or she may turn out to be a duffer."

The goldsmith was now working upon the ring with a file. Next, he rubbed
it with emery paper, and finished it with a burnisher.

"Yes," said he, as he filled his pipe, and lighted it at the pilot-flame
of the gas-jet which stretched its long, movable arm over the bench,
"men, like flies, are of two kinds--those that fall into the soup, an'
those that don't. I have borne a charmed life: you have fallen into the
tureen. Here comes the beer!"

There was a scuffling on the side-path, and Jake's voice was heard in
shrill altercation. Up to that point, Benjamin's body-guard had attended
rigidly to its self-imposed duty, but now, following close on the heels
of the apprentice, its members burst into the workshop.

Shaking with laughter, Tresco addressed the thirsty influx.

"I'm sorry, mates," he said, "but I can't see my way to make that quart
of beer into two gallons. But I give largess to my vassals--that, I
believe, is real, toff, Court dialect. Drink this."

He took a crumpled one-pound bank-note from his pocket, and handed it to
the self-appointed captain of his guard, who immediately withdrew his
fire-eaters, and the goldsmith was left to complete his work in peace.

"Here's health to the bride that's to wear it," said Benjamin, as he
raised his glass to his thirsty lips.

"I'm not much at sentiment," said the Prospector, "but may she always
ring as true as the metal it's made of, for she's got a Man for a
husband."

"May Luck go with them."

To the Prospector the ring now seemed perfect, but the goldsmith
placed a jeweller's magnifier in his eye, and scrutinised the shining
marriage-token lest it might contain the slightest flaw. But his work
stood the test and, placing the ring in a dainty velvet case, he rose
and put on his hat.

"That finishes my career as a goldsmith," he said. "I don't suppose I
shall sit at a bench again. To you, Bill, I owe my fortune, to you I owe
my liberty. No words of my misshapen tongue can express what I feel; but
you, mate, can guess it."

The two men looked silently at each other, and solemnly shook hands.

The Prospector might have said a great deal: he might have expatiated
in lurid language on his admiration of Tresco's self-sacrifice, but he
said nothing. He silently held the goldsmith's hand, till a tell-tale
moisture dimmed the craftsman's eyes, so that they could not see through
their spectacles.

Pulling himself together wit