her attentions to Mart and her study of the
furnishings of the table, which was decorated with candles and flowers
in a way quite new to her.

Fordyce was as fine as he looked. Nothing equivocal was in "that
magnificent boy," as his friends called him, and his interest in little
Mrs. Haney was that of the Easterner who, having been told that strange
things take place in the West, is disappointed if they do not happen
under his nose. He had heard much of the Haneys from Congdon, and had
been especially impressed with the story of Bertha's midnight ride to
the bedside of the dying gambler. The wedding in the saloon, her
devotion to the wounded man, their descent upon the Springs, and their
domestication in a stone palace--all appealed to his imagination. Such
things could not happen in Chester; they were of the mountain West, and
most satisfying to his taste.

Bertha, on her part, had to admit that the people at the table were most
kindly, even considerate. They made her husband the centre of interest,
and passed politely over all his disastrous attempts to use his left
hand. There were no awkward pauses, for, excepting one or two slips of
tongue, Haney rose to the occasion. He was big enough and self-contained
enough not to apologize for what he had been or what he was, and under
Congdon's skilful guidance told of his experiences as amateur miner and
gambler, growing humorous as the wine mellowed and lightened his
reminiscences. He felt the sympathy of his audience. All listened
delightedly with no accusation in their eyes--except in the case of Mrs.
Crego, who still breathed, so it seemed to Bertha, a certain contempt
and inner repugnance.

Young Fordyce glowed with delight in these tales, reading beneath the
terse lines of Haney's slang something epic, detecting a perfect
willingness to take any chance. The fact that his bravery led to nothing
conventionally noble or moral did not detract from the inherent interest
of the tale; on the contrary, the young fellow, being of unusual
imaginative reach and freedom, took pleasure in the thought that a man
would risk his life again and again merely for the excitement of it.
Occasionally he glanced at Judge Crego, to find him looking upon Haney
with thoughtful glance. It was a little like listening to a prisoner's
confession of guilt (as he afterwards said), but to him, as to Congdon,
it was a most interesting monologue.

It added enormously to the romance, so far as Ben Fo