clear, sunny air of morning, while the more blissful past asserted its claim to be considered reality. Not a lark, warbling its flute-notes by the way-side, not a pretty bit of the familiar landscape, nor glimpse of brook, that leaped sparkling down the mountain, but recalled some charming utterance of Mrs. Dolly Page, as he first knew her; as he could not now recognize her in the pale, nervous, and evidently suffering woman, sitting, closely veiled, inside the coach.
Occupied with these thoughts, Sam felt a disagreeable shock when the outside passenger—in a voice that contrasted roughly with that other voice which was murmuring in his ear—began a remark about the mining prospects of Lucky-dog.
"Some rich discoveries made in the neighborhood, eh? Did you ever try your luck at mining?"
"Waal, no. I own a little stock, though," answered Sam, carelessly.
"In what mine?"
"In the Nip-and-tuck."
"Good mine, from all I hear about it. Never did any prospecting?" asked the stranger, in that tone which denotes only a desire to make talk, with a view to kill time.
"No," in the same tone.
"That's odd," stuffing a handful of cut tobacco into his mouth. "I'd have sworn 'twas you I saw swinging a pick in the cañon east of camp last night."
"I'm not much on picks," Sam returned, with a slowness that well counterfeited indifference. "I was visiting a lady last evening, which is a kind of prospecting more in my line."
"Yes, I understand; that lady inside the coach. She's a game one."
"It strikes me you're devilish free in your remarks," said Sam, becoming irritated again.
"No offense meant, I'm sure. Take a cigar? We may
