rter, obliged to stint and count before he
ventured to spend a dollar. To-day he was a successful miner, one of
those lucky individuals to whom Fortune has been more than kind. He was
suddenly possessed of more money than he knew what to do with. He could
stop at the best hotels, throw gold around him by the handfuls. For the
first time in his life he was tasting the sweets of wealth. Every one
treated him with deference, all were eager to render service. People
who formerly affected to be ignorant of his very existence, now fawned
upon him and asked him to their houses. He was a rich man. It meant not
only immediate creature comforts, but freedom from care, independence
for life. And what he prized most of all, it meant happiness, both for
himself and the girl he loved, the girl who had waited so faithfully
and so patiently. He could hardly restrain his impatience to see her.
What rapture would it be to clasp her to his heart and cry: "Your long
wait is over! I've come to make you happy! Henceforth you won't have to
work. You'll leave the stage for good." And in his mind's eye, he saw
Laura's joy, and heard her happy, girlish laugh, as he sat down before
her and signed a blank cheque, telling her to fill in the rest for any
amount she wished to spend. Yes--that was the greatest joy of success
and being rich--the power of making happy the girl you loved. Thank
God, he had won out! To-day, he was a rich man.

He had entirely forgotten the doubts and morbid fancies which had
seized him in the wilderness. When he had recovered from his terrible
experiences, he wondered how he could ever have permitted his mind to
haunt such strange, unpleasant paths. The suffering and mental torture
he went through was doubtless responsible for his unreasoning
suspicions. He would never tell Laura; she must never know that he had
harbored such thoughts. She would never forgive him. How delighted she
would be to see him! Probably she was already anxiously on the lookout.
By this time she had certainly received his telegram, which he had sent
in care of her manager. He wondered where she was stopping. His last
letter to her had been returned by the post office authorities marked
"address unknown." She was in New York. He was sure of that, for he had
read in the Chicago papers of her success in the new play. He was glad
she had made good at last, because it meant more comforts for her. No
doubt she had left the boarding-house, of which she wro