the sun of early 
 afternoon. 
 
 At the Wayburn cottage the shades had been drawn 
 close to keep out the blinding glare, everywhere but 
 in the little sitting-room. The afternoon sun did not 
 shine here, and doors and windows were thrown wide 
 open to give free welcome to any chance breath of a 
 breeze that might be tempted to venture in. 
 
 At one of these open windows a familiar face ap- 
 peared, and a familiar voice called out, — 
 
 " Hello ! where's everybody ?" 
 
 " Everybody's gone to school ; that is, your every- 
 body," answered a mischievous voice from the sofa. 
 
 " And why hasn't somebody else's everybody like- 
 wise?" And Jerold Bray, following the impulse, 
 stepped over the window-sill and stood witliin. 
 212 
 
JEROLD'S DIVIDERS. 213 
 
 "What! you sick?" he inquired, perceiving that 
 Ada was lying down. 
 
 "No, I'm not sick; I despise invalids," she said, 
 straightening immediately. 
 
 " She's been quite sicjc, Jerry, yesterday an' th' one 
 afore ; an' I didn't think it right she'd be confined to 
 the school-room this hot weather," said the old mother. 
 
 " But I'm all well," pleaded Ada, pettishly. " Three 
 whole days lost, and so near commencement too." 
 
 "More's the reason you'd ought to rest. You'll 
 want all your strength for them last days. It's a 
 tryin' time, child." 
 
 "Oh, grandma! grandma! What a dear old un- 
 reasonable you are!" 
 
 " That's right, ma ; stick to it, and I'll help you," 
 said Jerold. 
 
 " What will you help her do ? Read me a lecture ? 
 Well, I'm ready." She gave the quick toss of her 
 head that was always her declaration of war. 
 
 Jerold did not wait for parleying, but beat a hasty 
 retreat across the room. 
 
 " A pretty welcome you give a fellow, don't you ?" 
 he said, looking at her sitting in threatening state upon 
 the sofa. 
 
 "You mustn't act so, Ada," remonstrated the 
 grandmother. 
 
 " Well, I guess he acts just as badly as I do." 
 
214 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 ** Yes ! yes ! Ye'r like two children ; jest flint an' 
 tinder to each other. Why can^t you agree and live 
 peaceful?*' sighed the grandmother. 
 
 Thus rebuked, Ada settled herself with rigid pro- 
 priety in the corner, and Jerold came over and seated 
 himself beside her so demurely that Mrs. Wayburn, 
 glancing up, was unable to restrain her laughter. 
 
 " You two '11 be the death of me yet,'' she said. 
 
 Whereupon the assumed decorum vanished and the 
 pair returned to their customary antics. 
 
 " I must be hurrying along," Jerold remarked, pres- 
 ently. " I've an appointment at the mill in an hour, 
 and I came up for the dividers that I loaned Ellen ; 
 do you know where they are, ma?" 
 
 "Yes; run, Ada, child; look in the top bureau- 
 drawer at the left-hand side." 
 
 Ada came back bringing them, and he hastened to 
 find a piece of paper and wrap them up. Then he 
 helped himself to a glass of water, straightened him- 
 self again, and prepared to go. 
 
 "I wonder, Ada, es you're seemin' so well, ef I 
 couldn't go up to Elizabeth's a bit," the grandmother 
 remarked, reflectively. " I've been wantin' to go for 
 a week, but I didn't like to leave the house." 
 
 " Of course ; go right along. You say you're fond 
 of the heat ; I wouldn't go out in it for the best mine 
 in the camp." 
 
JEROLD'S DIVIDERS. 215 
 
 "I don't jest like leavin' you alone; it's Julie's 
 afternoon out, you know." 
 
 " Leaving her alone," observed Jerold. " Any one 
 would think twice before venturing near her; don't 
 you fear. You get on your traps and I'll take you 
 up." 
 
 "Oh, no, boy; I wouldn't think of keepin' you 
 from work." 
 
 " I'll be in time, plenty ; I can hurry back. There, 
 there, don't hunt around for excuses ; I'll take you, of 
 course. Ada, get her bonnet." 
 
 Ada sauntered leisurely into the wardrobe, and re- 
 turned with her grandmother's bonnet and shawl, 
 which, with many a pretty coquetry and caress, she 
 managed at last to get adjusted. When the old lady 
 was ready, Jerold carefully took her arm and led her 
 out. 
 
 "Good-by, sweetheart," he called, mockingly, back 
 to Ada, but she only shrugged her shoulders for reply. 
 
 Tenderly Jerold helped the feeble woman along the 
 way, choosing for her the gentlest slopes in the ascent. 
 She seemed to enjoy the heat; — it got into her old 
 bones, she said, and limbered them up so she could 
 walk better ; — and soon he had her deposited comfort- 
 ably in Elizabeth's best chair, happy in the change 
 of scene and the presence of the simple family. Then 
 he bade them good-by and hurried back. 
 
216 ^ BLIND LEAD, 
 
 When he came to the corner where he had begun to 
 ascend the hill he paused, irresolute. Twice he set his 
 face and commenced the descent to the mill, but each 
 time returned and stood. At last with a gesture, as 
 though in defiance of whatever had opposed it, he 
 turned and walked quickly back to the Wayburn 
 cottage. 
 
CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 A EEVELATION. 
 
 As soon as she was left alone, Ada settled back for 
 the luxury of a nap; but the heat was oppressive, and, 
 after tossing about for some time, she arose. Giving 
 up all idea of sleep, she set to work to make herself 
 as comfortable as possible. She wound her hair again 
 loosely on top of her head and changed her stuff dress 
 for a thin white, that fell lightly about her. Then, 
 picking up a sketch-book, and selecting a pencil, she 
 drew a chair before an open window and abandoned 
 herself to the enjoyment of her one talent. 
 
 She sat for some time sketching the cliffs opposite. 
 At the base they seemed to blend into each other in- 
 distinguishably in the sunshine. The line of the slope 
 melted away, and that purple bar, was it a ledge of rock 
 or some cloud that trailed its shadow across the moun- 
 tain? She was in doubt about her perspective here. 
 The sunshine was walking over the country, staking 
 out new boundaries for everything, and the hills were 
 blinking drowsily, as if half tired of the panorama 
 they had looked upon so long. She rose for a better 
 view, and extending her arm, proceeded to measure off 
 K 19 217 
 
218 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 some distances on her pencil, but she dropped it again. 
 Myriads of elves were playing off on the heights, weav- 
 ing their rainbow films of light to mesh the airy 
 spirit of the peaks. She rested her hand against the 
 window-frame and forgot herself in the enchantment. 
 
 Jerold had entered by a side-door and stood watch- 
 ing her. 
 
 She had fulfilled, and much more than fulfilled, the 
 promise of her youth in these years. She was just 
 ripening into womanhood now, in that early develop- 
 ment begotten of the quick flow of life in such places, 
 and was the acknowledged beauty of the camp. 
 
 As she leaned there, lost in contemplation of those 
 far-away hills, it seemed to the young man that he had 
 never beheld a creature so lovely. The dark auburn 
 hair was caught up gracefully on her small sym- 
 metrical head; but stray curls stole down over the 
 little pink ears and clustered about neck and brow. 
 The face was rarely fair, that clear, warm tint that be- 
 longs with the richness of auburn. The outstretched 
 arm was deeply dimpled, and the full round curves of 
 the figure were just suggested under the thin texture 
 of her dress. 
 
 The young man stood still. He had noted her 
 beauty many, many times, and his pulses had quick- 
 ened often in their wild sport, but to-day it came over 
 him like an intoxication. 
 
A REVELATION. 219 
 
 For a loDg time he watched her. A revelation was 
 breaking in upon his heart, a revelation so sweet yet 
 so dismaying, it allured while it repelled him. Had 
 he ever felt thus to Ellen, his promised wife, — Ellen, 
 whose life was in his keeping? The calm, sluggish 
 sentiment he felt for her, — was that love? His heart 
 gave a bound of recognition; he loved Ada, Ada not 
 Ellen, and the pain of the thought was linked with 
 such keen pleasure it held him by the very strange- 
 ness of its power. 
 
 But the voice of his conscience arose, his better self, 
 and he thought, " I will crush it out. I will be true to 
 Ellen, even as she is true to me." But the girl was still 
 there, and the influence of sense was fast mastering him. 
 
 Very quietly he crossed the room and closed his 
 hand over hers, that rested against the window. She 
 started with a little scream and looked around. 
 
 " Why, Jerold Bray !" she exclaimed in surprise. 
 "You frightened me so." 
 
 As she stood, the soft hair just touching his shoul- 
 der, the beautiful lips parted, the temptation was too 
 strong:. He drew her to him and rained his kisses 
 upon lips and cheek and brow. 
 
 " Why, Jerold !" said the astonished girl. " What 
 is the matter with you ?" 
 
 "Matter! What should be the matter? Haven't 
 I kissed you hundreds of times before?" 
 
220 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 " Yes, youVe kissed me often before, but — ^but — I'm 
 eighteen now, and you mustn't do so again." 
 
 He laughed, a low, musical laugh. She looked in 
 his boyish face aglow, and laughed too. 
 
 " You came back to persecute me, did you V she 
 said. " Well, I won't be interrupted," 
 
 She seated herself and went on with her sketching, 
 and Jerold drew a chair near but a little behind her, 
 where he could see and correct the drawing. They 
 did not quarrel this afternoon. Several times Ada 
 broke out with her natural rompishness, but he caught 
 her hands in his and looked down into her eyes. 
 
 " We must be friends henceforth," he said. " You 
 and I." 
 
 " I like you a great deal better the old way," she 
 pouted. 
 
 " No, you mustn't," decidedly. " The new is best ; 
 much the best." And she was obliged to yield. Soon 
 he arose, threw himself upon the sofa, and was lost 
 in reflection. 
 
 "I thought you had an appointment," Ada re- 
 marked, suddenly recalling his words. 
 
 " The man's gone by this," he answered, sullenly. 
 
 His mood had changed. Conscience was awake 
 again and lashing him with her thongs. He closed 
 his eyes two or three times resolutely, but presently 
 they unclosed again. At last he sat erect. 
 
A REVELATION. 221 
 
 '' I'm going," he said, shortly. 
 
 " Well, it's about time, sulkiness," with a return of 
 her old manner. " Besides, this sketch is just done, 
 and I've no more use for you." 
 
 " Done ! Then bring it here and let me pass upon 
 it." 
 
 She seated herself beside him and held the book 
 out, poising her head on one side and eying the draw- 
 ing critically. He glanced at the sketch a moment 
 and then at her. Conscience, honor, — they had flown. 
 He drew her head against his shoulder and whispered, 
 recklessly, — 
 
 " Ada, Ada, I love you !" 
 
 To the young girl this was only a new form of his 
 accustomed raillery, and she struggled to escape. An- 
 other time he would have held her in very defiance, 
 but he pleaded with her to-day. 
 
 "Do not leave me, Ada. Kiss me once, once 
 willingly, and I will release you." 
 
 She was tempted to refuse, but something in the 
 soft, pleading tones went to her heart. She turned to 
 him, and silently he pressed hb lips upon her own. 
 Then his arms unclasped. 
 
 He rose, walked to the table, reached for his hat, 
 and came slowly back. 
 
 " I have wronged you, Ada," he said, in a low, re- 
 gretful voice. " Yes, wronged you deeply ; but I have 
 
 19* 
 
222 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 wronged another more. I shall not seek to justify 
 myself to you; I can only say till to-day I never 
 knew what you were to me or how I loved you. If 
 ever you know the power of such love you will meas- 
 ure what I suffer and what I bear." 
 
 The gentle penitence, so unusual in Jerold, softened 
 Ada to compassion. She had known him from her 
 childhood ; he had been to her always aggravating, but 
 generous and affectionate as well. That he was suffer- 
 ing was the one fact borne in upon her unsuspecting 
 heart by the afternoon's experience. 
 
 " I do like you, Jerry," she said, assuringly, " very, 
 very much ; and I am sorry for you." 
 
 " I am sorry for myself," he answered. " Yes, sorry 
 for myself." And abruptly he left the house. 
 
 Some distance off he met Ellen returning from 
 school. She carried a pile of books on her arm and 
 looked worn and exhausted. Wishing her simply 
 " good-day," he hurried abstractedly along. 
 
CHAPTER XXyill. 
 
 THE CONFLICT. 
 
 All through the remaining hours of that eventful 
 day Jerold sat as one in a dream. Vaguely through 
 liis mind for over a year had flitted at times a sense of 
 change ; but with his easy versatile nature he had cast 
 the mood from him. Self-examination was not one 
 of Jerold Bray's diversions. Now the reality that he 
 had shunned rose in its vigor and hurled itself against 
 his consciousness with double force for his neglect. It 
 had come, a spectre into his life, the awful fact ; Ada 
 was beloved, and Ellen was so no longer. 
 
 How it had come, and when and why, he could not 
 tell, but to its truth his heart bore painful testimony. 
 What was to be done? 
 
 It was characteristic of the man that, the first burst 
 of repentance over, there was little or no regret for 
 the actions of the day. He had wronged Ellen ; but 
 then the wrong could have no effect unless the event 
 should come to her knowledge, and on that point he 
 felt secure. He had had his hour of happiness, and no 
 one but himself was suffering for it as he could see. 
 Indeed, the whole matter would by this have been set 
 
 223 
 
224 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 aside as an episode simply were it not that the new 
 force of love held him and would not be dismissed. 
 
 It was altogether a new experience, this, to the 
 young man, and that he, the graceful, cultured, worldly 
 Jerold, should be so overcome chafed him, but could 
 not work his cure. His feeling for Ellen commended 
 itself to his taste and judgment; she was unquestion- 
 ably a superior woman. Her mental attainments made 
 her a fitting companion, one of whom he might be 
 proud anywhere, and her character challenged his 
 highest respect. In Ada he saw nothing but physi- 
 cal beauty, but, ah! that beauty drew him as Ellen's 
 grander qualities had never done. 
 
 All through the evening he sat and pondered. It 
 was the first time a grave question had come to him 
 for solution. Ever before him rose the pale, patient 
 face of Ellen, — Ellen, whose years had been one long 
 sacrifice. Why, if she could give up her life for 
 others, should he not give up his happiness for her? 
 She was noble, she was good, and she loved him as no 
 other ever would. She was not exacting. If he paid 
 her the simple attentions of common courtesy she 
 would be satisfied, and need never know that his heart 
 was capable of anything stronger. Or, if she should 
 crave more than he could give, let her lay it to a 
 deficiency of character, — he had plenty such ; why 
 scruple at one more? Besides, the one hope that 
 
THE CONFLICT. 225 
 
 sustained her was the belief that some day she would 
 be his wife. How could he take that from her and 
 send her back to the dreariness she had so often told 
 him was her portion before he came? Nay, how 
 much greater the dreariness for what had been I 
 
 Then his honor was pledged to her, — and, who 
 knows? he might grow to care for her again if they 
 were married and he had always before him the 
 influence of her quiet devotion. Yes, all things 
 demanded that he bury his secret. Ada would not 
 betray it ; she could not in her innocence comprehend 
 the meaning of what had passed ; it was too new to 
 her. Besides, the reprimands over her frolics had 
 taught her secretiveness. He could trust her, and they 
 would quickly drift back into their old relationship. 
 
 Yes, he must bury his secret, and he bowed his 
 head on his hands and sighed. Over him broke a 
 wave of misery. To give up everything, to yearn for 
 a joy that might be and yet thrust it back and go on, 
 was that life ? Yet that had been Ellen's life. How 
 had she borne it ? How had she followed where duty 
 led and not faltered? How had she faced what destiny 
 brought her and not quailed? How had she lived 
 and not died ? The longer he dwelt on the record of 
 her past the more the question was wrung from him, 
 "How had she lived?" 
 
 He was going through a part of her experience to- 
 P 
 
226 A BLIND LEAD. 
 
 night, such faint small portion as could be compassed 
 within its hours j but, from the weight of his burden, 
 he was coming to a better realization of tlie heaviness 
 of hers. *^ And shall I add to it this — this treason?" 
 he cried. " I will give up my love. Ellen is nobler 
 than my highest dream of nobility, and I will give up 
 my life to spare her." 
 
 But the spirit of unselfishness was not in him, nor 
 could the blood of the martyr course in such unspirit- 
 ual veins. Duty, Right, God, were not words that 
 shook the foundations of his being or held the first 
 claim to his allegiance. 
 
 Soon before him rose the vision of Ada with her 
 dimpled arms and superb form; Ada with her resist- 
 less smile and her thousand unconscious witcheries. 
 She was with him. He could see the bright hair curl- 
 ing against her neck, he could look into those liquid 
 eyes, half frightened, half trustful, and he could feel 
 the pressure of the full rich lips that trembled beneath 
 his own. 
 
 "I cannot!" he exclaimed, rising and pacing the 
 floor. " I cannot, I will not !" 
 
 " Why should my life be sacrifigsd ?" he was reason- 
 ing now. " Wherein have I transgressed that I must 
 be wretched? Is it my fault that Ellen loves me? 
 Why didn't she marry me when she could, and I was 
 willing? I had waited for her long enough." 
 
THE CONFLICT. 227 
 
 "Why should I not have Ada?" he continued. 
 " She is fitted to me, better, far better. How is it I 
 never realized before how unsuited Ellen and I are? 
 We could never be happy together. Besides, the 
 thought of Ada would haunt me always, and sooner or 
 later Ellen must come to know it. Would she not 
 suffer more then than now in the knowledge? And 
 ought I to marry her, loving another? Would she 
 not feel that I was wronging her more in so doing 
 than in inflicting the pain of telling her?" And so 
 on and on his mind argued and reasoned, first on one 
 side and then on the other, and he was no nearer the 
 solution than in the beginning. 
 
 But a worse tempter came in the darkness. " Ellen 
 is not strong. She is failing fast. Maybe if I should 
 marry her, who knows? she might not last long. 
 But meanwhile the other might have married too." 
 And the thought of Ada wedded to another roused 
 him to fury. 
 
 "Never! never! will any one have her but me I 
 Not all hell shall keep her from me !" In the violence 
 of his passion he snatched up his hat and rushed out 
 into the night, away anywhere to cool the fever that 
 was consuming him. 
 
CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 ON THE HEIGHT. 
 
 The dawn was breaking as the young man emerged, 
 but he took no note of the hour. He walked through 
 the town and its far-stretching outskirts, away across 
 the creek, over the level valley, on to .the Rocky Range 
 that towered beyond and began its steep ascent. At 
 first he climbed with eager, rapid step, but gradually 
 he slackened his pace. Still, though weary with the 
 effort, he toiled along, up, up, as though someway on 
 the heights he would get above this misery and 
 conflict. 
 
 At last, breathless and exhausted, he reached his 
 goal. It was cold here, but what was that to him ? 
 His brain was afire and the blood in his veins like 
 molten lead. He seated himself on a ledge of rock 
 and looked about. Everywhere, everywhere the same 
 encircling mountains, grand, wonderful. A flush of 
 radiance streamed over the eastern skies; slowly the 
 livid orb rose out of the unseen, lit the great snow 
 peaks, and swept down the mighty slopes into the saf- 
 fron valleys. The whole country was glowing in the 
 splendor of the morning. 
 228 
 
ON THE HEIGHT. 229 
 
 He was alone with Nature, a part of her silence and 
 her solitude. What were time and change to these 
 solid masses that had looked down upon the birth of 
 primal man, and stood through the ages motionless? 
 What were time and change to that luminous globe 
 that had rolled in its majesty aeons before even these 
 mountains were? Somehow, up here in this vastness of 
 space and time, power and thought, the man's feverish 
 unrest was hushed, the trouble of his soul was stilled. 
 The distant town, in its dim haze of smoke, seemed 
 a blot on the fairness of creation, and the memory of 
 the turmoil was discord in its peace. 
 
 Amid the lifelessness life appeared, to the young 
 man, a something other than he had thought. How 
 frail it was! How earnest too! The purposes that 
 had inspired him seemed to stand out in their little- 
 ness. He reviewed his past for the first time, and pro- 
 nounced it common, aimless, he almost said, wortiiless. 
 
 As he thought of the episodes of the day and night, 
 a tinge of shame came into his cheek. He had been 
 unmanly; he had been guilty; he had been base. 
 How could he prefer Ada to Ellen! Up on the 
 mountain crest, in the midst of the grandeur, the 
 thought of Ada seemed incongruous. But Ellen, 
 with her aspirations, her sacrifices, her lofty ideals, 
 belonged with the scene, a chord natural to its har- 
 monies. 
 
 20 
 
230 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 He felt for the first time a dependence upon Ellen. 
 How could this nature of his turn from its littleness to 
 use and moral worth without her strong guidance? 
 All his hope for good rested in her ; he freely acknowl- 
 edged it; and he had sinned against her, willingly, 
 deliberately, unregrettingly. He would blot out the 
 record now were it possible; but that could not be. 
 He would do what alone remained. By a better devo- 
 tion he would repair the wrong and transform his life 
 into one of purpose and merit. 
 
 He sat a long time thinking, and when at last he 
 arose, he was strong in his resolve and fixed in his in- 
 tention. His old equanimity returned with the settling 
 of his mind, for heart and conscience were reconciled 
 again. 
 
 With a light, elastic tread he began the descent, 
 whistling cheerfully, for his peace had restored his 
 buoyancy of spirits. He hastened back over valley 
 and creek, and reached the town as the mine whistles 
 were announcing the hour of noon. 
 
 He was very hungry now, and, being a practical 
 man, he decided to fortify his new resolutions with a 
 savory tonic. He entered a restaurant, called for a 
 bountiful dinner, and ate it with relish. Then he went 
 down to the mill and spent his afternoon in the details 
 of business. 
 
 After office hours he came back to town, ate his 
 
ON THE HEIGHT. 231 
 
 supper, and sauntered leisurely to his rooms. He was 
 satisfied and cheerful almost to merriment. He lit all 
 the gas-jets. "Nothing like illumination for good 
 spirits," he observed, pleasantly. 
 
 Seating himself in the big easy-chair, he leaned 
 back comfortably, content with himself and with the 
 world. 
 
 He happened to glance across the room, then he 
 started and leaped up. On the little table, in the 
 purple plush frame where had been a photograph of 
 Ada as a little girl, was now her commencement pic- 
 ture. She had promised him one, and in her sweet 
 conciliating innocence had come to prove her forgive- 
 ness by bringing it. 
 
 He snatched it up and hurried to the light. Yes, 
 there she was, as beautiful almost as in person. The 
 arras were bare and the soft full throat. The hair was 
 dressed high, which added to her years, and she gained 
 a stateliness from the sweeping train; but the same 
 glorious eyes, the same rich curve of form, the same 
 dimpled cheek, the same mischievous smile on the 
 perfect mouth. He pressed it to his lips. 
 
 " It is too cruel ! too cruel ! I cannot bear it !" 
 
 The old conflict was back in its intensity. The old 
 fever of passionate longing was rekindled. He sat 
 plunged in thought, living all his struggle over again, 
 distracted by the same doubts and temptations. It was 
 
232 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 growing late ; it seemed to him hours that he had sat 
 there ; but he rose at last, and stood still, very still. 
 He had settled it, all, all ; and he was frightened at 
 his own resolve. But he did not hesitate or draw 
 back. 
 
 " I shall end it," he said, calmly ; and, taking up his 
 hat, he walked deliberately out. 
 
CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 A LAST APPEAL. 
 
 The night was perfect, a clear Jane night. The 
 full moon shed its glory over the camp, and, like the 
 wand of a fairy, transformed things the most homely 
 and commonplace into beautiful creations of fancy. 
 The tall court-house towered a stately castle with 
 domes and turrets ; the simple churches became cathe- 
 drals with noble spires ; the low levels of the valley a 
 smooth, inland sea. 
 
 The business streets were alive, as they always were, 
 with excitement, but off their thoroughfares all was 
 quiet and in kee})ing with the night. 
 
 A man was walking slowly towards the outskirts 
 of the town. He paused constantly to drink in the 
 beauty, and as he lifted his face to the open skies, one 
 could read in its outlines a sadness that was profound. 
 His eyes moving over the scene before him turned to 
 tlie cemetery and rested there lovingly and longingly. 
 
 He reached a corner, and quickening his steps, he 
 entered the gate and knocked at the open door of the 
 Wayburn cottage. 
 
 20* 233 
 
234 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 There was a light in the room, and at a table sat 
 Ellen poring over a pile of papers. 
 
 " I'm glad you're to home," he observed, as he en- 
 tered the door-way. 
 
 "I'm always at home now, Robert. These last 
 days of school demand night work and day work," 
 she answered, pleasantly. 
 
 She led the way as once before, three years ago, and 
 showed him into the long, low parlor. All was the 
 same. To Robert, that night seemed like yesterday, 
 so familiar was everything about. 
 
 Robert Hall was by no means an uncommon visitor at 
 the house. The fact of his rejection and its publicity 
 bad in no respect altered his cordiality with the family. 
 They were friends of a lifetime, all, and while his inter- 
 course partook of none of the freedom which character- 
 ized Jerold Bray's footing, it was none the less sincere. 
 
 Lately Robert's visits had been rather more fre- 
 quent, and had occurred, whether intentionally or by 
 accident, almost always when Jerold also was present. 
 It was part of his delicate honor, Ellen thought, that 
 Jerold could have no occasion to feel that he was still 
 a rival. But sometimes she had caught in his eyes a 
 look so stern and searching, she was surprised and 
 pained at the expression. To-night she was alone. 
 The family were taking a stroll in the moonlight, and 
 she was left to her task. 
 
A LAST APPEAL. 235 
 
 Robert watchetl her now as she stopped under the 
 h'ght. She had not sunk at her post as he had pre- 
 dicted. Who can estimate the power of the soul over 
 the body, or tell how far the mind can sway the vital 
 forces? She lived, and her soul was firm as when she 
 took up her burden again, on that eventful night that 
 was someway in the minds of both as they sat here 
 again. 
 
 Her face, however, was very white, and the blue 
 veins on the pure smooth forehead stood out as though 
 pencilled. 
 
 But while the face, never artistically handsome, had 
 lost much even of the symmetry it had once possessed, 
 the impress of the spiritual had deepened in every 
 line ; and that spirit shone so lofty, so chastened, she 
 seemed to the man beside her clothed in a beauty that 
 was almost radiant. 
 
 " You don't seem jest es w^ell es usual,'' he said, 
 looking at her kindly. 
 
 "The last of the term my strength does give out 
 a little. It's the warm weather though, mostly ; that 
 and the extra work." 
 
 " I was afeard you wouldn't be equal to the teachin'." 
 
 " Which I have been," she persisted, smiling. 
 " Next week comes rest, a whole summer of rest, and 
 I shall be myself again." 
 
 He looked at her compassionately. 
 
236 -^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 "What is ther* in the world es obstinate es a 
 woman !" he said. 
 
 She walked to the window and drew down the 
 shade, and her step as she did so was slow and hesitant. 
 Then she returned. As he glanced up and saw in her 
 face the brave, patient smile, a scowl settled over his 
 features ; but it gradually passed away, and left in its 
 place the expression of indescribable sadness. 
 
 Two or three times he commenced to speak, but each 
 time the look in her face someway silenced him. 
 
 " Ellen," he said at last, in a voice that strove to 
 be impassive, and with his natural abruptness, — 
 " Ellen, I come here to-night t' ask you again to be 
 my wife.'' 
 
 Her hands dropped, her head fell, and her disap- 
 pointment was undisguised. 
 
 " I had hoped, Robert, that that was past ; that you 
 had conquered it," she said. 
 
 "Past I It can never be past!'' he said, passion- 
 ately, then checking himself and becoming calm. " I 
 asked you before, Ellen, to be my wife for my sake, 
 now I ask you for your own." 
 
 " For my own ? I do not understand you." 
 
 " Don't ask me t' explain ; I can't." 
 
 " Can't ? Those are strange words," she said. 
 
 " An' strange they got to remain, but true. I beg 
 you very earnestly to listen to me and be persuaded." 
 
A LAST APPEAL. 237 
 
 " Persuaded to marry when I love anotlier ! That 
 is hardly in keeping with the principles I supposed we 
 both professed." 
 
 " Ellen," he protested, *^ don't you jedge me by ap- 
 pearances, nor don't you condemn me beforehand. I 
 can't speak to justify myself nor show you I'm right 
 in what I seek. I can only ask, — give me the right to 
 pertect you." . 
 
 His voice was strong and earnest, and bis words 
 shook her strangely. 
 
 " Protect me ? Protect me from what ?" she faltered. 
 The color was fading from her lips now and the thin 
 hands shook, for a sense of danger had vibrated in his 
 tones. 
 
 He looked at her sorrowfully, with such a depth of 
 pity in his true eyes, she came very near to him and 
 laid her hand upon his shoulder. 
 
 "Tell me, Robert, what threatens me," she said, 
 steadying her voice as well as she could. " You are 
 my friend and I can bear it. Tell me freely what 
 threatens me." 
 
 "I am your friend, Ellen, an' I can't tell you. 
 Don't ask me." Seeing her gesture of remonstrance, 
 " I would if I could, but I can't, I can't" 
 
 " And you claim to be my friend ?" she asked. 
 
 " We've knowed each other from little children ; if 
 I've once been false or selfish with you, you can doubt 
 
238 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 me now ; if I ain't, youVe a right to b'lieve me," he 
 answered, with dignity. 
 
 " I do not doubt you, Robert ; you know, whatever 
 I may say, my heart attests your faithfulness/' 
 
 " Then let my faithfulness speak for me. I promise 
 you, Ellen, I'll never claim no right es a husband. 
 I'll never ask you fer one touch of love or one 
 word of affection, though my heart '11 break in its 
 longin' fer you. I'll go from you in a hour, if you 
 say it, an' never look on your face again, only take 
 the shelter of my name. My name's respected; my 
 money's a power. Oh, Ellen ! it's the last prayer you'll 
 ever hear from my lips, take the shelter of my name." 
 
 The great tears stood in his eyes as he pleaded, tears 
 that had not risen there when a mother and sister had 
 left him forever, but he heeded them not. 
 
 " There is something to fear. What it is I can't tell 
 you. When it'll come I can't tell you, fer I don't 
 know ; but come it will, an' ev^rythin', ev'ry thin' to my 
 life I'd give to spare you. You're sensitive an' the 
 world's cruel. The sorrow of your own heart you've 
 got to bear, but the world's cruelty, let me save you 
 from that?" 
 
 She looked into the strong, noble face that was 
 eloquent in its tenderness. 
 
 "Your words are mysterious, Robert," she said. 
 ''Were it any one but you I should ignore them 
 
A LAST APPEAL. 239 
 
 because of their mystery, but with you, — I am sure 
 you speak out of knowledge and out of love for me. 
 I do not know what calamity hangs over me. You 
 know, and I believe you, and my heart is full of your 
 warning. In life I have wronged no one ; the name 
 of Ellen Way burn is an honest one. If any other of 
 the name has brought shame upon it, it is still mine, 
 and in being mine, honest; and if any dishonor at- 
 taches and I must take refuge from it, you forget, 
 Robert, that another, as true a man as even you, stands 
 ready to offer the shelter of his name, and that I am 
 pledged his wife." 
 
 Her manner was frank yet proud, and the strong 
 man bowed his head. 
 
 " My God I an' this is my answer ?" 
 
 " This is your answer," she replied, calmly. " What- 
 ever comes, since it promises my marriage, it cannot be 
 altogether a misfortune." And she blushed slightly. 
 
 He glanced in her face and his heart failed him. 
 The look of foreboding had given place to the sweet, 
 trustful light of love, and a happy smile played about 
 her lips. 
 
 "My best prayer was always for you, Ellen," he 
 said, rising, "an' my last hope of savin' you is gone." 
 
 "Do not say so. If only you could tell rae what 
 you fear I might see differently. You are very good, 
 and I do appreciate the honor you have done me." 
 
\ 
 
 240 ^ BLIND LEAD, 
 
 *^ Honor ! I wasn't tryin' to honor you. I love you 
 fer myself; I'd a waited an' sought you always if you 
 hadn't chose another, but — but " 
 
 " As you say, Robert, I love another. Were it not 
 so I would be yours, proudly, gLadly yours, for no one 
 could be your wife, know your nobility, and not love 
 you. There is not a man living whose character I 
 esteem as I do yours. But while my love for another 
 lasts and his for me we are pledged to each other, and 
 nothing could induce me to be untrue." 
 
 He was silent. In his heart a deep outreaching 
 hope still lived, a hope that was not to be crushed. 
 
 " Ellen/' he asked, coming and standing close beside 
 her, " if you'd never loved Jerold would you a been 
 mine ?" 
 
 ^^ Yes," she said. 
 
 " An' if the time '11 ever come when you'll cease to 
 love him, will you be mine then ?" 
 
 She hesitated. 
 
 " Yes," she said. 
 
 He turned, and without another word he walked out. 
 The sitting-room was lighted, and he passed through it 
 to the door. On the threshold he met a man entering. 
 For a moment they stood face to face, Robert Hall and 
 Jerold Bray, and gazed in each other's eyes. What 
 they read there was unspoken, but for a moment 
 Robert Hall laid his large, firm hand on his rival's 
 
A LAST APPEAL. 241 
 
 shoulder. The clasp tightened, and for an instant the 
 younger man felt that he was in the grasp of a giant. 
 Tiien slowly the fingers unlocked, and Jerold, shaking 
 them angrily oif, passed within. 
 
 " Traitor and villain I" hissed from the strong man's 
 lips as he strode into the moonlight. " Traitor and 
 villain ! Better death itself than life with you." 
 
 21 
 
CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 FREE. 
 
 Ellen stood leaning against the mantel just as 
 Robert Hall had left her. Whether her mind had 
 grown alert from the suspicions aroused there, or 
 whether Jerold's face betrayed the change that had 
 come to him, certain it was that a sense of approach- 
 ing calamity fastened itself upon her soul the moment 
 she beheld him. 
 
 " You have something to tell me, Jerold," she said, 
 excitedly. "What is it?" 
 
 He was startled by her suddenness. He had thought 
 out on his way how he would break it to her, and it 
 did not commence at all like this. 
 
 "No, nothing. Nothing yet — that is '^ And 
 
 he hesitated. 
 
 " Yes, Jerold ; you cannot deceive me." 
 
 " Nonsense ! Come and sit down and be yourself." 
 In his confusion he abandoned all thought of telling 
 to-night. He began to realize how hard a task he 
 had set himself. " Where are the folks, and what are 
 you all doing ? Do come and sit down." 
 242 
 
FREE. 243 
 
 He was annoyed now that she seemed to have sus- 
 pected anything amiss, and was as desirous of escaping 
 the issue as he had been before of meeting it. 
 
 " Jerold, something has happened ; you know it and 
 I know it. When you have told me I shall sit down, 
 until then I shall stand here." 
 
 "Who said anything had happened?'' he asked, 
 angrily. 
 
 " Your own face." 
 
 " My face lied, then," he said, doggedly. " Don't 
 stand there and catechise me. I wish the rest would 
 come. This is deuced stupid business." 
 
 A pained look spread over her face. For once she 
 did not trust his words. His manner belied him, and 
 she did not speak. 
 
 " I met Hall as I came in," he said, to divert the 
 subject. "What's he got to say?" 
 
 " Nothing. He called on private business." 
 
 " Private business ? What private business has he, 
 pray?" 
 
 Jerold was a man of gentlemanly pretensions. His 
 late experiences had made him irritable, however, and 
 Ellen's persistence made him more so. The tone in 
 which he asked the question was sharp and cutting, 
 and the blood came surging up and flushing her sensi- 
 tive face. 
 
 " His business, Jerold," she answered, with dignity, 
 
244 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 " being private should be beyond your inquiry. Since, 
 however, you do question, I shall tell you. He came 
 here to ask me again to become his wife." 
 
 He was silent a moment. Then a thought shot 
 through his brain. Here was a deliverance beyond 
 his best hope. Robert was rich ; he was worthy ; she 
 would come to love him; why not? He clutched at 
 the prospect instantly, and his eagerness spoke in his 
 accent and his words. 
 
 " He's a fine fellow. Hall. A very fine fellow, 
 "What did you answer?" 
 
 " Jerold !" The voice was hurt and reproachful. 
 
 "He can offer you much more than I. Robert 
 Hall's choice will be a woman to be envied." 
 
 " Jerold !" Her eyes were growing larger and larger 
 and her breath was coming quick and short. 
 
 "You never spoke so before, Jerold, Would you 
 have me marry him for his money ?" 
 
 "Not for his money, — no," he answered, hesi- 
 tatingly. 
 
 " I do not love him." 
 
 " You would when you were his wife." 
 
 "His wife!" He spoke it so calmly, a pain as 
 from a dagger-thrust went through her heart. Sud- 
 denly she darted into his face a look, so keen, so 
 agonized, her features were fairly distorted. The 
 truth of her spirit had leaped to the truth in his, 
 
FREE. 245 
 
 and with the sureness of intuition she knew the 
 reality. 
 
 " Jerold Bray/' she said slowly, in a voice hard and 
 cold as iron, *' you have come to break our engage- 
 ment." 
 
 He rose from his chair, so startled was he at the 
 unnaturalness of the tone and the unexpectedness of 
 the accusation. The truth struck him dumb, and he 
 sought in vain for fitting speech. 
 
 "No, not just that,'' he stammered. "Not break it." 
 
 "Let me claim as my last right truthfulness. You 
 came here to-night to break our engagement." 
 
 He turned away in baffled silence. He was ashamed. 
 The fact looked ugly as she expressed it. He had not 
 counted on just this scene, or on just this development. 
 But she had insisted on pinning him to the truth, and 
 left him no opportunity for softening it. 
 
 There was a long leaden silence. The girl's face as 
 she stood was ashen. One hand grasped the mantel 
 for support and the other worked convulsively. There 
 was a sound in the sitting-room beyond of the family 
 that had returned and a great excitement and commo- 
 tion, but it made no impression on her consciousness. 
 
 At last she spoke, calmly but scarcely audibly, — 
 
 " Your wish is my law." 
 
 " No ! Ellen, no !" he broke out, extending his hand 
 and going towards her, but she waved him back. 
 
 21* 
 
246 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 '' There is no need to spare my feelings ; I have none. 
 Do not insult me with any show of sympathy." 
 
 "Oh, Ellen, I was wrong! Forgive me. I do 
 love you." 
 
 " Love me ! The love that once questioned its own 
 being is dead, and for such there is no resurrection. It 
 is all past between us, past forever. As my right I 
 would ask you, why you wish it — our engagement — 
 broken?" 
 
 He did not answer. He could not. He only stood 
 like a culprit, and was mute. 
 
 " Jerold, my honor is entitled to so much considera- 
 tion. Will you answer me ?" 
 
 "I love — another." The words came as though 
 wrung from him. 
 
 " And that other is — ^tell me, Jerold." 
 
 "Ada." 
 
 She staggered back against the wall, and he leaped 
 forward to catch her, but she recoiled from him as 
 from a scorpion. 
 
 " Do not touch me," she gasped. 
 
 He sat again on the sofa, and slowly she gathered 
 her strength and stood up. 
 
 There was something about her whole figure so 
 crushed, so broken, the young man felt the guilt of 
 a criminal on his soul. The rigidity of her face re- 
 mained. Her hands were twitching and her eyes were 
 
FREE. 247 
 
 hard and set. She felt that her agony was being re- 
 vealed, and all the pride that was left was summoned 
 to help her conceal it. She spoke at last, but her voice 
 was very low. 
 
 " The years that I have known you have been happy 
 ones. For these I thank you. Your love was very 
 precious ; mine I gave you freely in return. I do not 
 blame you for loving Ada ; she is all that is good and 
 beautiful, and I have grown old doing my duty. Take 
 this ring," — and she drew from her finger the pretty 
 pearl he had placed there, — " and tell Ada, if she can 
 receive it, that Aunt Ellen sent with it her deepest, 
 truest blessing." As she handed him the ring his 
 fingers just touched hers, and they were cold as 
 stone. 
 
 " And now, Jerold," she said with dignity, " I re- 
 lease you. Our engagement is over. Good-by." 
 
 Silently he took his hat and, leaving the door ajar, 
 went out. 
 
 In the sitting-room the commotion continued, and 
 as he appeared some one called out eagerly, — 
 
 " Why, Jerry, Jerry, come ! Where's Ellen? Get 
 Ellen ! Such glorious, glorious news ! They Ve struck 
 it rich in the Elm Orlu !" 
 
 Through the open door the words floated in to the 
 stricken girl. Her heart gave one mighty throb. 
 "At last! she was free!" but in the same instant 
 
248 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 flashed through it that other truth : " Too late ! too 
 late ! She was forsaken !" 
 
 There was a sound as of a low moan, then of some- 
 thing falling heavily. When they rushed in and raised 
 her, the poor crushed heart of Ellen Wayburn was at 
 rest, — at rest, and at rest forever. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIL 
 
 At the side of the grave, with uncovered heads, were 
 standing two men. One was slender and graceful, the 
 other tall, rugged, and majestic as the mountains that 
 surrounded them. The hands of one fell drooping 
 by his side, and his shapely head was bowed with its 
 weight of grief; the arms of the other were folded 
 across his breast, his head was erect, and he looked out 
 across the grave to the distant heavens. Ever the light 
 frame trembled and was shaken with deep sobs, but 
 the rugged form was motionless and betrayed not a 
 trace of sorrow. 
 
 Presently they lowered the coffin, and heaped upon 
 it the rich, fragrant flowers. There was a pause ; the 
 deep, awful silence that precedes the final act. Every 
 head in that assembly was bowed, every eye was wet 
 with tears, and here and there a low wail broke forth 
 as some heart became too burdened. But calm, un- 
 moved, the strong man stood. His countenance was 
 lit up with a smile, gentle and beautiful. The setting 
 sun came out for a moment from behind a cloud and 
 
 249 
 
250 ^ BLIND LEAD. 
 
 flooded him with its beams. He gazed into the skiea^, 
 and a joy that was born of his faith shone out in his 
 brave, true face. It was as if the angel of the Unseen 
 and the Eternal had passed over and left on his brow 
 the serenity of peace. 
 
 Quietly the minister stepped forth. "Ashes to 
 ashes, dust to dust,'' and the earth dropped down upon 
 the coffin. As it fell with its dull heavy thud a light, 
 glad, triumphant, shone in the eyes of Robert Hall, a 
 sigh like the breath of a liberated spirit broke from 
 his lips, and upward was wafted one whispered word,-— 
 " Mine." 
 
 THE END. 
 
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