to haunt
him constantly. He could not rid himself of the impression it left upon
him, and yet he never found himself a shade nearer a solution of the
mystery.

"Raynor," he said to him on one of the evenings when he had stopped
before the shanty, "I wish I knew why your face troubles me so."

"Does it trouble yo', mester?"

"Yes," with a half laugh, "I think I may say it troubles me. I have
tried to recollect every lad in Deepton, and I have no remembrance of
you."

"Happen not, mester," meekly. "I nivver wur much noticed, yo' see: I'm
one o' them as foak is more loike to pass by."

An early train arriving next morning brought visitors to the Creek--a
business-like elderly gentleman and his daughter, a pretty girl, with
large bright eyes and an innocent rosy face, which became rosier and
prettier than ever when Mr. Ed ward Langley advanced from the depot shed
with uncovered head and extended hand. "Cathie!" he said, when the first
greetings had been interchanged, "what a delight this is to me! I did
not hope for such happiness as this."

"Father wanted to see the mines," answered Cathie, sweetly demure, "and
I--I wanted to see Black Creek; your letters were so enthusiastic."

"A day will suffice, I suppose?" her paternal parent was wandering on
amiably. "A man should always investigate such matters for himself. I
can see enough to satisfy me between now and the time for the return
train."

"I cannot," whispered Langley to Cathie: "a century would not suffice.
If the sun would but stand still!"

The lad Seth was late for dinner that day, and when he entered the house
Bess turned from her dish-washing to give him a sharp, troubled look,
"Art tha' ill again?" she asked.

"Nay," he answered, "nobbut a bit tired an heavy-loike."

He sat down upon the door-step with wearily-clasped hands, and eyes
wandering toward the mountain, whose pine-crowned summit towered above
him. He had not even yet outlived the awe of its majesty, but he had
learned to love it and draw comfort from its beauty and strength.

"Does tha' want thy dinner?" asked Bess.

"No, thank yo'," he said; "I couldna eat."

The dish-washing was deserted incontinently, and Bess came to the
door, towel in hand, her expression at once softened and shaded with
discontent. "Summat's hurt yo'," she said. "What is it? Summat's hurt
yo' sore."

The labor-roughened hands moved with their old nervous habit, and the
answer came in an odd, jerky, half-conne