question, fully realizing the make-believe of it, yet
taking pleasure in at least the mention of revenge.

Suddenly Bep gave a cry of triumph and picked up something from the
ground.

"What is it?" asked Peter.

"It's Fom's doll. It must have dropped out of her pocket when she was
digging and sassing Mr. Pemberton. We'll play there's been an
accident,--a cave in the mine,--and the doll'll be buried alive down
there. Wouldn't Fom howl?"

She rolled up her sleeve and thrust a round arm far down in the clean,
moist gravel, leaving the poor Smith twin in the murderous depths of the
Silver King. Then both set to work. Poor Fom, half-way down the dump,
beside the mysterious "flush" of seething, boiling, foaming waste water,
whose tide went low or high with the breathing of the great mine, heard
a laugh or a whistle now and then; and a miserable feeling of loneliness
oppressed her. But she lay there sobbing quietly, while on top the
valiant rescuers emptied the mines, carried on conversations with the
entombed men, and at last, with a fine pretense of amazement and grief,
discovered the dead miner. Reverently he was borne to the surface, Bep
holding the bucket steady while Peter wound the cord. And then they
buried the unfortunate man. There was an imposing funeral, and the
three-wheeled dump-cart was filled with imaginary mourners. At the grave
hymns were sung by Bep, when she could be spared from mourner's duties,
and a prayer by Peter concluded the impressive services.

It had been Fom's intention to lie there half-way down the dump till she
died of hunger--when Bep would be sorry for her cruel treatment. The
self-pitying tears were in Florence's eyes as she thought out the
details of Bep's grief, and the unanimous reprobation of the family for
the bad blonde twin. But she grew hungrier and hungrier, and at last
resolved to go home to lunch.

First, though, she would see how much damage she had done in her
short-lived anger, for her heart was sore when she thought how proud
they two had been of their mines. She scrambled to the top. There was
the new shaft, the Tomboy, almost completed. The Diamond Heart was in
working order. Peter's dexterous fingers had triumphed over the
shifting rock, and he had modestly taken a hint as to timbering from
Warren Pemberton. The tunnel was an accomplished fact, while over the
frail hoisting-works of the Silver King a tiny flag--a corner torn from
Bep's handkerchief--fluttered at ha