clerk. But the edge of
the joke was wearing off, and the superintendent, who, as it seemed, had
been watching us more closely than we had supposed, was beginning to
wonder why we kept at it so faithfully; and why our camp was always
guarded at night.

The following day was Sunday, and Everton came again, this time
accompanied by his daughter. Gifford was windlass winder at the moment,
and he let himself down into the shaft, swearing, when he saw them coming
over the shoulder of the spur.

I left our carpenter-man busily covering up the lode while I scrambled
out to meet and divert the visitors. My first sight of Mary Everton,
grown, made me gasp. There had been no promise of her womanly
winsomeness and pulse-quickening beauty in the plain-faced little girl
with large brown eyes--the little girl who used to thrust her hand into
mine on the way home from school and tell me about the unforgivable
meanness of the boy who "cribbed" for his examinations.

Everton introduced me as "Mr. Bertrand," and for a flitting instant I saw
something at the back of the brown eyes that made cold chills run up and
down my spine. And her first words increased rather than diminished the
burden of sudden misgiving.

"I knew a Bertrand once," she said, shaking hands frankly after the
manner of the West. "It was when I was a little girl in school. Only
Bertrand was his Christian name."

Without knowing that he was doing it, her father came to my rescue. "We
haven't any near neighbors, Mr. Bertrand, and Polly wanted to see your
mine," he said. And then: "Do you realize that it is Sunday?"

I led the glorified Polly Everton of my school days to the mouth of the
shallow shaft. "Our 'mine,' as your father is polite enough to call it,
isn't very extensive, as yet," I pointed out. "You can see it at a
glance."

She took my word for it and gave the windlass-straddled pit only a
glance. Barrett had had his nap out and was showing himself at the door
of the shack. My companion nodded brightly at him and he joined us at
once. "We are quite old friends, Mr. Barrett and I," she hastened to
say, when I would have introduced him; and this left me free to attach
myself to her father.

Phineas Everton had changed very little with the passing years. I
remembered him as a sort of cut-and-dried school-man, bookworm and
scientist, and, as I afterward learned, he was still all three of these.
Partly because I was telling myself that it was