ched to the burning. The best he could do, for that
evening at least, was to shake Druro's hand warmly at parting and tell
him that he was a deuced lucky fellow.

Two days later, Sir Charles Tryon arrived, a short, square man with
most unprofessional high spirits and a jolly laugh that filled everyone
with hope. It was late in the afternoon when he got to Wankelo, and,
after a cursory test of Druro's eyes, he announced himself unable to
give a decisive verdict until after a more complete examination the
following day. He then departed to his brother's house for dinner and
a good night's rest after his long journey.

No sooner had Dick tucked him safely away than he was back again at the
hospital, for he had a very shrewd notion of the brand of misery Druro,
condemned to a night's suspense, would be suffering. And he guessed
right. Emma Guthrie, just arrived, was in the act of "cheering him up"
with an account of the mine's output from the monthly clean-up that day.

"How many ounces?" asked Druro indifferently. The prosperity of the
mine bothered him far less than the fate of his eyes, for he knew
himself to be one of those men who can always find gold. If one mine
gave out, there were plenty of others.

"Five hundred, as usual," said Guthrie jubilantly. "Here it is--feel
it; weigh it."

From a sagging coat pocket he abstracted what might, from its size and
shape, have been a bar of soap but for the yellow shine of it, and
placed it in Druro's right hand. The latter lifted it with a weighing
gesture for a moment and handed it back.

"That's all right."

"All right! I should say!" declaimed the bright and bragful Emma.
"Two thousand of the best there, all gay and golden! I tell you,
Lundi, we've got a peach. And she hasn't done her best by a long
chalk. She's only beginning. You buck up and get your eyes well, my
boy, and come and see for yourself." He began to hold forth in
technical terms that were Greek to Tryon concerning stopes, cross-cuts,
foot-walls, stamps, and drills. Every moment his voice grew gayer and
more ecstatic. He seemed drunk with success and unable to contain his
bubbling, rapturous optimism, and that Druro sat brooding with the
sinister silence of a volcano that might, at any instant, burst into
violent eruption did not appear to disturb him. Fortunately, some
other men came in and relieved the situation; when Guthrie took his
leave, a few moments later, Tryon made a point o