y on the farm, me lad--'tis better to milk a cow with a mosquito on
the back of your neck than to fill a cell at Canon City."

In other ways he was inexorable, taking the hazards of the game with his
visitors and raking in their money with cold eyes and a steady hand. He
collected all notes remorselessly--and it was in this way that he had
acquired his interests in "The Bottom Dollar" and "The Flora"
mines--"prospects" at the time, but immensely valuable at the present.
It was, indeed, this new and measurably respectable wealth which had
determined him upon pressing his suit with Bertha. As he sat there he
came to a most momentous conclusion. "Why not marry the girl and live
honest?" he asked himself; and being moved by the memory of her
sweetness and humor, he said, "I will," and the resolution filled his
heart with a strange delight.

He presented the matter first to the mother, not with any intention of
doing the right thing, but merely because she happened into the room
before the girl returned, and because he was overflowing with his
new-found grace.

Mrs. Gilman came in wiping her face on her apron--as his mother used to
do--and this touched him almost like a caress. He rose and offered her a
chair, which she accepted, highly flattered.

"It must seem warm to you down here, Captain?" she remarked, as she took
a seat beside him.

"It does. I wouldn't need to suffer it if you were doing business in
Cripple. I can't leave go your Johnny-cake and pie; 'tis the kind that
mother didn't make--for she was Irish."

"I've thought of going up there," she replied, matter-of-factly, "but I
can't stand the altitude, I'm afraid--and then down here we have my
son's little ranch to furnish us eggs and vegetables."

"That's an advantage," he admitted; "but on the peak no one expects
vegetables--it's still a matter of ham and eggs."

"Is that so?" she asked, concernedly.

"'Tis indeed. I live at the Palace Hotel, and I know. However, 'tis not
of that I intended to speak, Mrs. Gilman. I'm distressed to see you
working so hard this warm weather. You need a rest--a vacation, I'm
thinkin'."

"You're mighty neighborly, Captain, to say so, but I don't see any way
of taking it."

"Furthermore, your daughter is too fine to be clerkin' here day by day.
She should be in a home of her own."

"She ought to be in school," sighed the mother, "but I don't see my way
to hiring anybody to fill her place--it would take a man to do her