"I see that you have found Harry's violin," she said.

"I beg your pardon," Darrell stammered, somewhat dazed by his sudden descent to the commonplace, "I ought not to have taken it; I never thought,—I was so delighted to find the instrument and so carried away with its tones,—it never occurred to me how it might seem to you!"

"Oh, that is all right," she interposed, quietly; "use it whenever you like. Harry bought it two years ago, but he never had the patience to learn it, so it has been used very little. I never heard such playing as yours, and I stepped in to ask you to bring it downstairs and play for us to-night. Mr. Britton will be delighted; he enjoys everything of that sort."

Around the fireside that evening Darrell had an attentive audience, though the appreciation of his auditors was manifested in a manner characteristic of each. Mr. Underwood, after two or three futile attempts to talk business with his partner, finding him very uncommunicative, gave himself up to the enjoyment of his pipe and the music in about equal proportions, indulging surreptitiously in occasional brief naps, though always wide awake at the end of each number and joining heartily in the applause.

Mrs. Dean sat gazing into the glowing embers, her face lighted with quiet pleasure, but her knitting-needles twinkled and flashed in the firelight with the same unceasing regularity, and she doubled and seamed and "slipped and bound" her stitches with the same monotonous precision as on other evenings.

Mr. Britton, in a comfortable reclining-chair, sat silent, motionless, his head thrown back, his eyes nearly closed, but in the varying expression of his mobile face Darrell found both inspiration and compensation.

For more than three hours Darrell entertained his friends; quaint medleys, dreamy waltzes, and bits of classical music following one after another, with no effort, no hesitancy, on the part of the player. To their eager inquiries, he could only answer,—

"I don't know how I do it. They seem to come to me with the sweep of the bow across the strings. I have no recollection of anything that I am playing; it seems as though the instrument and I were simply drifting."

Late in the evening, when they were nearly ready to separate for the night, Darrell sat idly strumming the violin, when an old familiar strain floated sweetly forth, and his astonished listeners suddenly heard him singing in a rich baritone an old love-song, forgotten until then by every one present.

Mrs. Dean had already laid aside her work and sat with hands folded, a smile of unusual tenderness hovering about her lips, while Mr. Britton's face was quivering with emotion. At its conclusion he grasped Darrell's hand silently.

"That is a very old song," said Mrs. Dean. "It seems queer to hear you sing it. I used to hear it sung when I was a young girl, and that," she added smiling, "was a great many years ago."

"And I have sung it many a time a great many years ago," said Mr. Britton. And he hastily left the room.



Chapter VII

AT THE MINES

Once fairly started on the road to health, Darrell gained marvellously. Each day marked some new acquisition in physical health and muscular vigor, while his systematic reading, the soothing influence of the music to which he devoted a considerable time each day, and, more than all, his growing intimacy with Mr. Britton, were doing much towards restoring a better mental equipoise.

The race to which he had challenged Dr. Bradley took place on a frosty morning early in November, Mr. Underwood himself measuring and marking the course for the runners and Mr. Britton acting as starter. The result was a victory for Darrell, who came out more than a yard ahead of his opponent, somewhat to the chagrin of the latter, who had won quite a local reputation as an athlete.

"You'll do," he said to Darrell, as he took leave a few moments later, "but don't pose here as an invalid any longer, or I'll expose you as a fraud. Understand, I cross your name off my list of patients to-day."

"But not off your list of friends, I hope," Darrell rejoined, as they shook hands.

When Dr. Bradley had gone, Darrell turned to Mr. Britton, who was standing near, saying, as his face grew serious,—

"Dr. Bradley is right; I'm no invalid now, and I must quit this idling. I must find what I can do and go to work."

"All in good time," said Mr. Britton, pleasantly. "We'll find something for you before I go from here. Meanwhile, I want to give you a little pleasure-trip if you are able to take it. How would you like to go out to the mines to-morrow with Mr. Underwood and myself? Do you think you could 'rough it' with us old fellows for a couple of days?"

"You couldn't have suggested anything that would please me better," Darrell answered. "I would like the change, and it's time I was roughing it. Perhaps when I get out there I'll decide to take a pick and shovel and start in at the bottom of the ladder and work my way up."

"Is that necessary?" queried Mr. Britton, regarding the younger man with close but kindly scrutiny. "Mr. Underwood tells me that you brought a considerable amount of money with you when you came here, which he has deposited to your credit."

Darrell met the penetrating gaze unwaveringly, as he replied, with quiet decision, "That money may be mine, or it may not; it may have been given me to hold in trust. In any event, it belongs to the past, and it will remain where it is, intact, until the past is unveiled."

Mr. Britton looked gratified, as he remarked, in a low tone, "I don't think you need any assurance, my boy, that I will back you with all the capital you need, if you would like to start in business."

"No, Mr. Britton," said Darrell, deeply touched by the elder man's kindness; "I know, without words, that I could have from you whatever I needed, but it is useless for me to think of going into business with as little knowledge of myself as I have at present. The best thing for me is to take whatever work offers itself, until I find what I am fitted for or to what I can best adapt myself."

The next morning found Darrell at an early hour on his way to the mining camp with Mr. Underwood and Mr. Britton. The ground was white and glistening with frost, and the sun, not yet far above the horizon, shone with a pale, cold light, but Darrell, wrapped in a fur coat of Mr. Underwood's, felt only the exhilarating effect of the thin, keen air, and as the large, double-seated carriage, drawn by two powerful horses, descended the pine-clad mountain and passed down one of the principal streets of the little city, he looked about him with lively interest.

Leaving the town behind them, they soon began the ascent of a winding canyon. After two or three turns, to Darrell's surprise, every sign of human habitation vanished and only the rocky walls were visible, at first low and receding, but gradually growing higher and steeper. On they went, steadily ascending, till a turn suddenly brought the distant mountains into closer proximity, and Mr. Britton, pointing to a lofty, rugged range on Darrell's right, said,—

"There lies the Great Divide."

For two hours they wound steadily upward, the massive rocks towering on all sides, barren, grotesque in form, but beautiful in coloring,—dull reds, pale greens, and lovely blues and purples staining the sombre grays and browns.

Darrell had grown silent, and his companions, supposing him absorbed in the grandeur and beauty of the scenery, left him to his own reflections while they talked on matters of interest to themselves.

But to Darrell the surrounding rocks were full of a strange, deep significance. The colorings and markings in the gray granite were to him what the insignia of the secret orders are to the initiated, replete with mystical meaning. To him had come the sudden realization that he was in Nature's laboratory, and in the hieroglyphics traced on the granite walls he read the symbols of the mysterious alchemy silently and secretly wrought beneath their surface. The vastness of the scale of Nature's work, the multiplicity of her symbols, bewildered him, but in his own mind he knew that he still held the key to this mysterious code, and the knowledge thrilled him with delight. He gazed about him, fascinated, saying nothing, but trembling with joy and with eagerness to put himself to the test, and it was with difficulty that he controlled his impatience till the long ride should come to an end.

At last they left the canyon and followed a steep road winding up the side of a mountain, which, after an hour's hard climbing, brought them to the mining camp. As the carriage stopped Darrell was the first to alight, springing quickly to the ground and looking eagerly about him.

At a short distance beyond them the road was terminated by the large milling plant, above which the mountain rose abruptly, its sides dotted with shaft-houses and crossed and recrossed with trestle-work almost to the summit. A wooden flume clung like a huge serpent to the steep slopes, and a tramway descended from near the summit to the mill below. At a little distance from the mill were the boarding-house and bunk-houses, while in the foreground, near the road was the office building, to which the party adjourned after exchanging greetings with Mr. Hathaway, the superintendent, who had come out to meet them and to whom Darrell was duly introduced. The room they first entered was the superintendent's office. Beyond that was a pleasant reception-room, while in the rear were the private rooms of the superintendent and the assayer, who were not expected to share the bunk-houses with the miners.

Mr. Underwood and the superintendent at once proceeded to business, but Mr. Britton, mindful of Darrell's comfort, ushered him into the reception-room. A coal-fire was glowing in a small grate; a couch, three or four comfortable chairs, and a few books and magazines contributed to give the room a cosey appearance, but the object which instantly riveted Darrell's attention was a large case, extending nearly across one side of the room, filled with rare mineralogical and geological specimens. There were quartz crystals gleaming with lumps of free-milling gold, curling masses of silver and copper wire direct from the mines, gold nuggets of unusual size and brilliancy, and specimens of ores from the principal mines not only of that vicinity, but of the West.

Observing Darrell's interest in the contents of the case, Mr. Britton threw open the doors for a closer inspection, and began calling his attention to some of the finest specimens, but at Darrell's first remarks he paused, astonished, listened a few moments, then stepping to the next room, called Mr. Underwood. That gentleman looked somewhat perturbed at the interruption, but at a signal from Mr. Britton, followed the latter quietly across the room to where Darrell was standing. Here they stood, silently listening, while Darrell, unconscious of their presence, went rapidly through the specimens, classifying the different ores, stating the conditions which had contributed to their individual characteristics, giving the approximate value of each and the mode of treatment required for its reduction; all after the manner of a student rehearsing to himself a well-conned lesson.

At last, catching sight of the astonished faces of his listeners, his own lighted with pleasure, as he exclaimed, joyously,—

"I wanted to test myself and see if it would come back to me, and it has! I believed it would, and it has!"

"What has come back to you?" queried Mr. Underwood, too bewildered himself to catch the drift of Darrell's meaning.

"The knowledge of all this," Darrell answered, indicating the collection with a swift gesture; "it began to come to me as soon as I saw the rocks on our way up; it confused me at first, but it is all clear now. Take me to your mill, Mr. Underwood; I want to see what I can do with the ores there."

At that moment Mr. Hathaway entered to summon the party to dinner, and seeing Darrell standing by the case, his hands filled with specimens, he said, addressing Mr. Underwood with a pleasant tone of inquiry,—

"Mr. Darrell is a mining man?"

But Mr. Underwood was still too confused to answer intelligibly, and it was Mr. Britton who replied, as he linked his arm within Darrell's on turning to leave the room,—

"Mr. Darrell is a mineralogist."

At dinner Darrell found himself too excited to eat, so overjoyed was he at the discovery of attainments he had not dreamed he possessed, and so eager to put them to every test possible.

It had been Mr. Underwood's intention to visit the mines that afternoon, but at Darrell's urgent request, they went first to the mill. Here he found ample scope for his abilities. He fairly revelled in the various ores, separating, assorting, and classifying them with the rapidity and accuracy of an expert, and at once proceeded to assay some samples taken from a new lead recently struck, the report of which had occasioned this particular trip to the camp. He worked with a dexterity and skill surprising in one of his years, producing the most accurate results, to the astonishment and delight of both Mr. Underwood and Mr. Britton.

After an extended inspection of the different departments of the large milling plant, he was taken into a small laboratory, where the assayer in charge was testing some of the recently discovered ore for the presence of certain metals. After watching for a while in silence Darrell said, turning to Mr. Underwood,—

"I can give you a quicker and a surer test than that!"

The assayer and himself at once exchanged places, and, unheeding the many eyes fixed upon him, Darrell seated himself before the long table and deftly began operations. Not a word broke the silence as by methods wholly new to his spectators he subjected the ore to successive chemical changes, until, within an incredibly short time, the presence of the suspected metals was demonstrated beyond the shadow of a doubt.

"Mineralogist and metallurgist!" exclaimed Mr. Britton delightedly, as he congratulated Darrell upon his success.

The short November day had now nearly drawn to a close, and after supper the gentlemen adjourned to the office building, where they spent an hour or more around the open fire. Darrell, who was quite wearied with the unusual exertion and excitement of the day, retired early, the superintendent and assayer had gone out on some business at the mill, and Mr. Underwood and Mr. Britton were left together. No sooner were they by themselves than Mr. Britton, who was walking up and down the room, stopped beside his partner as he sat smoking and gazing abstractedly into the fire, and, laying a hand on his shoulder, said,—

"Well, Dave, what do you think? After what we've seen to-day, can't you make a place over there at the mill for the boy?"

"Hang it all!" answered the other, somewhat testily, secretly a little jealous of the growing intimacy between his partner and Darrell; "supposing I can, is there any need of your dipping in your oar about it? Do you think I need any suggestion from you in the way of befriending him or standing by him?"

"No, Dave," said Mr. Britton, pleasantly, dropping into a chair by Mr. Underwood's side, "I did not put my question with a view of making any suggestions. I know, and Darrell knows, that he hasn't a better friend than you, and because I know this, and also because I am a friend to you both, I was interested to ask you what you intended doing for him."

"What I intended doing for him and what I probably will actually do for him are two altogether different propositions—all on account of his own pig-headedness," was the rather surly response.

"How's that?" Mr. Britton inquired.

"Why, confound the fellow! I took a liking to him from the first, coming here the way he did, and after what he did for Harry there was nothing I wouldn't have done for him. Then, after his sickness, when we found his memory had gone back on him and left him helpless as a child in some ways, I knew he'd stand no show among strangers, and my idea was to take him in, in Harry's place, give him a small interest in the business until he got accustomed to it, and then after a while let him in as partner. But when I broached the subject to him, a week ago or so, he wouldn't hear to it; said he'd rather find some work for which he was adapted and stick to that, at a regular salary. I told him he was missing a good thing, but nothing that I could say would make any difference."

"Well," said Mr. Britton, slowly, "I'm not sure but his is the wiser plan. You must remember, Dave, that his stay with us will probably be but temporary. Whenever that portion of his brain which is now dormant does awaken, you can rest assured he will not remain here long. He no doubt realizes this and wishes to be absolutely foot-loose, ready to leave at short notice. And as to the financial side of the question, if you give him the place in your mill for which he is eminently fitted, it will be fully as remunerative in the long run as the interest in the business which you intended giving him."

"What place in the mill do you refer to?" Mr. Underwood asked, quickly.

"Oh, I'm not making any 'suggestions,' Dave; you don't need them." And Mr. Britton smiled quietly into the fire.

"Go ahead and say your say, Jack," said the other, his own face relaxing into a grim smile; "that was only a bit of my crankiness, and you know me well enough to know it."

"Give him the position of assayer in charge."

"Great Scott! and fire Benson, who's been there for five years?"

"It makes no difference how long he's been there. Darrell is a better man every way,—quicker, more accurate, more scientific. You can put Benson to sorting and weighing ores down at the ore-bins."

After a brief silence Mr. Britton continued, "You couldn't find a better man for the place or a better position for the man. The work is evidently right in the line of his profession, and therefore congenial; and even though you should pay him no more salary than Benson, that, with outside work in the way of assays for neighboring camps, will be better than any business interest you would give him short of twelve or eighteen months at least."

"I guess you're right, and I'll give him the place; but hang it all! I did want to put him in Harry's place. You and I are getting along in years, Jack, and it's time we had some young man getting broke to the harness, so that after a while he could take the brunt of things and let us old fellows slack up a bit."

"We could not expect that of Darrell," said Mr. Britton. "He is neither kith nor kin of ours, and when once Nature's ties begin to assert themselves in his mind, we may find our hold upon him very slight."

Both men sighed deeply, as though the thought had in some way touched an unpleasant chord. After a pause, Mr. Britton inquired,—

"You have no clue whatever as to Darrell's identity, have you?"

Mr. Underwood shook his head. "Queerest case I ever saw! There wasn't a scrap of paper nor a pen-mark to show who he was. Parkinson, the mine expert who was on the same train, said he didn't remember seeing him until Harry introduced him; he said he supposed he was some friend of Harry's. Since his sickness I've looked up the conductor on that train and questioned him, but all he could remember was that he boarded the train a little this side of Galena and that he had a ticket through from St. Paul."

"You say this Parkinson was a mine expert; what was he doing out here?"

"He was one of three or four that were here at that time, looking up the Ajax for eastern parties."

"In all probability," said Mr. Britton, musingly, "Darrell was here on the same business."

"If that was his business, he said nothing about it to me, and I would have thought he would, under the circumstances."

"I wonder whether we could ascertain from the owners of the Ajax what experts were out here or expected out here at that time?"

Mr. Underwood smiled grimly. "Not from the former owners, for nobody knows where they are, though there are some people quite anxious to know; and not from the present owners, for they are too busy looking for their predecessors in interest to think of anything else."

"Why, has the Ajax really changed owners? Did they find any one to buy it?"

"Yes, a Scotch syndicate bought it. They sent over a man—one of their own number, I believe, and authorized to act for them—that I guess knew more about sampling liquors than ores. The Ajax people worked him accordingly, with the result that the mine was sold at the figure named,—one million, half down, you know. The man rushed back to New York, to meet a partner whom he had cabled to come over. About ten days later they arrived on the ground and began operations at the Ajax. The mill ran for just ten days when they discovered the condition of affairs and shut down, and they have been looking for the former owners ever since."

Both men laughed, then relapsed into silence. A little later, as Mr. Britton stirred the fire to a brighter glow, he said, while the tender curves about his mouth deepened,—

"I cannot help feeling that the coming to us of this young man, whose identity is wrapped in so much mystery, has some peculiar significance to each of us. I believe that in some way, whether for good or ill I cannot tell, his life is to be henceforth inseparably linked with our own lives. He already holds, as you know, a place in each of our hearts which no stranger has held before, and I have only this to say, David, old friend, that our mutual regard for him, our mutual efforts for his well-being, must never lead to any estrangement between ourselves. We have been stanch friends for too many years for any one at this late date to come between us; and you must never envy me my little share in the boy's friendship."

The two men had risen and now stood before the fire with clasped hands.

"I was an old fool to-night, Jack; that was all," said Mr. Underwood, rather gruffly. "I haven't the knack of saying things that you have,—never had,—but I'm with you all the time."

On the forenoon of the following day Darrell was shown the underground workings of the various mines, not excepting the Bird Mine, located almost at the summit of the mountain. This was the newest mine in camp, but, in proportion to its development, the best producer of all.

After an early dinner there was a private meeting in the reception-room beyond the office, at which were present only Mr. Underwood, Mr. Britton, and Darrell, and at which Mr. Underwood duly tendered to Darrell the position of assayer in charge at the Camp Bird mill, which the latter accepted with a frank and manly gratitude which more than ever endeared him to the hearts of his two friends. In this little proceeding Mr. Britton purposely took no part, standing before the grate, his back towards the others, gazing into the fire as though absorbed in his own thoughts. When all was over, however, he congratulated Darrell with a warmth and tenderness which filled both the heart and the eyes of the latter to overflowing. That night, after their arrival at The Pines, as Mr. Britton and Darrell took their accustomed stroll, the latter said,—

"Mr. Britton, I feel that I have you to thank for my good fortune of to-day. You had nothing to say when Mr. Underwood offered me that position, but, nevertheless, I believe the offer was made at your suggestion. It was, in reality, your kindness, not his."

"You are partly right and partly wrong," replied Mr. Britton, smiling. "Never doubt Mr. Underwood's kindness of heart towards yourself. If I had any part in that affair, it was only to indicate the channel in which that kindness should flow."

Together they talked of the strange course of events which had finally brought him and the work for which he was especially adapted together.

"Do you know," said Mr. Britton, as they paused on the veranda before entering the house, "I am no believer in accident. I believe that of the so-called 'happenings' in our lives, each has its appointed time and mission; and it is not for us to say which is trivial or which is important, until, knowing as we are known, we look back upon life as God sees it."



Chapter VIII

"UNTIL THE DAY BREAK"

A week later Darrell was duly installed at the mining camp. Mr. Britton had already left, called on private business to another part of the State. After his departure, life at The Pines did not seem the same to Darrell. He sorely missed the companionship—amounting almost to comradeship, notwithstanding the disparity of their years—which had existed between them from their first meeting, and he was not sorry when the day came for him to exchange the comfort and luxury with which the kindness of Mr. Underwood and his sister had surrounded him for the rough fare and plain quarters of the mining camp.

Mrs. Dean, when informed of Darrell's position at the camp, had most strenuously objected to his going, and had immediately stipulated that he was to return to The Pines every Saturday and remain until Monday.

"Of course he's coming home every Saturday, and as much oftener as he likes," her brother had interposed. "This is his home, and he understands it without any words from us."

On the morning of his departure he realized as never before the depth of the affection of his host and hostess for himself, manifesting itself as it did in silent, unobtrusive acts of homely but heartfelt kindness. As the storing of Darrell's belongings in the wagon which was to convey him to the camp was about completed, Mrs. Dean appeared, carrying a large, covered basket, with snow-white linen visible between the gaping edges of the lids. This she deposited within the wagon, saying, as she turned to Darrell,—

"There's a few things to last you through the week, just so you don't forget how home cooking tastes."

And at the last moment there was brought from the stables at Mr. Underwood's orders, for Darrell's use in going back and forth between The Pines and the camp, a beautiful bay mare which had belonged to Harry Whitcomb, and which, having sadly missed her young master, greeted Darrell with a low whinny, muzzling his cheek and nosing his pockets for sugar with the most affectionate familiarity.

It was a cold, bleak morning. The ground had frozen after a heavy rain, and the wagon jolted roughly over the ruts in the canyon road, making slow progress. The sky was overcast and straggling snowflakes wandered aimlessly up and down in the still air.

Darrell, from his seat beside the driver, turned occasionally to speak to Trix, the mare, fastened to the rear end of the wagon and daintily picking her way along the rough road. Sometimes he hummed a bit of half-remembered song, but for the most part he was silent. While not attempting any definite analysis of his feelings, he was distinctly conscious of conflicting emotions. He was deeply touched by the kindness of Mr. Underwood and Mrs. Dean, and felt a sort of self-condemnation that he was not more responsive to their affection. He knew that their home and hearts were alike open to him; that he was as welcome as one of their own flesh and blood; yet he experienced a sense of relief at having escaped from the unvarying kindliness for which, at heart, he was profoundly grateful. Even late that night, in the solitude of his plainly furnished room, with the wind moaning outside and the snow tapping with muffled fingers against the window pane, he yet exulted in a sense of freedom and happiness hitherto unknown in the brief period which held all he recalled of life.

The ensuing days and weeks passed pleasantly and swiftly for Darrell. He quickly familiarized himself with the work which he had in charge, and frequently found leisure, when his routine work was done, for experiments and tests of his own, as well as for outside work which came to him as his skill became known in neighboring camps. His evenings were well filled, as he had taken up his old studies along the lines of mineralogy and metallurgy, pushing ahead into new fields of research and discovery, studying by night and experimenting by day. Meanwhile, the rocky peaks around him seemed beckoning him with their talismanic signs, as though silently challenging him to learn the mighty secrets for ages hidden within their breasts, and he promised himself that with the return of lengthening days, he would start forth, a humble learner, to sit at the feet of those great teachers of the centuries. He had occasional letters from Mr. Britton, cheering, inspiring, helpful, much as his presence had been, and in return he wrote freely of his present work and his plans for future work.

Sometimes, when books were closed or the plaintive tones of the violin had died away in silence, he would sit for hours pondering the strange problem of his own life; watching, listening for some sign from out the past; but neither ray of light nor wave of sound came to him. His physician had told him that some day the past would return, and that the intervening months or years as the case might be, would then doubtless be in turn forgotten, and as he revolved this in his mind he formed a plan which he at once proceeded to put into execution.

On his return one night from a special trip to Ophir he went to his room with more than usual haste, and opening a package in which he seemed greatly interested, drew forth what appeared to be a book, about eleven by fifteen inches in size, bound in flexible morocco and containing some five or six hundred pages. The pages were blank, however, and bound according to an ingenious device which he had planned and given the binder, by which they could be removed and replaced at will, and, if necessary, extra pages could be added.

For some time he stood by the light, turning the volume over and over with an expression of mingled pleasure and sadness; then removing some of the pages, he sat down and prepared to write. The new task to which he had set himself was the writing of a complete record, day by day, of this present life of his, beginning with the first glimmerings of memory, faint and confused, in the earliest days of his convalescence at The Pines. He dipped his pen, then hesitated; how should this strange volume be inscribed?

Only for a moment; then his pen was gliding rapidly over the spotless surface, and the first page, when laid aside, bore the following inscription:

"To one from the outer world, whose identity is hidden among the secrets of the past:

"With the hope that when the veil is lifted these pages may assist him in uniting into one perfect whole the strangely disjointed portions of his life, they are inscribed by

"JOHN DARRELL."

Below was the date, and then followed the words,—

"Until the day break, and the shadows flee away."

After penning the last words he paused, repeating them, vainly trying to recall when or where he had heard them. They seemed to ring in his ears like a strain of melody wafted from some invisible shore, and blending with the minor undertone he caught a note of triumph. They had come to him like a voice from out the past, but ringing with joyful assurance for the future; the assurance that the night, however dark, must end in a glorious dawning, in which no haunting shadow would have an abiding-place.



Chapter IX

TWO PORTRAITS

The winter proved to be mild and open, so that Darrell's weekly visits to The Pines were made with almost unbroken regularity, and to his surprise he discovered as the months slipped away that, instead of a mere obligation which he felt bound to perform, they were becoming a source of pleasure. After a week of unremitting toil and study and contact with the rough edges of human nature, there was something unspeakably restful in the atmosphere of that quiet home; something soothing in the silent, steadfast affection, the depth of which he was only beginning to fathom.

One Saturday evening in the latter part of April Darrell was, as usual, descending the canyon road on his way to The Pines. For weeks the winter had lingered as though loath to leave, and Darrell, absorbed in work and study, had gone his way, hiding his loneliness and suffering so deeply as to be ofttimes forgotten even by himself, and at all times unsuspected by those about him. Then, in one night had come the warm breath of the west winds, and within a few hours the earth was transformed as though by magic, and the restless longing within his breast awoke with tenfold intensity.

As he rode along he was astounded at the changes wrought in one week. From the southern slopes of the mountains the snow had almost disappeared and the sunny exposures of the ranges were fast brightening into vivid green. The mountain streams had burst their icy fetters and, augmented by the melting snows, were roaring tumultuously down their channels, tumbling and plunging over rocky ledges in sheets of shimmering silver or foaming cascades; then, their mad frolic ended, flowing peacefully through distant valleys onward to the rivers, ever chanting the song which would one day blend in the great ocean harmonies.

The frail flowers, clinging to the rocks and smiling fearlessly up into the face of the sun, the silvery sheen of the willows along the distant water-courses, the softened outlines and pale green of budding cottonwoods in the valleys far below, all told of the newly released life currents bounding through the veins of every living thing. From the lower part of the canyon, the wild, ecstatic song of a robin came to him on the evening breeze, and in the slanting sunbeams myriads of tiny midges held high carnival. The whole earth seemed pulsating with new life, and tree and flower, bird and insect were filled anew with the unspeakable joy of living.

Amid this universal baptism of life, what wonder that he felt his own pulse quicken and the warm life-blood leaping swiftly within his veins! His heart but throbbed in unison with the great heart of Nature, but its very beating stifled him as the sense of his own restrictions came back upon him with crushing weight. For one moment he paused, his spirit struggling wildly against the bars imprisoning it; then, with a look towards the skies of dumb, appealing anguish, he rode onward, his head bowed, his heart sick with unutterable longing.

Arriving at The Pines, he received the usual welcome, but neither its undemonstrative affection nor the restful quiet of the old home could soothe or satisfy him that night. But if his host and hostess noted the gloom on his face or his restless manner they made no comments and asked no questions.

On going upstairs at a late hour he went across the hall to the libraries in search of a book with which to pass away the time, as he was unable to sleep. He had no definite book in mind and wandered aimlessly through both rooms, reading titles in an abstracted manner, until he came at last face to face with the picture of Kate Underwood.

He had seen it many times without especially observing it, but in his present mood it appealed to him as never before. The dark eyes seemed fixed upon his face with a look of entreaty from which he could not escape, and, drawing a chair in front of the easel, he sat down and became absorbed in a study of the picture. Heretofore he had considered it merely the portrait of a very young and somewhat plain girl. Now he was surprised to find that the more it was studied in detail, the more favorable was the impression produced. Though childish and immature, there was not a weak line in the face. The nose and mouth were especially fine, the former denoting distinct individuality, the latter marked strength and sweetness of character; and while the upper part of the face indicated keen perceptions and quick sympathies, the general contour showed a nature strong either to do or to endure. The eyes were large and beautiful, but it was not their beauty which riveted Darrell's attention; it was their look of wistful appeal, of unsatisfied longing, which led him at last to murmur, while his eyes moistened,—

"You dear child! How is it that in your short life, surrounded by all that love can provide, you have come to know such heart hunger as that?"

Long after he had returned to his room those eyes still haunted him, nor could he banish the conviction that some time, somewhere, in that young life there had been an unfilled void which in some degree, however slight, corresponded to the blank emptiness of his own.

The next morning Darrell attended church with Mrs. Dean. The latter was a strict church-woman, and Darrell, by way of showing equal courtesy to host and hostess, usually accompanied her in the morning, devoting the afternoon to Mr. Underwood.

After lunch he and Mr. Underwood seated themselves in one of the sunny bay-windows for their customary chat, Mrs. Dean having gone to her room for the afternoon nap which was as much a part of her Sunday programme as the morning sermon.

For a while they talked of the latest developments at the mines, but Mr. Underwood seemed preoccupied, gazing out of the window and frowning heavily. At last, after a long silence, he said, slowly,—

"I expect we're going to have trouble at the camp this season."

"How is that?" Darrell asked quickly, in a tone of surprise.

"Oh, it's some of this union business," the other answered, with a gesture of impatience, "and about the most foolish proposition I ever heard of, at that. But," he added, decidedly, "they know my position; they know they'll get no quarter from me. I've steered clear of them so far; they've let me alone and I've let them alone, but when it comes to a parcel of union bosses undertaking to run my business or make terms to me, I'll fight 'em to a finish, and they know it."

Darrell, watching the face of the speaker, saw the lines about his mouth harden and his lips settle into a grim smile that boded no good to his opponents.

"What do they want—higher wages or shorter hours?" he inquired.

"Neither," said Mr. Underwood, shortly, as he re-lighted his pipe. After a few puffs he continued:

"As I said before, it's the most foolish proposition I ever heard of. You see, there's five or six camps, all told, in the neighborhood of our camp up there. One or two of the lot, like the Buckeye group, for instance, are run by men that haven't much capital, and I suppose are working as economically as they can. Anyhow, there's been some kicking over there among the miners about the grub, and the upshot of the whole thing is that the union has taken the matter in hand and is going to open a union boarding-house and take in the men from all the camps at six bits a day for each man, instead of the regular rate of a dollar a day charged by the mining companies."

"The scale of wages to remain the same, I suppose," said Darrell; "so that means a gain to each man of twenty-five cents a day?"

"Exactly," said Mr. Underwood. "It means a gain of two bits a day to each man; it means loss and inconvenience to the companies, and it means a big pile of money in the pockets of the bosses who are running the thing."

"There are not many of the owners up there that can stand that sort of thing," said Darrell, reflectively.

"Of course they can't stand it, and they won't stand it if they've got any backbone! Take Dwight and Huntley; they've been to heavy expense in enlarging their mill and have just put up a new boarding-house, and they're in debt; they can't afford to have all that work and expenditure for nothing. Now, with us the loss wouldn't be so great as with the others, for we don't make so much out of our boarding-house. My motto has always been 'Live and let live,' and I give my men a good table,—just what I'd want for myself if I were in their places. It isn't the financial part that troubles me. What I object to is this: I won't have my men tramping three-quarters of a mile for meals that won't be as good as they can get right on their own grounds; more than that, I've got a good, likely set of men, and I won't have them demoralized by herding them in with the tough gangs from those other camps; and above all and once for all,"—here Mr. Underwood's tones became excited as he exclaimed, with an oath,—"I've always been capable of running my own business, and I'll run it yet, and no damned union boss will ever run it for me!"

"How do the men feel about it? Have you talked with them?" Darrell inquired.

"There isn't one of them that's dissatisfied or would leave of his own free will," Mr. Underwood replied, "but I don't suppose they would dare to stand out against the bosses. Why, man, if the workingmen only knew it, they are ten times worse slaves to the union bosses than ever they were to corporations. They have to pay over their wages to let those fellows live like nabobs; they have to come and go at their beck and call, and throw up good positions and live in enforced idleness because of some other fellows' grievances; they don't dare express an opinion or say their souls are their own. Humph!"

"Mr. Underwood," said Darrell, who had been smilingly listening to the other's tirade, "what will you do if this comes to a strike?"

"Strike!" he exclaimed in tones of scathing contempt. "Strike? I'll strike too, and they'll find I can strike just as hard as they can, and a little harder!"

"Will you close down?"

The shrewd face grew a bit shrewder. "If it's necessary to close down," he remarked, evasively, "I'll close down. I guess I can stand it as long as they can. Those mines have lain there in those rocks idle for centuries, for aught that I know; 'twon't hurt 'em to lie idle a few weeks or months now; nobody'll run off with 'em, I guess."

Darrell laughed aloud. "Well, one thing is certain, Mr. Underwood; I, for one, wouldn't want to quarrel with you!"

Mr. Underwood slowly shook his head. "You'd better not try it, my boy; you'd better not!"

"When do you expect this trouble to come to a head?" Darrell asked at length.

"Some time in the early part of July, probably; they expect to get their arrangements completed by that time."

A long silence followed; Mrs. Dean came softly into the room and took her accustomed seat, and, as Mr. Underwood made it a point never to talk of business matters in his sister's presence, nothing more was said regarding the prospective disturbance at the mines.

After dinner the beauty of the sunset brought them out upon the veranda. The air was warm and fragrant with the breath of spring. The buds were swelling on the lilacs near the house, and out on the lawn, beyond the driveway, millions of tiny spears of living green trembled in the light breeze.

"David," said Mrs. Dean, presently, "have you shown Mr. Darrell that picture of Katherine that came yesterday?"

"I declare! No; I had forgotten it!" Mr. Underwood exclaimed.

"It's well for you she isn't here to hear you say that!" Mrs. Dean remarked, smiling.

"Puss knows her old father well enough to know he wouldn't forget her very long. Bring the picture out, Marcia."

Darrell heard Mrs. Dean approaching, and turned, with the glory of the sunset in his eyes.

"Don't you want to see Katherine's new picture?" she inquired.

Her words instantly recalled the portrait he had studied the preceding night, and with that in his mind he took the picture she handed him and silently compared the two.

Ah, the beauty of the spring, everywhere confronting him, was in that face also; the joy of a life as yet pure, untainted, and untrammelled. It was like looking into the faces of the spring flowers which reflect only the sunshine, the purity and the sweetness of earth. There was a touch of womanly dignity, too, in the poise of the head, but the beautiful eyes, though lighted with the faint dawn of coming womanhood, were the same as those that had appealed to him the night before with their wistful longing.

"It is a fine portrait, but as I do not remember her, I cannot judge whether it is like herself or not," he said, handing the picture to Mr. Underwood, who seemed almost to devour it with his eyes, though he spoke no word and not a muscle moved in his stern, immobile face.

"She is getting to be such a young lady," remarked Mrs. Dean, "that I expect when she comes home we will feel as though she had grown away from us all."

"She will never do that, Marcia, never!" said Mr. Underwood, brusquely, as he abruptly left the group and went into the house.

There was a moment's silence, then Mrs. Dean said, in a low tone,—

"She is getting to look just like her mother. I haven't seen David so affected since his wife died as he was when that picture came yesterday."

Darrell bowed silently, in token that he understood.

"She was a lovely woman, but she was very different from any of our folks," she added, with a sigh, "and I guess Katherine is going to be just like her."

"When is Miss Underwood expected home?" Darrell inquired.

"About the last of June," was the reply.

Long after the sun had set Darrell paced up and down the veranda, pausing at intervals to gaze with unseeing eyes out over the peaceful scene below him, his only companions his own troubled thoughts. The young moon was shining, and in its pale radiance his set face gleamed white like marble.

Like, and yet unlike, it was to the face of the sleeper journeying westward on that summer afternoon eight months before. Experience, the mighty sculptor, was doing his work, and doing it well; only a few lines as yet, here and there, and the face was already stronger, finer. But it was the face of one hardened by his own sufferings, not softened by the sufferings of others. The sculptor's work was as yet only begun.



Chapter X

THE COMMUNION OF TWO SOULS

Gradually the springtide crept upward into the heart of the mountains, quickening the pulses of the rocks themselves until even the mosses and lichens slumbering at their feet awakened to renewed life. Bits of green appeared wherever a grass root could push its way through the rocky soil, and fragile wild flowers gleamed, starlike, here and there, fed by tiny rivulets which trickled from slowly melting snows on the summits far above.

With the earliest warm days Darrell had started forth to explore the surrounding mountains, eager to learn the secrets which they seemed ever challenging him to discover. New conditions confronted him, sometimes baffling him, but always inciting to renewed effort. His enthusiasm was so aroused that often, when his day's work was done, taking a light lunch with him, he pursued his studies while the daylight lasted, walking back in the long twilight, and in the solitude of his room making full notes of the results of that day's research before retiring for the night.

Returning one evening from one of these expeditions he saw, pacing back and forth before the office building, a figure which he at once recognized as that of Mr. Britton. Instantly all thought of work or weariness was forgotten, and he hastened forward, while Mr. Britton, catching sight of Darrell rapidly approaching, turned and came down the road to meet him.

"A thousand welcomes!" Darrell cried, as soon as they were within speaking distance; "say, but this is glorious to see you here! How long have I kept you waiting?"

"A few hours, but that does not matter; it does us good to have to stop and call a halt on ourselves once in a while. How are you, my son?" And as the two grasped hands the elder man looked searchingly through the gathering dusk into the face of the younger. Even in the dim twilight, Darrell could feel that penetrating glance reading his inmost soul.

"I am well and doing well," he answered; "my physical health is perfect; as for the rest—your coming is the very best thing that could have happened. Are you alone?" he asked, eagerly, "or did Mr. Underwood come with you?"

"I came alone," Mr. Britton replied, with quiet emphasis, linking his arm within Darrell's as they ascended the road together.

"How long have you been in town?"

"But two days. I am on my way to the coast, and only stopped off for a few days. I shall spend to-morrow with you, go back with you Saturday to The Pines, and go on my way Monday."

Having made his guest as comfortable as possible in his own room, Darrell laid aside his working paraphernalia, his hammer, and bag of rock specimens, and donning a house coat and pair of slippers seated himself near Mr. Britton, all the time conscious of the close but kindly scrutiny with which the latter was regarding him.

"This is delightful!" he exclaimed; "but it is past my comprehension how Mr. Underwood ever let you slip off alone!"

Mr. Britton looked amused. "I told him I was coming to see you, and I think he intended coming with me till he heard me order my saddle-horse for the trip. I think that settled the matter. I believe there can be no perfect interchange of confidence except between two. The presence of a third party—even though a mutual friend—breaks the magnetic circuit and weakens the current of sympathy. Our interviews are necessarily rare, and I want to make the most of them; therefore I would come to you alone or not at all."

"Yes," Darrell replied; "your visits are so rare that every moment is precious to me, and think of the hours I lost by my absence to-day!"

"Do you court Dame Nature so assiduously every day, subsisting on cold lunches and tramping the mountains till nightfall?"

"Not every day, but as often as possible," Darrell replied, smiling.

"And I suppose if I were not here you would now be burrowing into that pile over there?" Mr. Britton said, glancing significantly towards the table covered to a considerable depth with books of reference, note-books, writing-pads, and sheets of closely written manuscript.

"Let me show you what I am doing; it will take but a moment," said Darrell, springing to his feet.

He drew forth several sets of extensive notes on researches and experiments he was making along various lines of study, in which Mr. Britton became at once deeply interested.

"You have a good thing here; stick to it!" he said at length, looking up from the perusal of Darrell's geological notes, gathered from his studies of the rock formations in that vicinity. "You have a fine field in which to pursue this branch, and with the knowledge you already have on this subject and the discoveries you are likely to make, you may be able to make some very valuable contributions to the science one of these days."

"That is just what I hope to do!" exclaimed Darrell eagerly; "just what I am studying for day and night!"

"But you must use moderation," said Mr. Britton, smiling at the younger man's enthusiasm; "you are young, you have years before you in which to do this work, and this constant study, night and day, added to your regular routine work, is too much for you. You are looking fagged already."

"If I am, it is not the work that is fagging me," Darrell replied, quickly, his tones becoming excited; "Mr. Britton, I must work; I must accomplish all I can for two reasons. You say I have years before me in which to do this work. God knows I hope I haven't got to work years like this,—only half alive, you might say,—and when the change comes, if it ever does, you know, of course, I cannot and would not remain here."

"I understand you would not remain here," said Mr. Britton slowly, and laying his hand soothingly on the arm of his agitated companion, "but you can readily see that not only your education, but your natural trend of thought, is along these lines; therefore, when you are fully restored to your normal self you will be the more—not the less—interested in these things, and I predict that no matter when the time comes for you to leave, you will, after a while, return to continue this same line of work amid the same surroundings, but, we hope, under far happier conditions."

Darrell shook his head slowly. "It does not seem to me that I would ever wish to return to a place where I had suffered as I have here."

Mr. Britton smiled, one of his slow, sad, sweet smiles that Darrell loved to watch, that seemed to dawn in his eyes and gradually to spread until every feature was irradiated with a tender, beneficent light.

"I once thought as you do," he said, gently, "but after years of wandering, I find that the place most sacred to me now is that hallowed by the bitterest agony of my life."

Without replying Darrell unconsciously drew nearer to his friend, and a brief silence followed, broken by Mr. Britton, who inquired, in a lighter tone,—

"What is the other reason for your constant application to your work? You said there were two."

Darrell bowed his head upon his hands as he answered in a low, despairing tone,—

"To stop thinking, thinking, thinking; it will drive me mad!"

"I have been there, my boy; I know," Mr. Britton responded; then, after a pause, he continued:

"Something in the tenor of your last letter made me anxious to come to you. I thought I detected something of the old restlessness. Has the coming of spring, quickening the life forces all around you, stirred the life currents in your own veins till your spirit is again tugging at its fetters in its struggles for release?"

With a startled movement Darrell raised his head, meeting the clear eyes fixed upon him.

"How could you know?" he demanded.

"Because, as Emerson says, 'the heart in thee is the heart of all.' There are few hearts whose pulses are not stirred by the magic influence of the springtide, and under its potent spell I knew you would feel your present limitations even more keenly than ever before."

"Thank God, you understand!" Darrell exclaimed; then continued, passionately: "The last three weeks have been torture to me if I but allowed myself one moment's thought. Wherever I look I see life—life, perfect and complete in all its myriad forms—the life that is denied to me! This is not living,—this existence of mine,—with brain shackled, fettered, in many ways helpless as a child, knowing less than a child, and not even mercifully wrapped in oblivion, but compelled to feel the constant goading and galling of the fetters, to be reminded of them at every turn! My God! if it were not for constant work and study I would go mad!"

In the silence which followed Darrell's mind reverted to that autumn day on which he had first met John Britton and confided to him his trouble; and now, as then, he was soothed and strengthened by the presence beside him, by the magnetism of that touch, although no word was spoken.

As he reviewed their friendship of the past months he became conscious for the first time of its one-sidedness. He had often unburdened himself to his friend, confiding to him his griefs, and receiving in turn sympathy and counsel; but of the great, unknown sorrow that had wrought such havoc in his own life, what word had John Britton ever spoken? As Darrell recalled the bearing of his friend through all their acquaintance and his silence regarding his own sufferings, his eyes grew dim. The man at his side seemed, in the light of that revelation, stronger, grander, nobler than ever before; not unlike to the giant peaks whose hoary heads then loomed darkly against the starlit sky, calm, silent, majestic, giving no token of the throes of agony which, ages agone, had rent them asunder except in the mystic symbols graven on their furrowed brows. In that light his own complaints seemed puerile. At that moment Darrell was conscious of a new fortitude born within his soul; a new purpose, henceforth to dominate his life.

A heavy sigh from Mr. Britton broke the silence. "I know the fetters are galling," he said, "but have patience and hope, for, at the time appointed, the shackles will be loosened, the fetters broken."

Darrell faced his companion, a new light in his eyes but recently so dark with despair, as he asked, earnestly and tenderly,—

"Dearest and best of friends, is there no time appointed for the lifting of the burden borne so nobly and uncomplainingly, 'lo, these many years?'"

With a grave, sweet smile the elder man shook his head, and, rising, began pacing up and down the room. "There are some burdens, my son, that time cannot lift; they can only be laid down at the gates of eternity."

With a strange, choking sensation in his throat Darrell rose, and, going to the window, stood looking out at the dim outlines of the neighboring peaks. Their vast solitude no longer oppressed him as at the first; it calmed and soothed him in his restless moods, and to-night those grim monarchs dwelling in silent fellowship seemed to him the embodiment of peace and rest.

After a time Mr. Britton paused beside him, and, throwing his arm about his shoulders, asked,—

"What are your thoughts, my son?"

"Only a whim, a fancy that has taken possession of me the last few days, since my wanderings among the mountains," he answered, lightly; "a longing to bury myself in some sort of a retreat on one of these old peaks and devote myself to study."

"And live a hermit's life?" Mr. Britton queried, with a peculiar smile.

"For a while, yes," Darrell replied, more seriously; "until I have learned to fight these battles out by myself, and to conquer myself."

"There are battles," said the other, speaking thoughtfully, "which are waged best in solitude, but self is conquered only by association with one's fellows. Solitude breeds selfishness."

Mr. Britton had resumed his pacing up and down, but a few moments later, as he approached Darrell, the latter turned, suddenly confronting him.

"My dear friend," he said, "you have been everything to me; you have done everything for me; I ask you to do one thing more,—forgive and answer this question: How have you conquered?"

The look of pain that crossed his companion's face filled Darrell with regret for what he had said, but before he could speak again Mr. Britton replied gently, with his old smile,—

"I doubt whether I have yet wholly conquered; but whatever victory is mine, I have won, not in solitude and seclusion, but in association with the sorrowing, the suffering, the sinning, and in sharing their burdens I found rest from my own."

He paused a moment, then continued, his glowing eyes holding Darrell as though under a spell:

"I know not why, but since our first meeting you have given me a new interest, a new joy in life. I have been drawn to you and I have loved you as I thought never again to love any human being, and some day I will tell you what I have told no other human being,—the story of my life."

On Saturday Mr. Britton and Darrell returned to The Pines. The increasing intimacy between them was evident even there. For the last day or so Mr. Britton had fallen into the habit of addressing Darrell by his Christian name, much to the latter's delight. For this Mrs. Dean laughingly called him to account, compelling Mr. Britton to come to his own defence.

"'John,'" he exclaimed; "of course I'll call him 'John.' It seems wonderfully pleasant to me. I've always wanted a namesake, and I can consider him one."

"A namesake!" ejaculated Mrs. Dean, smiling broadly; "I wonder if there's a poor family or one that's seen trouble of any kind anywhere around here that hasn't a 'John Britton' among its children! I should think you had namesakes enough now!"

"One might possibly like to have one of his own selection," he replied, dryly.

As Darrell took leave of Mr. Britton the following Monday morning the latter said,—

"By the way, John, whenever you are ready to enter upon that hermit life let me know; I'll provide the hermitage."

"Are you joking?" Darrell queried, unable to catch his meaning.

"Never more serious in my life," he replied, with such unusual gravity that Darrell forbore to question further.



Chapter XI

IMPENDING TROUBLE

The five or six weeks following Mr. Britton's visit passed so swiftly that Darrell was scarcely conscious of their flight. His work at the mill, which had been increased by valuable strikes recently made in the mines, in addition to considerable outside work in the way of attests and assays, had left him little time for study or experiment. For nearly three weeks he had not left the mining camp, the last two Saturdays having found him too weary with the preceding week's work to undertake the long ride to Ophir.

During this time Mr. Underwood had been a frequent visitor at the camp, led not only by his interest in the mining developments, but also by his curiosity regarding the progress made by the union in the construction of its boarding-house, and also to watch the effect on his own employees.

Entering the laboratory one day after one of his rounds of the camp, he stood for some time silently watching Darrell at his work.

"In case of a shut-down here," he said at length, speaking abruptly, "how would you like a clerical position in my office down there at Ophir,—book-keeping or something of the sort,—just temporarily, you know?"

Darrell looked up from his work in surprise. "Do you regard a shut-down as imminent?" he inquired, smiling.

"Well, yes; there's no half-way measures with me. No man that works for me will go off the grounds for his meals. But that isn't answering my question."

Darrell's face grew serious. "You forget, Mr. Underwood, that until I am put to the test, I have no means of knowing whether or not I can do the work you wish done."

"By George! I never once thought of that!" Mr. Underwood exclaimed, somewhat embarrassed, adding, hastily, "but then, I didn't mean book-keeping in particular, but clerical work generally; copying instruments, looking up records, and so on. You see, it's like this," he continued, seating himself near Darrell; "I'm thinking of taking in a partner—not in this mining business, it has nothing to do with that, but just in my mortgage-loan business down there; and in case I do, we'll need two or three additional clerks and book-keepers, and I thought you might like to come in just temporarily until we resume operations here. Of course, the salary wouldn't be so very much, but I thought it might be better than nothing to bridge over."

"How long do you expect to be closed down here, Mr. Underwood?"

"Until the men come to their senses or we find others to take their places," the elder man answered, decidedly; "it may be six weeks or it may be six months. I was talking with Dwight, from the Buckeye Camp, this morning. He says they've been to too much expense to put up with the proposition for a moment; they simply can't stand it, and won't; they'll shut down and pull out first. I don't believe that mine is paying very well, anyway."

"Mr. Underwood," said Darrell, slowly, "if this were a question of accommodation to yourself, of coming into your office and helping you out personally, I would gladly do it; salary would be no object; but to take a merely clerical position for an indefinite time when I have a good, lucrative profession does not seem to me a very wise policy. There must be plenty of assaying to be done in Ophir; why couldn't I temporarily open an office there?"

"I guess there's no reason why you couldn't if you want to," Mr. Underwood replied, evidently disappointed by Darrell's reply and eying him sharply, "and if you want to open up an office of your own there's plenty of room for you in our building. You know the building was formerly occupied by one of Ophir's wildcat banks that collapsed in the general crash six years ago, and there's a fine lot of private offices in the rear, opening on the side street; one of those rooms fitted up would be just the place for you."

"Much obliged," said Darrell, smiling; "we'll see about it if the time comes that I need it. Possibly your prospective partner will have use for all the private offices."

"I guess I'll have some say about that," Mr. Underwood returned, gruffly; then, after a short pause, he continued: "I haven't fully decided about this partnership business. I talked it over with Jack when he was here, but he didn't seem to favor the idea; told me that at my age I had better let well enough alone. I told him that I didn't see what my age had to do with it, that I was capable of looking after my own interests, partner or no partner, but that I'd no objection to having some one else take the brunt of the work while I looked on."

"Is the man a stranger or an acquaintance?" Darrell inquired.

"I'm not personally acquainted with him, but he's not exactly a stranger, for he's lived in Ophir, off and on, for the last five years. His name is Walcott. He says his father is an Englishman and very wealthy; he himself, I should judge, has some Spanish blood in his veins. He spends part of his time in Texas, where he has heavy cattle interests; in fact, has been there for the greater part of the past year. He wants to go into the mortgage-loan business, and offers to put in seventy-five thousand and give his personal attention to the business for thirty-three and a third per cent. of the profits."

"What has been his business in Ophir all these years?"

"Life insurance mostly, I believe; had two offices, one in Ophir and one at Galena, and has also done some private loan business."

"What sort of a reputation has he?"

"First-rate. I've made a number of inquiries about him in both places, and nobody has a word to say against him; very quiet, minds his own business, a man of few words; just about my sort of a man, I should judge," Mr. Underwood concluded as he rose from his chair.

"Well, Mr. Underwood," said Darrell, "whatever arrangements you decide to make, I wish you success."

"No more than I do you, my boy, in anything your pig-headedness leads you into," Mr. Underwood replied, brusquely, but with a humorous twinkle in his eyes. "Confound you!" he added; "I'd help you if you'd give me a chance, but maybe it's best to let you 'gang your ain gait.'" And he walked out of the room before Darrell could reply.

A moment later he looked in at the door. "By the way, if you're not at The Pines by five o'clock sharp next Saturday afternoon, Marcia says she's going to send an officer up here after you with a writ of habeas corpus, or something of the sort."

"All right; I'll be there," Darrell laughed.

"You'll find the old place a bit brighter than you've seen it yet, for we had a letter from Puss this morning that she'll be home to-morrow."

With the last words the door closed and Darrell was left alone with his thoughts, to which, however, he could then give little time. But when the day's work was done he went for a stroll, and, seating himself upon a large rock, carefully reviewed the situation.

Hitherto he had given little thought to the impending trouble at the camp, supposing it would affect himself but slightly; but he now realized that a suspension of operations there would mean an entire change in his mode of living. The prospective change weighed on his sensitive spirits like an incubus. Even The Pines, he dismally reflected, would no longer seem the same quiet, homelike retreat, since it was to be invaded and dominated by a youthful presence between whom and himself there would probably be little congeniality.

But finally telling himself that these reflections were childish, he rose as the last sunset rays were sinking behind the western ranges and the rosy flush on the summits was fading, and, walking swiftly to his room, resolutely buried himself in his studies.



Chapter XII

NEW LIFE IN THE OLD HOME

On the following Saturday, as Darrell ascended the long driveway leading to The Pines, he was startled at the transformation which the place had undergone since last he was there. The rolling lawn seemed carpeted with green velvet, enlivened here and there with groups of beautiful foliage plants. Fountains were playing in the sunlight, their glistening spray tinted with rainbow lights. Flowers bloomed in profusion, their colors set off by the gray background of the stone walls of the house. The syringas by the bay-windows were bent to the ground with their burden of snowy blossoms, whose fragrance, mingled with that of the June roses, greeted him as he approached. He forgot his three weeks' absence and the rapid growth in that high altitude; the change seemed simply magical. Then, as he caught a glimpse through the pines of a slender, girlish figure, dressed in white, darting hither and thither, he wondered no longer; it was but the fit accompaniment of the young, joyous life which had come to the old place.

As he came out into the open, he saw a young girl romping up and down before the house with a fine Scotch collie, and he could not restrain a smile as he recalled Mrs. Dean's oft-repeated declaration that there was one thing she would never tolerate, and that was a dog or a cat about the house. She had not yet seen him; but when she did, the frolic ceased and she started towards the house. Then suddenly she stopped, as though she recognized some one or something, and stood awaiting his approach, her lips parted in a smile, two small, shapely hands shading her eyes from the sun. As he came nearer, he had time to note the lithe, supple figure, just rounding into the graceful outlines of womanhood; the full, smiling lips, the flushed cheeks, and the glint of gold in her brown hair; and the light, the beauty, the fragrance surrounding her seemed an appropriate setting to the picture. She was a part of the scene.

Darrell, of course, had no knowledge of his own age, but at that moment he felt very remote from the embodiment of youth before him; he seemed to himself to have been suddenly relegated to the background, among the elder members of the family.

The collie had been standing beside his mistress with his head on one side, regarding Darrell with a sharp, inquisitive look, and he now broke the silence, which threatened to prove rather embarrassing, with a short bark.

"Hush, Duke!" said the girl, in a low tone; then, as Darrell dismounted, she came swiftly towards him, extending her hand.

"This is Mr. Darrell, I know," she said, speaking quite rapidly in a clear, musical voice, without a shade of affectation, "and you probably know who I am, so we will need no introduction."

"Yes, Miss Underwood," said Darrell, smiling into the beautiful brown eyes, "I would have recognized you anywhere from your picture."

"And you have Trix, haven't you?" she exclaimed, turning to caress the mare. "Dear old Trix! Just let her go, Mr. Darrell; she will go to the stables of her own accord and Bennett will take care of her; that was the way Harry taught her. Go find Bennett, Trix!"

They watched Trix follow the driveway and disappear around the corner, then both turned towards the house.

"Auntie is out just now," said the girl; "she had to go down town, but I am expecting her back every minute. Will you go into the house, Mr. Darrell, or do you prefer a seat on the veranda?"

"The veranda looks inviting; suppose we sit here," Darrell suggested.

They had reached the steps leading to the entrance. On the top step the collie had seated himself and was now awaiting their approach with the air of one expecting due recognition.

"Mr. Darrell," said the young girl, with a merry little laugh, "allow me to present you to His Highness, the Duke of Argyle!"

The collie gave his head a slight backward toss, and, with great dignity, extended his right paw to Darrell, which the latter, instantly entering into the spirit of the joke, took, saying, with much gravity,—

"I am pleased to meet His Highness!"

The girl's brown eyes danced with enjoyment.

"You have made a friend of him for life, now," she said as they seated themselves, Duke stationing himself at her side in such a manner as to show his snow-white vest and great double ruff to the best possible advantage. "He is a very aristocratic dog, and if any one fails to show him what he considers proper respect, he is greatly affronted."

"He certainly is a royal-looking fellow," said Darrell, "but I cannot imagine how you ever gained Mrs. Dean's consent to his presence here. You must possess even more than the ordinary powers of feminine persuasion."

"Aunt Marcia?" laughed the girl; "oh, well, you see it was a case of 'love me, love my dog.' Wherever I go, Duke must go, so auntie had to submit to the inevitable."

Darrell found the situation far less embarrassing than he had expected. His young companion, with keen, womanly intuition, had divined something of his feeling, and tactfully avoiding any allusion to their previous meeting, of which he had no recollection, kept the conversation on subjects within the brief span of his memory. She seemed altogether unconscious of the peculiar conditions surrounding himself, and the brown eyes, meeting his own so frankly, had in their depths nothing of the curiosity or the pity he had so often encountered, and had grown to dread. She appeared so childlike and unaffected, and her joyous, rippling laughter proved so contagious, that unconsciously the extra years which a few moments before seemed to have been added to his life dropped away; the grave, tense lines of his face relaxed, and before he was aware he was laughing heartily at the account of some school-girl escapade or at some tricks performed by Duke for his especial entertainment.

In the midst of their merriment they heard the sound of hoof-beats, and, turning, saw the family carriage approaching, containing both Mr. Underwood and his sister.

"You two children seem to be enjoying yourselves!" was Mr. Underwood's comment as the carriage stopped.

Darrell sprang to Mrs. Dean's assistance as she alighted, while Kate Underwood ran down the steps to meet her father. Both greeted Darrell warmly, but Mrs. Dean retained his hand a moment as she looked at him with genuine motherly interest.

"I'm glad the truant has returned," she said, with her quiet smile; "I only hope it seems as good to you to come home as it does to us to have you here!"

Darrell was touched by her unusual kindness. "You can rest assured that it does, mother," he said, earnestly. He was astonished at the effect of his words: her face flushed, her lips trembled, and as she passed on into the house her eyes glistened with tears.

Darrell looked about him in bewilderment. "What have I said?" he questioned; "how did I wound her feelings?"

"She lost a son years ago, and she's never got over it," Mr. Underwood explained, briefly.

"You did not hurt her feelings—she was pleased," Kate hastened to reassure him; "but did she never speak to you about it?"

"Never," Darrell replied.

"Well, that is not to be wondered at, for she seldom alludes to it. He died years ago, before I can remember, but she always grieves for him; that was the reason," she added, reflectively, half to herself, "that she always loved Harry better than she did me."

"Better than you, you jealous little Puss!" said her father, pinching her cheek; "don't you have love enough, I'd like to know?"

"I can never have too much, you know, papa," she answered, very seriously, and Darrell, watching, saw in the brown eyes for the first time the wistful look he had seen in the two portraits.

She soon followed her aunt, but her father and Darrell remained outside talking of business matters until summoned to dinner. On entering the house Darrell saw on every hand evidences of the young life in the old home. There was just a pleasant touch of disorder in the rooms he had always seen kept with such precision: here a bit of unfinished embroidery; there a book open, face down, just where the fair reader had left it; the piano was open and sheets of music lay scattered over it. From every side came the fragrance of flowers, and in the usually sombre dining-room Darrell noted the fireplace nearly concealed by palms and potted plants, the chandelier trimmed with trailing vines, the epergne of roses and ferns on the table, and the tiny boutonnieres at his plate and Mr. Underwood's. With a smile of thanks at the happy young face opposite, he appropriated the one intended for himself, but Mr. Underwood, picking up the one beside his plate, sat twirling it in his fingers with a look of mock perplexity.

"Puss has introduced so many of her folderols I haven't got used to them yet," he said. "How is this to be taken,—before eating, or after?" he inquired, looking at her from under heavy, frowning brows.

"To be taken! Oh, papa!" she ejaculated; "why don't you put it on as Mr. Darrell has his? Here, I'll fix it for you!"

With an air of resignation he waited while she fastened the flowers in the lapel of his coat, giving the latter an approving little pat as she finished.

"There!" she exclaimed; "you ought to see how nice you look!"

"H'm! I'm glad to hear it," he grunted; "I feel like a prize steer at a county fair!"

In the laughter which followed Kate joined as merrily as the rest, and no one but Darrell observed the deepening flush on her cheek or heard the tremulous sigh when the laughter was ended.

After dinner they adjourned to the large sitting-room, Mr. Underwood with his pipe, Mrs. Dean with her knitting, and Darrell, while conversing with the former, watched with a new interest the latter's placid face, wondering at the depth of feeling concealed beneath that calm exterior.

As the twilight deepened and conversation began to flag, there came from the piano a few sweet chords, followed by one of Chopin's dreamy nocturnes. Mr. Underwood began to doze in his chair, and Darrell sat silent, his eyes closed, his whole soul given up to the spell of the music. Unconscious of the pleasure she was giving, Kate played till the room was veiled in darkness; then going to the fireplace she lighted the fire already laid—for the nights were still somewhat chilly—and sat down on a low seat before the fire, while Duke came and lay at her feet. It was a pretty picture; the young girl in white, her eyes fixed dreamily on the glowing embers, the firelight dancing over her form and face and lighting up her hair with gleams of gold; the dog at her feet, his head thrown proudly back, and his eyes fastened on her face with a look of loyal devotion seldom seen even in human eyes.

Happening to glance in Mr. Underwood's direction Darrell saw pride, pleasure, and pain struggling for the mastery in the father's face as he watched the picture in the firelight. Pain won, and with a sudden gesture of impatience he covered his eyes with his hand, as though to shut out the scene. It was but a little thing, but taken in connection with the incident before dinner, it appealed to Darrell, showing, as it did, the silent, stoical manner in which these people bore their grief.

Mrs. Dean's quiet voice interrupted his musings and broke the spell which the music seemed to have thrown around them.

"You will have some one now, Katherine, to accompany you on the violin, as you have always wanted; Mr. Darrell is a fine violinist."

Kate was instantly all animation. "Oh, that will be delightful, Mr. Darrell!" she exclaimed, eagerly; "there is nothing I enjoy so much as a violin accompaniment; it adds so much expression to the music. I think a piano alone is so unsympathetic; you can't get any feeling out of it!"

"I'm afraid, Miss Underwood, I will prove a disappointment to you," Darrell replied; "I have never yet attempted any new music, or even to play by note, and don't know what success I would have, if any. So far I have only played what drifts to me—some way, I don't know how—from out of the past."

The unconscious sadness in his voice stirred the depths of Kate's tender heart. "Oh, that is too bad!" she exclaimed, quickly, thinking, not of her own disappointment, but of his trouble of which she had unwittingly reminded him; then she added, gently, almost timidly,—

"But you will, at any rate, let me hear you play, won't you?"

"Certainly, if it will give you any pleasure," he replied, with a slight smile.

"Very well; then we will arrange it this way," she continued, her cheerful manner restored; "you will play your music, and, if I am familiar with it, I will accompany you on the piano. I will get out Harry's violin to-morrow, and while auntie is taking her nap and papa is engaged, we will see what we can accomplish in a musical way."

Before Darrell could reply, Mr. Underwood, who had started from his revery, demanded,—

"What engagement are you talking about, you chatterbox?"

"I can't say, papa," she replied, playfully seating herself on the arm of his chair; "I only know that when I asked your company for a walk to-morrow afternoon, you pleaded a very important engagement. Now, how is that?" she asked archly; "have you an engagement, really, or didn't you care for my society?"

"Why, yes, to be sure; it had escaped my mind for the moment," her father answered, rather vaguely she thought; then, looking at Darrell, he said,—

"Walcott is coming to-morrow for my final decision in that matter."

Darrell bowed in token that he understood, but did not feel at liberty to inquire whether the decision was to be favorable to Mr. Walcott, or otherwise. Kate glanced quickly from one to the other, but before she could speak her father continued:

"I rather think if he consents to two or three conditions which I shall insist upon, that my answer will be in the affirmative."

"I thought that quite probable from your conversation the other day," Darrell replied.

"See here, papa!" Kate exclaimed, mischievously, "you needn't talk over my head! You used to do so when I was little, but you can't any longer, you know. Who is this 'Walcott,' and what is this important decision about?"

Mr. Underwood, who did not believe in taking what he called the "women folks" into his confidence regarding business affairs, looked quizzically into the laughing face beside him.

"Didn't I hear you arranging some sort of a musical programme with Mr. Darrell?" he inquired.

"Yes; what has that to do with your engagement?" she queried.

"Nothing whatever; only you carry out your engagement and I will mine, and we'll compare notes afterwards."

For an instant her face sobered; then catching sight of her father's eyes twinkling under their beetling brows, she laughingly withdrew from his side, saying,—

"That's all very well; you can score one this time, papa, but don't you think we won't come out pretty near even in the end!"

Upon learning from Darrell that the violin she expected him to use was in his room at the mining camp, she then proposed a stroll to the summit of the pine-clad mountain for the following afternoon, and having secured his promise that he would bring the violin with him on his next visit, she waltzed gayly across the floor, turned on the light, and seating herself at the piano soon had the room ringing with music and laughter while she sang a number of college songs.

To Darrell she seemed more child than woman, and he was constantly impressed with her unlikeness to her father or aunt. She seemed to have absolutely none of their self-repression. Warm-hearted, sympathetic, and demonstrative, every shade of feeling betrayed itself in her sensitive, mobile face and in the brown eyes, one moment pensive and wistful, the next luminous with sympathy or dancing with merriment.

As Darrell took leave of Mrs. Dean that night, he said, looking frankly into her calm, kindly face,—

"I am very sorry if I wounded your feelings this afternoon; it was wholly unintentional, I assure you."

"You did not in the least," she answered; "it is so long since I have been called by that name it took me by surprise, but it sounded very pleasant to me. My boy, if he had lived, would have been just about your age."

"It seemed pleasant to me to call you 'mother,'" said Darrell; "it made me feel less like an outsider."

"You can call me so as often as you wish; you are no outsider here; we consider you one of ourselves," she responded, with more warmth in her tones than he had ever heard before.

The following morning Darrell accompanied the ladies to church. After lunch he lounged for an hour or more in one of the hammocks on the veranda, listening alternately to Mr. Underwood's comments as he leisurely smoked his pipe, and to the faint tones of a mandolin coming from some remote part of the house. Mr. Underwood grew more and more abstracted, the mandolin ceased, and Darrell, soothed by his surroundings to a temporary forgetfulness of his troubles, swung gently back and forth in a sort of dreamy content. After a while, Kate Underwood appeared, dressed for a walk, and, accompanied by Duke, the two set forth for their mountain ramble, for the time as light-hearted as two children.

Upon their return, two or three hours later, while still at a little distance from the house, they saw Mr. Underwood and a stranger standing together on the veranda. The latter, who was apparently about to take his departure, and whom Darrell at once assumed to be Mr. Walcott, was about thirty years of age, of medium height, with a finely proportioned and rather muscular form, erect and dignified in his bearing, with a lithe suppleness and grace in all his movements. He was standing with his hat in his hand, and Darrell, who had time to observe him closely, noting his jet-black hair, close cut excepting where it curled slightly over his forehead, his black, silky moustache, and the oval contour of his olive face, remembered Mr. Underwood's remark of the probability of Spanish blood in his veins.