SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON.

AT THE
SIGN OF THE SILVER FLAGON.

It is December, and the sun marks the record of a hundred and six in the shade. We are at the golden end of the world, in Australia, at Silver Creek, twelve months ago a wilderness, now a busy and thriving township. Within this brief space, an infant in the history of cities has grown into what promises to become a strong and healthy man. Unknown, unthought of but a year ago, the name of Silver Creek is already a household word in a new and flourishing colony, and holds an important place in the journals of commerce.

There are turnings and thoroughfares in Silver Creek sufficiently irregular to drive land surveyors into a state of distraction, and there is but one street which exhibits anything like regularity in its formation; but this is a result more of accident than design. It is the principal street in the township, and is lined with wooden tenements and calico tents, in which the business of the town is transacted. Stores of every description, in which all things necessary, and many things unnecessary, for the requirements of life, are to be found within the limits of this thoroughfare, which is known to the residents as High Street. If you are curious in such matters, you may calculate how many stores High Street contains by setting its length at a mile and a half, and giving each store an average frontage of sixteen feet. A few of the buildings are of wood, the majority of calico, and the inhabitants of one Englishman's castle can hear the inhabitants of the next talking and bargaining during the day, and sighing and murmuring during the night. Not that the inhabitants of Silver Creek are all Englishmen. Other nations thirsting to have their fingers in the golden pie, have sent their representatives across the seas and through the bush, and Americans, Germans, Frenchmen, Spaniards, Italians, Mongols, and Africans, form a rare Tower-of-Babel community. As, however, they have all been drawn thither by one magnet--fashioned of bright gold--they do not emulate the Tower-of-Babel folk, but hob-a-nob amicably with one another, and make common cause of it with the ubiquitous Englishman. The pie is a rich one, but the fruit is unequally distributed, and there are many waste places in it (unfortunately not seen until the crust is dived into), the discovery of which brings disappointment and despair to the hungry seekers. The despair does not last long; they are soon tearing up the earth again, animated by new hopes of coming suddenly upon rich pockets of gold.

High Street had only one side, where the stores were built. Opposite, it was open ground for a distance of some four hundred yards; then commenced the upland, on the ridge of which a long thin range of wooden buildings was erected, which formed the Government Camp, where the official business of the township was transacted. There were the resident-magistrate's court, the treasury, and, in dangerous proximity, the gaol, and all the other necessary adjuncts of civil government. The goldfields' commissioner, or the warden, as he was usually called, and his staff, and the resident magistrate, and a few of the lesser luminaries, dwelt there in snug habitations with their Chinese cooks, who were rare masters at crust and paste--which is but natural, as they are proverbially light-fingered. There these children of the sun and the moon chattered, and cooked, and smoked opium in their little wooden pipes, of which they were as tenderly solicitous as though they had been children of their blood; and went elsewhere, to the vilest and dirtiest nest of thoroughfares the imagination can conjure up, and which was known as the Chinese Camp, to gamble away their hard earnings. In this camp, of course, was the Joss-House, with its absurd and senseless mummeries; and there, also, were certain dens, which every night were filled with Chinamen, smoking themselves into helpless idiocy. The provision stores in the Chinese camp were stocked with curiosities in the eating way which made fastidious persons shudder: such as preserved slugs and snails (delicious delicacies to the Chinese palate), and bottles crammed with what seemed to be pieces of preserved monkey, while thousands of shreds of shrivelled meat hung from the calico roofs, which were black with smoke. These shreds weighed about an ounce each, and looked like the dried and twisted skins and tails of rats. To judge from the glistening pig-like eyes of the children of the celestial sphere when these morsels were on their platters, and they were preparing to discuss them with their chop-sticks, they must have contained some exquisite and delectable charm, which was hidden from the sight and sense of the English barbarian. If ever night was made hideous, the the Chinamen made it so in their dirty camp with the clanging of their gongs and tom-toms, and the harsh treble of their voices. To unaccustomed ears it appeared as though Bedlam had been turned loose in this remote part of the globe.

Between the Government Camp and the High Street ran a valley through which a sparkling stream of water meandered; this was the Silver Creek, from which the township derived its name. At the back of the High Street stores, dotting the hills and gullies for miles around, and in the rear again of the Government Camp, were the white tents of the gold-diggers. There was a range of hills from which one could look down upon the scene, and it was well worth the labour to climb this height on a moonlight night, and gaze at the perspective of snow-white roofs, beneath which the tired miners were sleeping, and at the silver stream of water threading its way through the undulations. Then there were the Government buildings, prettily situated, and here and there clumps of silver-bark trees, and, in the distance, shadows of great ranges melting into the clouds. It was a picturesque scene, and the solemn silence and its romantic history afforded food for the mind as well as for the eye.

The Silver Creek diggings more than fulfilled the promise of its name, for gold was found in its soil instead of silver. It was first discovered by Chinamen, who had been hunted off another goldfield fifty miles away, where their presence had been considered an abomination by the European miners. They brought this judgment on themselves by stealing, in the dead of the night, golden dirt which did not by right belong to them, and severe skirmishes had taken place between the rival races, in which the Chinamen were worsted. They had to fly for their lives, and they wandered wearily, and yet with spirit, further into the interior of the country, prospecting here and there for gold, but without satisfactory results until they reached the hitherto unexplored district of Silver Creek. Here, by their discovery of the precious metal, their wanderings came to an end, and they pitched their tents and lit their fires, and worked undisturbed for a few weeks, getting much gold, and laughing doubtless in their capacious sleeves at the lucky chance which had led them to the place. But if they had indulged in the dream of keeping Silver Creek and its precious deposit all to themselves, it was rudely disturbed one fine morning, and they screeched like magpies when they saw six lusty Tipperary men march on to their diggings, and stick their picks into the ground. The Mongolian saw his enemy before him, and waited in dread for what was to come.

The following was the order of the proceedings of the Tipperary men:

They first stuck their picks into the ground, at a distance of about twenty yards apart from each other; then they clustered together, and tightened their belts. When these were arranged to their satisfaction, they solemnly and simultaneously produced six cutty pipes, all very short and very black, and carefully lighted them. Being now, with their pipes held firmly between their teeth, prepared for action, they sauntered in an indolent kind of way towards the shafts at which the Chinamen were working, and pausing at one, watched the man at the windlass winding up the bucket. The Chinamen spoke not a word; the Tipperary men spoke not a word. For full five minutes this was the state of things, and the Chinamen proceeded sullenly with their work; from screeching magpies, they were transformed into mute, fear-stricken slaves. Wrath and animosity were in their hearts, but outwardly they were the humblest of mortals. Their sallow faces grew sallower, and they cursed their ill-fortune; for it happened that when the Tipperary men appeared upon the scene, they were pulling up wash-dirt, in which specks of gold could be plainly seen. But they cursed in silence.

"How deep, John?" asked one of the Tipperary men, touching the Chinaman gently on his blue dungaree sleeve.

He referred to the depth of the shaft at which the Chinaman was working.

John did not reply.

But be it here understood that on Australasian and doubtless other goldfields, all Chinamen have but one name--John--not given to them by their godfathers and godmothers; and the countrymen of Confucius have meekly accepted it.

The Tipperary man repeated his question.

"How deep, John?"

John preserved silence. The Tipperary man and his mates followed suit for a few seconds. Then he broke cover again.

"M'lenty gold, John?"

M'lenty means plenty; this was everywhere recognised as Chinaman's English.

"M'lenty gold, John?"

Compelled to reply by the sense of danger which the slightly raised tone in which this second question was repeated conveyed to the sensitive soul of the Mongolian, John looked blankly into the face of his interlocutor, and said, with all the innocence of a babe.

"Me no sabby!"

Perhaps no race in the world combines so much simplicity with so much cunning as the Chinese. They utter falsehoods, as children do, with an absolute conviction that it will be believed. In this instance, it need scarcely be said that John understood perfectly the nature of the inquiries addressed to him, and professed ignorance from a mingled feeling of cunning, impotent anger, and helplessness.

The Tipperary man quietly knocked the ashes out of his pipe against the barrel of the windlass, and sticking it in his belt, produced from his pocket a cake of Cavendish tobacco and a great spring knife. His mates followed his example. They knocked the ashes out of their pipes, and began cutting up sticks of Cavendish tobacco with great spring knives. There was a wicked click in their knives as they opened them. The Chinamen's eyes grew white, and they sighed for thunderbolts, or lightning to strike these desperadoes into ashes, or for some secret and as effectual means of getting rid of them. The Tipperary men leisurely filled their pipes, applied a match to them, and puffed away till they were well lighted. Then the one who had acted as spokesman took the Chinaman's ear between his fingers, and the foreigner betrayed himself by yelling out, "What for, you? What for, you?" Another Tipperary man laid hold of the handle of the windlass, and the Chinaman was whirled aside, screaming and yelling, and, after spinning like a teetotum for a dozen yards, found himself in a favourable position for studying the celestial sphere. A third Tipperary man put his foot into the bucket which was about to be sent empty to the bottom of the shaft, and grasped the rope above him with one firm hand, while the second man, working at the windlass, slowly unwound the rope, and let his mate down the pit.

The yelling of the Chinaman who had been whirled from the windlass brought every one of his companions to the spot. They formed quite a small colony, numbering in all, twenty-two souls. The Tipperary men would have grinned had they been told that they were surrounded by twenty-two souls. They knew as much of theology as a laughing jackass does, but, had they been put to it, they certainly would have denied with powerful emphasis that Chinamen have souls. They saw around them twenty-two pasty faces, and twenty-two bodies dressed in blue dungaree; had the Chinamen turned their backs, the Tipperary men would have seen twenty-two pigtails dangling from the crowns of the Chinamen's heads, all trembling simultaneously and responsively from agitation. This feature in the scene was curious and unique; but, indeed, speaking in a dramatic sense, the entire situation was stirring and interesting. One Tipperary man was hanging between heaven and earth, with his foot in a bucket; a second was letting him down the shaft. So that there were four Tipperary men left to confront, and if necessary do battle with, twenty-two Chinamen. Long odds: but the Tipperary men did not seem to think so, did not seem even to consider that there was the slightest danger. Certainly they trifled with their knives, but they trifled with them unconcernedly, opening and shutting them with cruel clicks, and as though they had not the slightest notion that they might be required for the cutting-up of Chinamen instead of the cutting-up of tobacco. These Tipperary men--or, as they should be more properly called, Tipperary boys--looked upon Chinamen as the scum of the earth, as so many cattle. And the Chinamen, in this instance, really did behave as though they were dirt beneath the feet of the Tipperary boys. They screamed, they stamped, they expostulated, they flashed their fingers in each other's faces, but not in the faces of the Tipperary boys; but they did nothing more. The Tipperary boys scarcely looking at the Chinamen, calmly sucked at their pipes and played with their knives.

Suddenly a great screeching was heard at the bottom of the shaft, which might have come from twenty hungry and venomous cats let loose upon one another; the Chinamen made a movement towards the shaft, but did not approach close enough to mingle with the Tipperary boys. The screeching continued, and an Irish oath or two, heartily uttered, gave it variety. A voice was heard from below, calling out one single word:

"Up!"

The moment this word was uttered, the man at the windlass worked at the handle, and began to wind up the rope. There was a heavy weight at the end of it but the muscles of the Tipperary boy were equal to greater emergencies, and he turned the handle slowly and easily, until there came in view the shaven head of another Chinaman, and then an antique weazened face, in which wrath and dismay were strongly expressed. The man at the windlass, stooping, clutched with his left hand the collar of the antique Chinaman, and pulling him out of the bucket, flung him among his companions, who instantly recommenced screaming, and chattering, and gesticulating with so much vehemence that one might have imagined that their tongues had just been loosened for the first time for twenty years. The arrival from the lower regions was much older than his companions: their faces were large and expressionless, his was small and vivacious; theirs were smooth, and looked as though they were made out of dirty dough, his was lined and wrinkled, and looked like an old and elaborate carving: their eyes were mild and fishlike, his were full of dark fire. Evidently he was the leader of the Chinese crew, for the moment he recovered his breath he began to harangue them with almost frenzied eloquence. A man of spirit he, inciting his mates to open resistance. His fingers flashed the number of friends and foes as his tongue uttered them--five to twenty-three; he even drew partly out of its sheath a long, thin, glittering knife--but nothing came of it, for one of the Tipperary boys, observing the action, caught him instantly by the neck, dragged him from the midst of his companions, wrested the knife from his hand, and hurled him far away on the other side of the Chinamen. It was the work of an instant, and the twenty-three Mongolians--twenty-two on one side, one on the other--looked on, cowed and trembling.

What had occurred at the bottom of the shaft is soon told. The Tipperary boy, when he stepped out of the bucket and landed on terra firma, found the antique Chinaman busily at work in the gutter, where the gold was found. The intruder made short work of it, trying pacific means first. He pointed to the rope and the bucket, and motioned to the Chinaman that he was wanted above. The Chinaman shook his head, and did not understand. The Tipperary boy, not being in the humour to waste time, seized him, placed him by main force in the bucket, and then called to his mate to haul up. Having a sensible regard for his limbs, the antique Chinaman was compelled to hold on to the rope. After this a tape-line was let down the shaft, and the depth measured: then the man below busied himself in tracing the bearing of the gold gutter, its dip and direction, and what was the nature of the earth above and below it. Having satisfied himself upon these points, he half filled the bucket with the auriferous soil, and, stepping into it, was pulled to heaven's light.

"All right, mates," was all he said.

Then he took a tin dish which belonged to the Chinamen, and, filling it with the earth he had dug out of the gold gutter, walked towards the creek, followed by his mates and the rightful owners. He washed the earth carefully and deftly, and with experienced hands: all of them looked on, animated by various feelings, as he swung the dish round and round. Soon the gold came into view, dotting the lessened earth brightly, like stars in a dirty sky: little by little all the earth was washed away, and the pure gold lay in a little heap in the corner of the tin dish. One of the Irishmen produced a pair of gold scales, and the gold was weighed.

"Four pennyweights to the dish," he said.

"How thick is the wash-dirt?" asked one, of him who had been below.

"About two foot and a half," was the reply.

Hurrah! It was a fortune if they could get claims on the gutter. The Chinamen waited anxiously. What were their enemies now about to do? The man who had washed the gold held it towards the rightful owner.

"M'lenty gold, John," he said, with a pleasant laugh.

Somewhat more satisfied as to the honesty of the intentions of the Tipperary boys, the Chinamen nodded their heads violently enough almost to shake them off, and found their tongues and their understanding.

"Yes, yes. M'lenty gold! Englishman welly good man! Englishman get m'lenty gold!" And pointed to some distance, with tempting fingers, to show where gold was sure to be found in larger quantities.

"All right, John," they said; "we don't want your claims. We only want to find out the lay of the gutter. There's room enough for all at present."

The Chinamen, understanding now the English language, of which they were before so ignorant, became gratefully effusive. The old man darted forward to take the four pennyweights of gold.

"Stop, though," said a Tipperary boy, the lawyer of the company. "Have you got Miners' Rights! Where's your Miners' Rights?"

Without their Miners' Rights--which, it may be necessary to explain, were parchment grants from her Majesty the Queen, to mine the soil for gold, at the rate of one pound per year per man--the claims which the Chinamen were working were not legally theirs, and could be taken from them at a moment's notice. In reply to the query, twenty-three hands were thrust into twenty-three blue dungaree bosoms, and twenty-three pieces of parchment were waved like flags of freedom triumphantly in the air. The gold was returned to the rightful owners, and the Tipperary boys marked out claims for themselves on the line of the gutter, and were fortunate enough to hit the mark. Next day more men arrived on the ground, and the gold rush having set in, in less than three months the township of Silver Creek was formed. Diggers and traders flocked there from all quarters, and a strangely mixed crew was soon assembled together.

[CHAPTER II.]

HOW BABY OBTAINED HER SHARE IN THE STAR DRAMATIC COMPANY.

Silver Creek could soon boast of its newspaper, of course; and equally as a matter of course, it could almost as soon boast of its rival newspaper. It is strange that in communities where one newspaper would languish, two are almost sure to flourish; and the Silver Creek Herald and the Silver Creek Mercury were not an exception to the rule. They led a prosperous and noisy life, and were conducted upon the usual abusive principles, with great vigour and some ability. Their establishments were in the High Street, where there were also sale-rooms, banks, hotels and restaurants, billiard-rooms, clothes and provision stores, and a store with "Pie-office" written over it. This was almost as good as the peripatetic vendor of baked potatoes, upon whose tin can was painted "The Universal Baked Potato Company (Limited)." The stores drove a roaring trade; flags waved gaily over them; a continual stream of people was flowing up and down. It was like a fair. Here were two Chinamen bearing a pole on their shoulders, in the centre of which dangled, head downwards, a pig at the end of a rope, with its four feet tied in one knot. (When the Chinaman gets to Paradise he hopes to eat roast pig for breakfast, dinner, teas and supper, through all eternity.) Here were half-a-dozen gold-diggers in great thigh-boots, dragging a jibbing-horse along for their puddling machine, cracking their whips and leaping here and there in sympathy with the antics of their wild purchase. Here were American wagons, with handsome teams of horses, and bullock-drays yoked by patient long-suffering cattle, the drivers of which were unloading their stores. Here was a negro, with his gleaming teeth, and his face alight with humour, badgering a perplexed Mongolian, and a crowd of noisy gold-diggers around them egging him on and laughing. The negro was proving by the most absolute and logical of arguments that he had a perfect right to enjoy the privileges of Silver Creek township, and that the Mongolian was an interloper--"A foreigner, sah!" and had no right there at all. The contest was an unequal one. All the sympathies of the Europeans were with the negro, whose amazing flow of natural spirits would have borne down far greater obstacles than were presented in the distressed actions and thin voice of the Mongolian. It was a peculiar feature of the goldfields that the African was everywhere welcomed, and the Mongolian everywhere scowled at. Here was a great dray creaking along, loaded with portions of the first quartz-reefing machine which Silver Creek could boast of; and all along the road were men buying boots and clothes, and picks and long and short-handled shovels, and bars of steel, and powder and fuse, calling out to one another heartily the while. It was a scene filled with life and colour.

Among the new arrivals, of whom thousands flocked into the township every day, were some dozen men and women, who came in dusty and weary with the toils of the road. They had travelled more than a hundred and fifty miles, being attracted to Silver Creek township by the news of its wonderful prosperity. They were a common-enough troop in outward appearance, and did not look like traders or gold-miners. They had with them a dray drawn by one horse--a poor weak-kneed creature, to whom existence seemed to be a burden as he toiled painfully along with his load behind him. What this load was could not be seen, for the dray had a tarpaulin over it. Upon the tarpaulin were seated three women. The first who calls for notice by virtue of her position was a stately person, probably about thirty-five years of age; her complexion was dark, and in her face was an expression, which might be said to be stamped upon it, and which represented all the tragic passions in little; she bore herself loftily in more senses than one. Her mind was a storehouse, filled with tragedy queens, intermixed with heroines of tenderer sentiment--which latter, however, were somewhat out of place; but you would have roused her to great indignation had you said so in her hearing. The second, about twenty-three years of age, was a nice-looking saucy widow, with a pretty baby in her arms. The third was a beautiful girl, of some eighteen or nineteen summers. The men, who were all much sunburnt, walked along by the side and in the rear of the dray, and when they entered High Street, peered curiously about them, and then at each other, with an air of "This will do." The eyes of one of the party, the eldest, a man of over sixty years of age, were expressive of something more than curiosity: anxiety was plainly there, but presently this vanished, and bright twinkles took their place. He rubbed his hands joyously, and smiled upon one and another.

"It looks well," he said.

He was the chief of the party, which was nothing less than a company of actors and actresses come to open the first theatre at Silver Creek. Before they started from Melbourne, they had formed themselves into a joint stock company, and agreed to divide profits in proportion to their abilities. There were twelve in the party, not reckoning the baby, and the number of shares were thirty-six. These, after much anxious discussion and deliberation, and some display of the peacock's chief attribute, were distributed as follows:--

	Shares.
1. Tragedian, light comedian, and stage-manager, playing the lead ineverything	4½
2. Heavy man	3
3. First old man	2½
4. Second old man	1½
5. First low comedy	3
6. Second low comedy	2
7. Walking gentleman and treasurer	3
8. Supernumerary	1
9. Juvenile lead and general utility, scene painter, acting-manager, andgeneral director	4½
10. Leading lady	4½
11. First old woman	3
(There was no second.)
12. Chambermaid (who could sing and dance)	2½

These proportions being settled, they jogged along comfortably, dreaming of full purses; but on the second day the First Old Man drew attention to the circumstance that although there were thirty-six shares in the company, only thirty-five had been allotted. The Walking Gentleman, who, as treasurer, was looked upon as the arithmetician of the company, and was, therefore, the great authority in figures, instantly began to reckon up, for the fifty-seventh time, and made the number of shares thirty-seven: he tried again and made them thirty-four; tried again, and made them thirty-eight. Then, in desperation, he said that the First Old Man had "discovered a mare's nest," and that the figures were right--thirty-six shares in the company, and thirty-six allotted. Hurt in a tender point, the First Old Man began again to pencil and reckon, and after achieving a dozen different results, came back to his original discovery, and stuck to his guns like a man. Thereupon high words ensued between the Walking Gentleman and the First Old Man, and the matter was referred to the arbitration of the other ten, who immediately set to work to settle the dispute. The results they produced were extraordinary, varying from seventeen to fifty-two, the highest and the lowest totals being accomplished by the First Old Woman (who, to prove the general fitness of things, should have been the First Old Man's wife, but in proof of the general unfitness of things, wasn't) and the singing and dancing Chambermaid.

"I make it fifty-two," said the First Old Woman, in a despondent tone, "and what's to become of us, I'm sure I don't know."

She said this in a tone which denoted that the salvation of the Company was imperilled by this arithmetical crisis.

"Fifty-two!" exclaimed the singing and acting Chambermaid, with a melodious laugh. "Why, my dear, its only seventeen!"

The matter was so serious, and everybody became so positive, that in a very short time they were all wrangling and disputing. Nothing was clear but one thing, that if these actors and actresses were a fair sample of the profession they represented, then very few actors and actresses are blessed with a genius for figures.

"This is a bad commencement," frowned the Heavy Man, as was becoming in him: frowns were his special privilege.

The Supernumerary was the only indifferent person; his being the lowest share and represented by the simple figure 1, he considered himself safe. Besides, he was a neophyte, who had fully made up his mind to rival the elder Kean one of these fine days; he was content, in the meantime, to wait and suffer. Suffering is the badge of all his tribe.

Those were most uneasy and perplexed who held fractions of shares, such as the Tragedian and Stage-manager, and the Leading Lady of the company.

A happy thought entered the mind of the eldest man of the party, whose shares, represented by 4½, were set against No. 9, General Utility, Scene-painter, Acting-manager, etc.

"I have it!" he cried, slapping his thigh with the vigour of a younger man.

The others looked doubtful, but listened with attention, for he was one whom they all respected and regarded with affection.

"It is easily arrived at," he continued; "let us take thirty-six shillings, which will represent the thirty-six shares, and give each his proportion. Then, if there is no money left, no mistake has been made."

This proposal was received with laughter and applause, the largest demonstrations coming from those whose pockets were bare of shillings. For, truth to tell, these heroes and heroines of the sock and buskin were impecunious. This circumstance is not uncommon; the condition is almost chronic in the Profession.

"Contributions!" cried the Acting-manager, pulling out of his own pocket no fewer than seventeen shillings: a very Crœsus he.

Others gave timidly, hesitatingly, grudgingly, doubtfully, for the risk was not small. The Heavy Man had nothing to give; the Second Old Man the same contribution; the Supernumerary the same. The Treasurer, as became a "Walking Gentleman," was light of heart as he was of pocket; he looked forward with hope, rich argosies were before him. The First Old Woman produced a plethoric purse, which proved, however, to be stuffed, not with bank notes, but with critical notes of her abilities as the first of First Old Women. She managed to get together a sixpence and two fourpenny-pieces, which she handed to the Acting-manager, asking for twopence change. He gave her the demanded twopence, and was haunted by visions of future complications. The Leading Lady assumed an air of scornful indifference. The Leading Tragedian contributed three shillings, the whole of his wealth. The First Old Man produced four shillings, saying, "I give thee all--I can no more," but he had money concealed. "Who steals my purse, steals trash," observed the Low-Comedy Man, tossing a bad shilling to the Acting-manager. In due time the full complement of thirty-six shillings, representing thirty-six shares, lay in the Acting-manager's palm. He apportioned them to the cry of "The Ghost walks!" Four and sixpence to the Acting-manager, three shillings to the Heavy Man, and so on and so on, until each had received his share. Then he found he had a shilling left, and by this primitive arithmetic the First Old Man was proved to be right.

The next thing to be accomplished was the difficult task of collecting and re-distributing the shillings which had been advanced. This occasioned some comically-distressing scenes. The responsibility fell upon the Acting-manager, who had advanced seventeen shillings. When everybody was satisfied, he had only fourteen shillings left (a bad one among them which they all repudiated) which he pocketed with a grimace, amid general laughter.

Then,

"What's to be done with the other share?" was asked.

It never occurred to these Bohemians that the matter might rest where it was, and that the company could be carried on as well with thirty-five shares as thirty-six.

"O! I'll take it," said First Low-Comedy, "rather than it should cause disturbances."

"Will you?" from other throats. "But I'll take it!"

"And I!"

It threatened to become a bone of desperate contention.

Another happy thought occurred to the Acting-manager. Again he slapped his thigh.

"I have it!" he cried. "Give it to the baby."

"Bravo!" cried the other ten; the mother remained silent. "Bravo! Give it to the baby!"

"Agreed!" sang the First Low-Comedy Man, in the character of one of "Macbeth's" witches.

"Agreed!" sang the Second Low-Comedy Man, in the character of another of "Macbeth's" witches.

And,

"Agreed!" they all broke out in full chorus.

Then they filled the woods with the music from "Macbeth," and danced round an imaginary cauldron.

Thus the baby became a shareholder.

It was not the worst of small comedies this that was played in the Australian woods on a blazing summer's day in January. Many passions and emotions were represented in it in a small way. The curtain falls down as the mother tosses her baby in the air, and as the child is passed from one to another to be kissed.

If in response to the general applause, which I hope will not be wanting, the curtain is drawn aside again, the weak-kneed horse will be seen shambling leisurely along, and the Heavy Man will be taking great strides in advance of the others, with the baby on his shoulders, crowing and laughing and flourishing her dimpled fists in the air.

[CHAPTER III.]

THE OPENING OF THE THEATRE, AND WHAT PART BABY TOOK IN THE PERFORMANCES.

The news of the arrival of Hart's Star Dramatic Company spread through the Silver Creek Goldfields like wildfire, and every able-bodied man and woman (about thirty of the former to one of the latter, so you may guess what a precious commodity woman was) within ten miles around, resolved to pay them a visit. It was really an event in the history of the township; with the exception of casinos, sing-songs, and negro entertainments, there had been no amusements, and the inhabitants looked forward to the opening night with great interest and excitement.

Mr. Hart, who was the originator and guiding-star of the company, was the old man already referred to as the Acting-manager; he was the putty that kept the separate parts of the venture together, for without him the concern would have gone to pieces. A tradesman takes a small order, and is thankful for it; but give a small part to an actress who aspires (and lives there an actress who does not aspire?) and wait to hear the thanks that are showered on your head! Heaven and earth! These little Junos are sublime in their indignation, and as for the little Jupiters, it is well for some persons that they are not Vulcans. It devolved upon Mr. Hart to heal every difference that arose among the members of the company. No sinecure this, for Vanity's ruffled feathers had to be smoothed a dozen times a week. In every difficulty he was the one appealed to, and his decision was invariably received with respect, if not with equanimity, for he was known to be a just man. He had led a strange and wandering life, had been Jack-of-all-trades and master of none, as he himself said, and was in every respect a gentleman. He spoke French and German, and was in other ways well educated; he painted, he sang, and knew how to conduct himself--in other words he had no low vices, and here he was an old man, fourteen thousand miles away from the land of his birth, an adventurer, with a purse as lean as Falstaff's. He had been all over the world, and (rare gift) had made friends everywhere; no one had ever been heard to speak an ill word of him. That so old a man, becoming attached to a Star Dramatic Company, should play the juvenile lead will not be wondered at by persons acquainted with the peculiarities of the profession; as little will it be wondered at that the First Old Man was barely out of his teens. These reversals of the proper order of things are common. Was Mr. Hart happy? His eye was bright, his step was light, and his heart was as fresh as a young man's. For the rest the question will be answered as this story proceeds.

Being in the Silver Creek township, with probably five pounds between them, the first thing to be seen to by these wandering Bohemians was the building of a theatre. An impossibility do you say? Not at all. Easily accomplished. Directly their arrival and purpose became known, the proprietor of the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle Hotel and Restaurant addressed Mr. Hart.

"What have you come here for?" he asked.

"To act," replied Mr. Hart.

"You will want a theatre to act in."

"We shall."

"Is your company a good one?"

"I think I may say it is. Go and look at our women."

"I've seen them. You've a real beauty among them. I'm not a man to beat about the bush, and you look like a man to be trusted."

"Try me."

"I will. I'll build you a theatre at the back of my hotel on the following conditions." (The proprietor of the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle Hotel dotted off the conditions on the fingers of his left hand with the forefinger of his right hand.) "You will undertake to play in no other place for three months. You will undertake to play in my theatre for six nights a week for three months, and the entertainment shall not last less than four hours. You will undertake to hand over to me every night one-fifth of the gross money received, that being the rent I shall charge you. You will undertake that you and all of you shall board and lodge at the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle, and to pay me three pounds per week per head for such board and lodging--baby not to count." He looked at his thumb with a pucker in his forehead, and finding no condition to which it could be applied, concluded abruptly by saying, "That's all."

Mr. Hart, with the mind of a general, debated for one moment, and resolved the next.

"How many people will the theatre hold?"

"A thousand," replied the enterprising hotel-keeper promptly.

It was a rough guess; he had not the slightest idea as to the size of the place required for the accommodation of the number.

"How long will the theatre take to build?

"A week," was the brisk reply.

"Then we can open in ten days," said Mr. Hart. "There's my hand on it. What shall be the name of the theatre?"

"I'm a loyal subject," said the hotel-keeper. "We'll call it 'The Theatre Royal.' God save the Queen!"

"So be it."

And there and then the matter was settled.

Within an hour a contract was given for the building of the Theatre Royal; within two it was commenced; within a week it was finished; and on the tenth night it was opened. Men never know what they can do till they try; wonders can be accomplished only by saying they shall be accomplished, and setting to work on them. It is grappling with small things that dwarf men's minds; give them a wilderness to conquer, and they rise to the occasion. When I say "them," I mean especially Americans and English; next to them, but not equal to them, the Germans; least of all civilised nations, with capacity to make grand use of such opportunity, the French.

The excitement in Silver Creek was tremendous. Crowds thronged the High Street during the opening day of the Theatre Royal. The Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle did a roaring trade. Eight hundred pounds were taken over the bars for drinks before six o'clock in the evening; no drink less than a shilling. Some contemptible rival grog-shop in the vicinity had already reduced the price of a glass of ale to sixpence, but the miners turned their noses up at it. They were as generous as sailors, and they were not going to pay sixpence for a glass of ale when a shilling was the regulation price. There was something sneaking in it, and many a gold-digger lost caste by patronising the cheap grog-shop. Fabulous prices were offered for the privilege of going into the theatre before the doors were open, and securing front seats; but the landlord of the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle turned a deaf ear to the tempters.

"Fair play, mates," he said. "First come, first served; and the devil take the hindmost."

(Which, if the devil did, he would have had a good haul, for the hindmost on that night stood for a thousand at least.)

"Bravo, mate," the rough diggers cried; "you're the right sort!"

He looked it, as he stood behind the bar, passing the jest and merry word, with one eye gleaming cordially on his customers, and the other eye looking sharply after his till, and nothing loth to make his "pile" (or fortune) with his sleeves tucked up, and to boast of it afterwards.

The scene that took place that night within the walls of the new Theatre Royal was one which not many have the privilege of witnessing. Before the curtain drew up, there were two hundred and twenty pounds in the drawers. And listen to this with envy, you harassed lessees; there were only three persons admitted within the walls of the Theatre Royal who did not pay; these were the proprietor of the theatre and the editors of the two newspapers. Happy theatrical manager! Only two critics to woo and conciliate! Deducting the landlord's fifth, and the expenses for printing and lighting, there would not be less than one hundred and forty pounds to divide. Why, at that rate, even the baby would have four pounds for her share so curiously acquired! The entertainment was arranged to show off the full strength of the company. A "screaming" farce, to set the audience in a good humour (it was not required, for they came in prime spirits, full set for enjoyment); a dance by the pretty Chambermaid, not dressed as a chambermaid, be it here remarked; a stirring mob-drama; and a two-act comic drama to conclude with. A liberal programme--one which made the proprietor of the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle rub his hands with satisfaction. The actors and actresses, as they came on the stage, were greeted with roars of applause, as they were already old established favourites; the very supernumerary, the neophyte who intended to rival the elder Kean, received a round which made him certain that fame was within his grasp. All through the night, the audience appeared to be anxiously looking out for new faces to give them cordial greeting. The farce was literally a "screaming" farce; had the author of the poor little literary bantling been present, it would have done his heart good, and he might have had dreams of greatness. When the curtain fell on the farce, it seemed impossible for anything to be more successful; but the dance that followed it eclipsed it. The gold-diggers could not have the farce repeated--although they would have been well content to have had it, one fellow actually crying out, "Let's have it all over again, mates!" but they could have the dance again, and they did, once, twice, thrice, and would have insisted on it again, but that the poor girl stood before them with panting bosom, like a deer at its last gasp, and appealed to them as prettily as her exhaustion would allow her to do. The gold-diggers stood up, waved their billycock hats, and cheered her as she had never been cheered before; and one threw a crown-piece on the stage, and another cried, "I can beat that, mate!" and threw a sovereign. Then it commenced to rain silver and gold, and the girl stood aside at the wings, half frightened at the shower. It amounted to no less than eleven pounds, which she gathered up in her gauze dress and walked off with, kissing her hand and smiling bewitchingly on the generous givers, who felt themselves well paid for their liberality.

(Before the week was out this dancing and singing Chambermaid had forty-two distinct offers of marriage, and the other two ladies of the company each about half as many.)

Then came the Tragedian's chance in the melodrama, and good use did he make of it. He emulated Bottom in his roaring, and the louder he roared the louder the audience cheered. But decidedly the greatest success of the night was achieved by the smallest member of the company, and in an unexpected way. If any person was to be thanked for it, it was the Acting-manager, Mr. Hart.

It occurred in this wise: The Leading Lady dropped a few words, which were construed into an objection to the baby receiving its one-thirty-sixth share of the receipts. The mother (who was the First Old Woman of the company) heard them, and spoke to Mr. Hart with tears in her eyes. The singing Chambermaid stood near.

"The spiteful thing!" she exclaimed.

"Never mind," said Mr. Hart, "we will get over the difficulty; the baby shall appear in the last piece."

The mother in astonishment said that was impossible.

"It is quite possible," answered Mr. Hart, "and shall be done."

"But she'll be asleep, the darling!" exclaimed the mother.

"All the better," was the answer. "She'll have nothing to say. You play in the piece. Now attend to my instructions;" and he forthwith gave them to her.

In the drama, the mother, who really played the part of a mother, had to sit at a table for five or six minutes sewing, and speaking perhaps a dozen words, while the action of the piece was being carried on by two characters who occupied the front of the stage. Mr. Hart, in this scene, placed the cradle on the stage, with the baby in it. When the mother went to her seat at the table, she took the baby from the cradle on to her lap.

"Why, it's a real baby!" cried the gold-diggers, and a buzz of delight ran through the house.

Suddenly the baby awoke, opened her eyes and stared with all her might at the audience, whose attention was now entirely fixed upon the movements of the pretty little thing. The mother raised her to her feet on her lap, and the child, pleased with the light and glitter of the scene, clapped her little hands--one of her pretty tricks--while her face broke out into smiles and dimples. This was enough for the gold-diggers; they laughed, they clapped their hands, they applauded, they cried:

"Bravo, young un! Bravo!"

As though the baby had performed the most marvellous feats; and when the mother, carried away by her feelings, tossed her baby in the air, who fell into her arms crowing and laughing, this little touch of nature roused the audience to a pitch of the wildest enthusiasm. They called for three cheers for the baby, and three for the mother, and three more on the top of those, and some of the men left money at the bars of the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle, to buy sweets and cakes for the youngster.

"A great success," remarked Mr. Hart; "no one can say now that she is not entitled to her share. It will be as well to repeat baby every evening until further notice. We will make a feature of baby. She will draw."

Baby did "draw," and the performances went on bravely. Full houses every night. At the end of the week, after paying expenses, there were nearly six hundred pounds to divide. The money was shared on the Saturday night, after the performance. Mr. Hart, with his share tightly clasped in his hand walked into his bedroom and locked the door. Then he lit a candle, and out of a small trunk took a little packet of letters and a portrait. He knelt by the bed, and read the letters with slow delight; they were short, and the earlier ones were written in a large straggling hand. He opened the portrait-case, and gazed lovingly on the picture of a beautiful girl; a child, with laughing hazel eyes and light curls. He kissed it again and again; and taking from his share of the money he had received a sum barely sufficient for his necessities, he deposited the balance in a safe corner of the trunk.

"For you, my darling, for you," he murmured, speaking to the pretty picture before him. "God preserve and bless you, and make your life happy!"

Tears came into his eyes, and rolled down his cheeks; and sweet remembrance brought his darling into his arms, where she lay as she had lain on the last day he saw her, seven years ago.

"My darling must be almost a woman now," he mused, with a yearning heart.

And so he knelt and dreamed, and garlanded his heart's treasure with loving thoughts. Many a rough hard life is in this way sweetened and purified.

[CHAPTER IV.]

MR. HART SEARCHES FOR A GOLDEN REEF.

Gold was first discovered in the alluvial soil in the gullies, a few feet beneath the surface. In some cases the metal was picked up on the surface, and tracked into the bowels of the earth. Sometimes the gold gutter ran across great plains, which soon were riddled with holes, and covered with hillocks of pipe-clay soil; sometimes it ran into hillsides, where the miners tracked it, until the sinking became too deep for profitable labour, or until the "lead," as it is called, was lost. Some of the richest patches of gold that had been found in the colony were found here and there in Silver Creek. In Sailors' Gully, for instance, there was a famous claim, where one gold lead crossed another; the fortunate men who happened to light on this rare junction were runaway sailors, and they made no secret of the fact that they washed fourteen hundred ounces of gold out of twelve buckets of earth in one day. In the same week, the man who was working at the windlass (there were only two partners in this concern) began to turn the handle, and found that the weight at the other end of the rope was greater than he anticipated. He knew that it was only a bucket of earth he was winding up, for he heard it bump against the sides of the shaft. When he caught sight of the bucket he almost let the handle of the windlass slip from him in his excitement. It was not earth he was hauling up, it was gold; and it proved to be the richest bucket of earth that was ever found in Silver Creek. It yielded thirteen hundred ounces of the precious metal; no less. The fortunate sailors celebrated the occasion, decorated the shaft with as many flags as they could get together, fired off their revolvers for an hour as rapidly as they could load them, bought up all the grog in the gully, and invited all the diggers round about to join them in drinking it. That bucket of gold and dirt was almost the death of them, for the carouse was a wild one; but they recovered themselves in a day or two, and set to work again soberly and sensibly, and retired, after ten weeks' labour, with a fortune of seventeen thousand pounds between them.

After a time men began to look for gold in the hills. It was settled years ago by the miners that all the gold that was found in the gullies was washed down from the ranges. Before many days had passed, quartz reefs were found with great lumps of gold in the stone; and one Saturday the principal gold-broker in Silver Creek displayed in his window a mass of quartz which could not have weighed less than two hundred pounds, and which was literally studded and veined with gold. It was labelled "From Pegleg Reef," so named because it was discovered by a man with a wooden leg. Then commenced a craze, and everybody went mad on quartz. This brings us to a day when Mr. Hart, who, with his company, had now been in Silver Creek for three weeks, winning money and laurels, was walking over the ranges, at some distance from the township, with a short-handled pick over his shoulder, a hammer in his hand, and a "fossicking" knife in his belt. The craze for discovering a quartz reef had infected him, and he was looking for a trail.

If you can love this man as you proceed with the story, I shall be glad; for he was a large-souled man, who had never been guilty of a meanness. That he was always poor came from the generosity of his nature, which frequent disappointments had not been able to sour; he could never stoop to trickery for money. In his younger days he had frequently been heard to despise money; but I think, now that he was old, his views were beginning to experience change. Else why should he be toiling over the hills on this hot sultry day, with his eyes eagerly bent to the earth, in search of gold?

He came to the ridge of a range, and he paused for a few moments to look back on the township. The air was still; the heavens were full of beautiful colour; the white tents of the diggers shone in the sun. A world in miniature was before him. Gold had lately been discovered in a large plain which with its busy life was stretched beneath him. Although he was at a great distance from it, he could see it clearly from the height on which he stood. At the farthermost edge of this plain were a dozen puddling machines at work, and two or three dams filled with clear water which had not been polluted. The water gleamed and glittered like sheets of burnished silver; the tiny horses walked round and round, yoked to their wheels; the tiny men flitted here and there across the plain, and bent over heaps of auriferous soil, and worked at toy windlasses, with ropes no thicker than thread; thin wreaths of smoke curled from the rear of the tents, where the smallest women in the world were washing and cooking; lilliputians were cutting down trees for firewood with bright sharp axes which were indicated by thin keen flashing edges of light as they were flourished in the air.

Mr. Hart turned his back upon these signs of busy life, and descended the range on the other side. On and on he walked, without discovering any indications of gold, although he paused to crack many a score pieces of the quartz which studded the hills. He smiled curiously at his ill-success. "Well," he mused, as if arguing with himself, "but I should like to find a golden reef! Let me see. A golden reef, yielding say twenty, thirty ounces to the ton. Ah, Gerald, Gerald! don't be greedy. Say fifteen ounces and be satisfied. A hundred tons--fifteen hundred ounces; six thousand pounds. And then, Home! Home! Home! Ah, my darling, how my heart yearns to you! But you are happy, thank God, and if I never look upon your sweet face, if I never hold you in my arms!----" He paused suddenly, with an aching feeling in his breast. "I must see her--I must see her!" he murmured; and stretching forth his arms, cried half seriously, "Come, Fortune, and take me to her!"

He was alone, and no one heard him. For an hour he had seen no evidences of human life about him; Silver Creek township was entirely shut out from view. On he walked, not stopping to chip now, for he thought that he might have a better chance of finding a golden reef if he went farther afield. He must have walked fully two miles farther, when he saw before him at a distance of a few hundred yards a thick clump of trees arranged by nature almost in a straight line, and entirely obscuring the view that lay beyond it. He plunged into the thicket--for it was no less--and through it, and found himself before another thicket of trees similarly arranged. Between the two thickets there were not more than two hundred feet of clear ground. The intervening space was level and bare, and the trees between which he stood were of a great height. The light came through the uppermost branches in slanting devious lines, which, as he moved, darted hither and thither, as though imbued with life. The ground was all in shadow, and so solemn was the stillness and so dim the light in this place, that it seemed like a page out of another existence.

Lost in admiration, Mr. Hart paused for awhile, and then plunged into the second thicket, and found it denser than the first. In a quarter of an hour he emerged into the open unobscured sunlight again.

Before him rose a vast range with masses of outcropping quartz. He considered within himself whether it was worth his while to climb this range; the quartz looked tempting. There were traces of iron pyrites in it, and he had heard that the richest reefs were sometimes found on such heights. Moreover, it seemed to him as though the hill had never been prospected. He decided that he would mount the range.

It was a difficult task that he had set himself; the range was higher, steeper, than he had imagined, and the day was very hot. He was compelled to stop and rest. "Shall I go to the top or turn back?" he asked of himself. He was inclined to retrace his steps, until he thought of his darling at home; he took her picture from his pocket, and kissed it many times. "I will go up," he said "to the very top. I might hear one day that a golden reef had been found on the summit of this hill, and then I should never forgive myself."

Little did he suspect how much hung upon that moment of hesitation. Little did he suspect that simply by mounting this hill, the means of bringing into his daughter's life its greatest joy and happiness were to be put into his hands. But even had he suspected it, his wildest dream would not have afforded a clue to the manner of its accomplishment.

He mounted the hill; he reached its summit. Then he found that others had been before him.

A shaft had been sunk; a windlass was erected. Mr. Hart judged, from the great hillock of earth by the side of the claim, that the pit could not be less than a hundred feet deep. A tree, split in two, was on the ground close by, with its inner surfaces exposed.

Mr. Hart went to the windlass, thinking at first that the shaft was a deserted one, for he saw no person on the hill. But the sound of metal upon stone which came to his ears from the bottom of the pit was sufficient to convince him that his idea was wrong, and that a miner was working in the shaft.

A little heap of quartz lay within a yard or two of him. He examined it, and found gold in it. He took up piece after piece, and in every other piece there were traces of gold. He cast greedy glances, not at the quartz he was examining, but along the brow of the hill, beyond the boundary pegs which marked the area of the prospectors' claim. Then turning, he jumped back with a loud cry, for a man whom he had not before observed was lying on the ground at his feet, and he had almost trodden on his upturned face. But another thing that he saw held him for a moment motionless from fear.

The man was asleep, and in his hair was moving a long brown reptile, with, as it seemed, numberless legs, which were all in motion, stealthily and venomously. Two slender horns protruded from its head, and behind its horns its eyes gleamed with spiteful fire. Mr. Hart knew immediately that it was a centipede--a very large one of its species--and that its sting might bring death to the sleeper. It had crawled out of the centre of the split tree which lay near, and was now crawling from the hair on to the face of the sleeping man. Taking his handkerchief in his hand for protection, Mr. Hart, with a swift and sudden movement, plucked the crawling reptile from the sleeper's hair, and threw it and his handkerchief a dozen yards away.

"Holloa, mate!" cried the man, aroused by the action, and jumping to his feet, "what are you up to?"

He was a young and handsome man, with a noble beard hanging on his breast, and with his hair hanging almost to his shoulders. His eyes were blue, his hair was brown. His skin was fair, as might be seen, not on his face, nor on his neck where it was bared to the sun, but just below the collar of his light-blue serge shirt, the top button of which was unfastened. In age probably twenty-five or six. In height, five feet ten inches, or thereabouts; a model of strength, beauty, and symmetry. Such a form and figure as one of the old painters would have loved to paint, and as might win the heart of any woman not in love and that way inclined--as most women are, naturally.

Impetuous, fiery, aggressive, his first thought was that the stranger had attacked him in his sleep. He did not wait for a second thought, but pulled a revolver from his belt, where it was slung, covered by a leathern sheath, and levelled it at Mr. Hart. In new goldfields these weapons were necessary for self-defence; like vultures after carrion (although the simile does not entirely hold good), the most desperate characters flew to the new goldfields on the first scent of gold, resolved to get it by hook or by crook.

Mr. Hart held up his hand and smiled deprecatingly.

"I think I have done you a service, young sir," he said. "I saw a centipede crawling in your hair on to your face as you were lying asleep, and I plucked it away. That is all. I was once stung in the arm by such a reptile, and was disabled for three months. I fancied you might not relish a like experience; your face is far too handsome to be spoiled in that way. If you will lift my handkerchief gently and carefully--I did not care to seize the beast with naked fingers--you will see for yourself."

The young man had no need to lift the handkerchief. The long ugly thing was wriggling out of it; half its body was exposed.

"By Jove!" exclaimed the young man, seizing a spade and cutting the creature in a dozen pieces, all of which immediately began to crawl away in different directions, north, south, east, and west, with the intention of commencing independent existences.

[CHAPTER V.]

PHILIP'S RIDE FOR FLOWERS FOR MARGARET.

"Thank you," said the young man to Mr. Hart, replacing his revolver in his belt.

"Thank you," returned Mr. Hart drily, "for cutting up my pocket-handkerchief."

The young man laughed.

"Take mine," he said, offering a red-silk handkerchief to Mr. Hart.

Red was a favourite colour in the diggings in the matter of personal adornment. Red handkerchiefs, red serge shirts, red scarves and sashes, red tassels and bindings, were much coveted.

Mr. Hart shook his head.

"No; I will keep my own as a remembrance."

He gazed admiringly at the young man, and with curiosity, for he saw that the young fellow was superior to the general run of gold-diggers.

"What are you looking at?" asked the young man merrily.

"At what seems to me an anomaly."

"That's me."

"That is you. What made a gold-digger of you?"

The young man shrugged his shoulders.

"A thirst for freedom and adventure. That answer will do as well as another, I suppose. I was cramped up in the old country, so I thought I would come where there was room to move and breathe."

"You find it here."

"Rather!"

He inflated his lungs, and expelled the air with vigorous enjoyment.

"What part of the old country do you hail from?" There was an unconscious tenderness in their tones as they spoke of their native land.

"Devon--dear old Devon. Oh, for a tankard of real Devonshire cider!"

Mr. Hart sighed. "You have home ties, then?"

"Yes, I have an old father at home, who is old only in years. Let us drink to him." He took a tin saucepan half filled with cold tea, and handed it to Mr. Hart, who drank from it, and returned it. "He is about your age, I should say. Have you been long in the colony?"

"Seven years."

"Ah! I haven't served my apprenticeship yet. Now, what brought you over these hills to-day?"

Mr. Hart stammered and hesitated; no man on the goldfields liked to confess that he had been wasting hours and days in the wild hope of discovering a golden reef, simply by wandering about and chipping up stones, although every man did it at some time or other, in secret. However, Mr. Hart blurted out the truth.

"Well," said the young man, "that's the way I and my mate discovered this reef. We found a vein of quartz with gold in it, cropping out on the surface, and we followed it down until we came to another vein about two feet thick, and this we are working now. We're down a hundred and two feet. You see we have about twenty tons of quartz up now; it will go about twelve ounces to the ton, I should say. But we're stuck for a machine to crush it."

"There's one being put up in Iron Bark Gulley."

"Yes; that's nine miles off," said the young man fretfully; "how are we to get the stone to the machine over the ranges, unless we carry it on our backs? A nice job that would be, and would cost as much as the stone's worth!"

"When Mahomet found that the mountain wouldn't' come to him----" Mr. Hart said, and paused.

"By Jove!" exclaimed the young quartz miner, "you're a gentleman. It does one good to talk to a man who can talk. Well, then Mahomet went to the mountain. That is to say, as we can't take the stone to a machine, we must bring a machine to the stone. But that would cost money, and we're on our beam ends."

Many a gold-miner has been in the same strait--with wealth at his feet, staring him in the face, and no money in his pocket--a rich beggar.

Mr. Hart considered. Should he offer his savings for a share in the claim? He had a hundred and twenty pounds in the corner of his trunk. The chance was a good one. He made the offer. The young man laughed at him.

"We should want twenty times as much," he said.

"I shall mark out a claim for myself, then," said Mr. Hart.

"All right, mate; but you'll have to go a mile away for it. The reef is pegged, north and south, for quite that distance."

This was true; Mr. Hart, with regret, gave up the idea. He looked at the sun, and saw that if he wished to get back to the theatre in time for the performance he must start at once. He bade the young man good-day.

"What's your hurry?"

Mr. Hart explained.

"By Jove!" cried the young man, his face flushing scarlet. "I thought! recognised you. How I should like to go behind the scenes."

"Come then; I shall be glad to see you. This will admit you." And he took a card from his pocket, and wrote some words in pencil upon it. "What name shall I say?"

"Rowe."

"Here is the open sesame. Admit Mr. Rowe by the stage-door. Hart's Star Dramatic Company.--Signed, John Hart.'"

"You're a brick!" said the young fellow, looking at the card with a flushed face. If it had been an enchanted wand, it could not have made his heart beat more quickly. "I'll be there to-night."

He was as good as his word. What made him so eager was that he had been to the theatre three times, and had fallen dead in love with the singing and dancing Chambermaid. Such an opportunity to make her acquaintance was not to be thrown away. At eight o'clock he stood by the wings, as handsome as Apollo, as strong as Hercules. When he was introduced to the singing and dancing Chambermaid, he was as shy as a sensitive plant, and would have looked foolish but that his beard prevented him. Many a man has to thank his beard for similar grace. The Chambermaid, as good a girl as she was beautiful, saw the state of affairs at once, and knew, by feminine instinct, that she could twist him round her little finger. Nevertheless, she fell in love with him. Nature will not be denied, and he was a man to be fallen in love with. Her name was Margaret. His was Philip.

After the performance, John Hart and Philip Rowe had a glass together. They spoke of the old country.

"I'll give you a toast," said Philip Rowe. "Here's to the Silver Flagon."

"To the Silver Flagon," responded John Hart. Philip Rowe drank another toast, but did not utter it: To Margaret.

He went to the back of the stage on the following night, and many nights after that, and made friends with the company. All the men liked him; he was free-hearted and free-handed. But the Leading Lady, after a night or two, looked upon him with displeasure, for he paid her less court than her state demanded. Her displeasure was the greater because she had shown that she was inclined to be gracious to him. It was incredible that a lady who enacted Pauline, and Juliet, and Lady Macbeth, should be overlooked for a chitling who played simple chambermaids, and could dance a little. But then Philip Rowe was blind--which was not a valid excuse for him. The Leading Lady--being a woman as well as a Leading Lady--would have been well pleased to receive the attentions of so handsome a young man, who was evidently a gentleman, and she snubbed Margaret one night, and was spiteful to her, because of her good fortune. Philip Rowe, going behind the scenes, found his Margaret in tears, in a convenient corner. She had a spare half-hour, and he coaxed her to tell him the cause of her distress.

"Never mind, Margaret," he said tenderly. "Don't cry!"

She looked up shyly at this. It was the first time he had called her by her Christian name. If brevity be the soul of wit, it is also frequently the soul of love. Margaret was comforted.

When Philip Rowe came face to face with the Leading Lady, he glared at her. She glared at him in return. He felt awkward and hung down his head. Her glare was more potent than his; she had to glare often on the stage, and was an adept at it. Besides, her face was smooth; his was hairy.

Margaret coaxed him to do something that night; she knew where and how to plant a dagger in her rival's bosom. She whispered to Philip and he ran out of the theatre in a glow of ecstatic delirium, for her lovely lips had almost touched his ear. Her warm breath on his neck made him tremble.

She had asked him to get a bouquet of flowers, to throw on the stage to her in the last piece, in which both she and the Leading Lady appeared. Flowers have before now been used for purposes as sharp.

But where to get the flowers? A bouquet of flowers was unheard of in Silver Creek township. Where to get them? Where?

Could not love grow them?

Where to get them? Ah, he knew! Six miles away on the main road to the metropolis, there was a--yes, call it so--a garden; a little plot of ground tended by a woman with country memories. In less than two minutes he was in the saddle, galloping in that direction, and right in front of him, all the way, shone Margaret's face and Margaret's eyes and hair. No will-o'-the-wisp was ever more alluring. Margaret lurked in the bushes, glided among the trees, shone in the open spaces, and Philip's heart beat fast and joyously. The six miles of bush road, so soft and pleasant to the horse's feet, were soon traversed, and there was the garden with a few--not many--flowers in it. Philip Rowe leaped off his horse, with joyous exclamations. A woman came to the door.

"Here, Jim!" she cried, to her husband, running into the house, thinking that a bushranger (Anglicè, highwayman) was paying them a visit.

Jim promptly appeared, with a gun in his hand. "Now then?" he demanded, nothing daunted.

"Oh! it's all right, mate," said Philip; and in a few moments he explained the motive of his visit.

"About a dozen flowers done up in a bunch are all I want. This for them."

He held up two pieces of rich quartz, in which there were probably two ounces of gold.

Jim was agreeable, coveting the specimen; his wife was not, loving her flowers. But when Philip pleaded, and told his story, she relented.

"Oh, if it's for that!" she said with a sly smile, and took a good look at Philip, and thought that the woman was to be envied who had won so fine a young fellow.

While she cut the flowers the two men had a nip of brandy each, which Philip paid for. The place really was a sly grog-shop.

Soon Philip was galloping back to Silver Creek township in a glow of triumph. He arrived in time, and paid for admission into the body of the theatre, hiding the flowers in the breast of his dandy serge shirt. He was a bit of a dandy in his way, and especially so when he expected to see Margaret. He followed her instructions to the letter; she had told him at what point to throw the flowers, and plump at her feet they fell, at the precise moment she desired. The audience stared at first at the unusual compliment, and then applauded loudly. Margaret curtseyed, at which they applauded still more vociferously; the beautiful girl was a pet of theirs, and they approved of the tribute. The Leading Lady turned pale, and clutched at her bosom tragically. The dagger had been deftly planted, and she felt the smart--as only a woman would feel it. Margaret placed the flowers in the bosom of her dress, and sent a look straight into the eyes of Philip, which made every nerve in his body tingle.

[CHAPTER VI.]

ROMEO AND JULIET.

The Leading Lady was fond of money, and the theatre was doing so well that her dividend every week was a very handsome one, three times as much as she could expect to get elsewhere; but what woman is prudent when her vanity is hurt? A man with a large bump of caution occasionally hangs back, and calculates consequences. A woman never does. The Leading Lady in a towering passion confronted Mr. Hart, the manager, at the end of the performance.

"Here comes a tragedy," thought he, as he looked into her wrathful eyes. There was a smile on his face, nevertheless.

"I leave the company!" she said abruptly, with heaving bosom.

"My dear lady!" remonstrated the manager.

"To-morrow. I shall take a place in the coach that starts at eight o'clock."

She knew well enough what the result would be if she left; the company would collapse. A man might be spared, and his place filled, or his parts doubled, but the loss of a woman would inflict irreparable injury upon the prospects of the theatre. Mr. Hart knew this also.

"You don't forget," he said gravely, "that we have your signature, and that if you leave without consent we can make you pay heavy damages!"

"That for my signature! that for your heavy damages!" Each time she snapped a disdainful finger.

"My dear lady," he said, in a soothing tone, "you are excited, you are overstrained. We have taxed you a little hardly. We'll play light pieces for a night or two, and give you a rest."

Inconsiderate man He could not more successfully have fanned the flame in her breast.

"You'll play no light pieces to give me a rest! Play light pieces, and give her the opportunity of taking leading characters! The shameless hussy! Not if I know it!"

Mr. Hart began to understand. This colloquy was taking place on the stage; the theatre was clear, the curtain was up. Down the stairs which led to the ladies' dressing-room tripped Margaret, fresh, and bright, and happy, with her bunch of flowers in her hand.

"Good night, Mr. Hart," she cried gaily.

In the shadow of the door which led on to the stage a man was waiting for her--Philip. They met, clasped hands--her supple fingers lay in Philip's great palm as in a nest, and he imprisoned them, be sure!--and walked out, side by side, chatting confidentially, with their heads close together. The Leading Lady saw this, and her anger rose higher; but still it was bitter gall to her to reflect that if she went away, the field would be clear for her rival.

Mr. Hart felt that he was on the horns of a difficulty; he could spare neither one nor the other of the ladies.

"You're the manager of this company," said the Leading Lady, "and you ought long ago to have put down such shameless goings on. Did you see the way they went out together, and do you think people are blind? We shall be the talk of the town; but I'll not be implicated in it. My name musn't be used lightly." The manager smiled grimly. "I leave to-morrow. Understand that."

"I decline to understand it. You will fulfil your engagement, and if it is necessary for me to take steps to prevent your departure, I must do so for the sake of the others. I will swear a declaration against you!"

He was aware that he was talking the most arrant nonsense, but he relied on the feminine mind to assist him with its fears, and with its ignorance of legal subtleties.

"I shall be sorry to do so against a lady whom I esteem and respect so much, and of whose talents I have so high an opinion, but no other course will be open to me. If I allowed you to go, the diggers would rise against me. And quite right they would be! Why, my dear lady," he said, cunningly, "you know as well as I do that we are nothing without you--that you are the soul of the company--that there is not your equal on the colonial stage!"

The Leading Lady began to soften beneath the influence of such gross flattery, but it would not do to give way at once.

"I will not stop to be insulted!"

"No one shall insult you."

"But some one has--you know who--and she shall not do so again--no, not if you swear a million declarations!"

"Come, now, tell me all about it," said the manager, taking her arm, and walking slowly with her up and down the stage. "By the way, the Honourable Mr. Simpson, the Warden of Moonlight Flat, said last night, when you were playing Ophelia--you know him; he was in the theatre with the Commissioner of the Goldfields and the Resident Magistrate----"

"Yes, yes," said the Leading Lady impatiently, "what did he say?"

"That your Ophelia was equal to anything he had seen on the London stage, and that he believed you would create a sensation there. He is first cousin to the Earl of Badmington, you know, who has a theatre in London. I thought you would like to hear it. He is very anxious to make your acquaintance--as all gentlemen of taste and refinement would be."

He glanced slyly at the Leading Lady, whose head was nodding gently up and down, in sweet contentment.

"And now, my dear lady, tell me your grievance."

"It's yours as well as mine, but if you like to stand it, I shan't. If bouquets of flowers are to be thrown on the stage, they must be thrown to me--do you understand, sir? to me, as the Leading Lady, and as the star of the company!"

It happened that Mr. Hart had been busy elsewhere during the episode that had very nearly brought the ship to wreck, and had heard nothing of it. He asked the Leading Lady for an explanation, which was given to him.

"And if you don't stop these shameful goings-on," were her concluding words, "I give you fair warning, I will not stay with you. I have a character to lose, thank God!"

Which was to be construed in so many queer ways, that Mr. Hart could scarcely refrain from laughing. "Confound Master Philip!" he thought, and said aloud, "Well, well, my dear creature, I will see to it. And no flowers shall be thrown--by Mr. Philip Rowe, at all events--on the stage to any one but you."

This difficulty being soothed over, he went in search of Philip Rowe, and found him leaning against a fence outside the hotel, gazing up at a light in a bedroom window on the first floor.

"Rehearsing 'Romeo and Juliet?'" asked Mr. Hart kindly, taking the young man's arm.

Philip blushed, and stammered some unintelligible words.

"That is her window, Philip," said Mr. Hart, "so you will not make the same ridiculous mistake that I did for a fortnight together, gazing up every night at the light in my lady's bedroom, and working myself into a state of gushing sentimentalism over the slender waist and the graceful turn of the head I saw shadowed on the blind, until I discovered that I had been watching the bedroom window of a black footman."

This was a piece of pure invention on the part of Mr. Hart.

Philip, having nothing to say in reply, shifted one foot over another restlessly. If he could have retired with a good grace, he would have done so, but Mr. Hart had hold of his arm. Mr. Hart continued:

"Putting sentiment aside, a nice scrape you were almost getting me into to-night. Ah! you may stare, but I should like to know what you mean by throwing flowers to my singing Chambermaid--who is not by any means clever, let me tell you, and will never make her fortune on the stage--when we have in our company a lady who plays leading characters, and who knows every line of Juliet's part?"

"Ho, ho!" laughed Philip; "Juliet was a girl of sixteen or seventeen, and your Leading Lady is forty."

"Woe for your life if you said so in her presence!" exclaimed Mr. Hart, with a quiet chuckle; "it would not be worth a moment's purchase. Forty, sir! and what if she is forty?--which she is not by five years--she is the only woman that can play Juliet to your Romeo."

"Hush!" whispered Philip. "She is opening the window."

Margaret, alone, in her white dress, was indeed opening the window. She did not know--not she!--that her lover was below, nor that her form could be seen, for she had extinguished the light in the room. Her shadow might be discerned, but what is there in a shadow? She sat down by the window, and rested her head on her arm. The graceful outlines of her arm and neck and bended head were clearly visible, and the lover feasted his eyes upon them. She held in her hand the flowers which Philip had thrown her! Her lips were upon the tender leaves--sweets to the sweet. He saw her kiss the flowers, and his soul thrilled with rapture. The night was beautifully still; not a sound was stirring; and as far as eye could see the white tents of the diggers were gleaming. So Margaret sat and mused, and Philip looked on and dreamed. Here, in the new world, but yesterday a savage waste, the old, old story was being enacted with as much freshness as though the world were but just created. What wonder? Because the sun has risen a few million of times, is the dew on the leaves less sweet and pure in the early morning's light than on that wondrous day when Adam awoke and found Eve by his side?

So Margaret sat and mused, and Philip looked on and dreamed; and I think that Margaret peeped through the lattice-work of her fingers, and saw with her cunning eyes that her lover was there, worshipping her.

How long they would have thus remained, Heaven only knows. Mr. Hart gave them at least twenty minutes, and then touched Philip's arm. Philip started, and Margaret at the window started also, and with a swift happy glance outwards, and with wave of the pretty hand and arm, closed the window. Philip was standing in the light, and Mr. Hart, like a kind and careful friend, had crept backward in the shade; so that Margaret, when she cast that straight swift glance in her lover's direction, saw only him. Surely as the hand--love's white flag of recognition--waved towards him, it had touched her lips first, and she had sent a kiss into the air--which he received in his heart. It stirred tender chords there, and through his veins crept love's fever, which turns dross into gold, and makes a heaven of earth!

[CHAPTER VII.]

AH, PHILIP, MY SON! I, ALSO, HAVE A GIRL WHOM I LOVE.

Then said Philip, as he and Mr. Hart moved slowly away--then said Philip softly, as though but a moment had passed since his companion last spoke:

"Her name is Margaret, not Juliet. I have no need to play Romeo to Margaret. Margaret!" he whispered to himself, finding a subtle charm in the name; "My Margaret!" and then aloud, "Has your Leading Lady ever played such a character?"

"Yes," replied Mr. Hart, without any direct meaning, "in 'Faust.'"

Philip's face flushed scarlet, not at the words, but at the tone, which was sad and significant, without the speaker intending it to be so.

"I know you to be a gentleman----" pursued Mr. Hart.

"I thought you to be one," interrupted Philip hotly.

"I hope you will see no reason to change your opinion," said Mr. Hart.

"I see a reason already."

"Let me hear it," asked Mr. Hart, secretly pleased at the young man's ill-humour.

"You associated my Margaret's name--"

"Your Margaret!" exclaimed Mr. Hart. "My Margaret, if you please!"

"Mine!" cried Philip, in a loud voice.

"Mine!" echoed Mr. Hart, in a calmer tone.

"Call her down and ask her!" demanded Philip in his rashness, without considering; and, for the life of him, Mr. Hart could not help laughing long and heartily.

"O that you were twenty years younger!" said Philip.

"O that I were!" exclaimed Mr. Hart, with grave humour. "Then you would really have cause for uneasiness when you hear me call her mine."

"How do you make her yours?"

"I stand to her in the light of a father," replied Mr. Hart more seriously. "When I persuaded her mother in town to let her accompany us, I promised that I would look after her and protect her. Therefore she is mine, because I am her father."

"And without any 'therefore,'" responded Philip, "she is mine, because I am her lover."

"Ah," said Mr. Hart, with a bright smile, "here is a case to be settled, then. But if every pretty girl was her lover's, then one might belong to fifty, or more, for there are hearts enough. Why, you rash-head! do you know how many men in Silver Creek might call your Margaret theirs by the same right as that by which you claim her?"

"No," said Philip, a little sulkily, "I don't know."

"Then I'll tell you. To my certain knowledge, sixty-nine; to my almost as certain conviction, some five hundred. She had forty-two offers of marriage the first week, and has had twenty-seven since. Come now, divide her between the sixty-nine lovers who have declared themselves; what part of her is yours?"

"You talk nonsense," said Philip roughly.

"Well, suppose you talk sense," said Mr. Hart blandly.

"It is hardly believable," cried Philip, clenching his fist. "Sixty-nine offers of marriage! She never told me, and I'm her lover."

"She has told me, and I'm only her father."

"By proxy," corrected Philip.

"Well, by proxy."

"Why should she tell you and not me?" asked Philip, more sulkily still.

"Because, my dear Philip," said Mr. Hart, laying his hand kindly on the young man's arm, "up to the present, as I have said, she is mine, and not yours; and because she has a frank open nature, and must confide in some one. As I come first, she confides in me. She has given me all the letters to read, and a rare collection they are. If they were printed they would be a curiosity."

"I should like to see them, and the names at the bottom of them."

"So that you might fight all the writers for falling in love as you have done! Well, you would have enough to do, for you would have to fight according to the fashion of different countries. I have made an analysis, my dear Philip. Seven Frenchmen, four Germans, one Spaniard, three Americans, fifty-three Englishmen, Irishmen, and Scotchmen, and one Chinaman, have offered marriage to--I will say--our Margaret."

"A Chinaman! Good heavens! such a creature to raise his eyes to my Margaret! Tell me, at least, his name, that I may cut his pigtail from his dirty crown!"

"There's an Ah in it and a Sen in it and a Ping in it; and if you can find him out by those signs you are very welcome. But why should a Chinaman not love? Hath he not eyes, hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? His letter is the greatest curiosity of the lot, and he has evidently educated himself in the English language. I know his proposal by heart. Here it is: 'You welly good English girl; me welly good Chinaman. You mally me, welly good match. Roast pig and m'landy (brandy) for dinner every day. M'lenty gold--make m'lenty more. Me take you to my country, by bye. Chinaman welly good man.' Then comes the Ah and the Sen and the Ping. But let us be serious, although this is true enough that I have told you--truth with a comical side to it. You were angry with me a little while ago."

"Yes, for associating my Margaret's name with mine in the character of Faust."

"I had no distinct intention in my mind, Philip; the conversation happened to take that turn. It would pain me very much to have to think of you in that way. But Margaret is a simple good girl, and it is my duty to look after her. I never knew till to-night that you were paying marked attention to her."

"Who told you?"

"Our Leading Lady."

Philip Rowe smiled: he had his vanities.

"O, indeed!" he said, with assumed carelessness.

"And that will bring me back presently to a subject I mentioned when I surprised you to-night. First, however, there is another thing to be settled. You must cease your attentions to Margaret."

"Not if I know it!" said Philip, with a defiant shake of his head. "I mean to marry her. If you throw any obstacles in the way I'll run away with her to-morrow, in spite of your teeth."

He laughed confidently: he knew his power.

"But you are a gentleman," remonstrated Mr. Hart. "And she is a lady," quoth Philip.

If love's guild could give titles, a peasant would rank higher than a duchess. Not that there was anything common about Margaret. She was born of humble parents, it is true; but she was a good girl, and that is enough for any man.

It was enough for Mr. Hart. He gazed at Philip in frank and honest admiration; but he determined to apply a test. He was not a suspicious man, but he had a duty to perform.

"Suppose there is an obstacle already in the way," he said, looking Philip steadily in the face; "suppose she is already married."

Philip staggered, and the blood deserted his face. "Good God!" he cried. "Then she has been playing me false!"

Mr. Hart wished he had not applied the test; he was satisfied of Philip's sincerity.

"Not so fast!" he cried, in a cheery tone, "not so fast! I only said 'suppose;' I didn't say it was so. How you young hot spirits jump at conclusions."

But it was a few minutes before Philip recovered himself.

"You frightened me," he said, with a feeble smile. "Then it is not true! If I had considered a moment, I should have known; for if truth and innocence have a home in this world, they have it in Margaret's breast. But you came upon me suddenly."

Mr. Hart thought, "Ah! youth, youth, what a painter you are!" And said aloud, "Here is my hand; knowing that you mean honourably by Margaret, I give my consent to your seeing her as usual."

"I'll marry her to-morrow," said Philip, taking the hand offered him.

"Softly, softly; there are conditions."

"I'll have no conditions!" shouted Philip impetuously.

"You'll have this and you'll have that!" said Mr. Hart, in a tone of gentle sarcasm. "You won't have this, and you won't have that! Very well, then. I wish you good-night." And he turned away.

"What!" cried Philip, turning after him, "desert me when I want you to be my friend!"

The old man's heart warmed to the young fellow; he admired everything in him--his hot blood, his impetuosity, his obstinacy, his generous imperiousness.

"I am your friend," said Mr. Hart, "and I will continue to be so if you will let me. But when a man says of something that is mine, as Margaret is--ah, shake your head! it doesn't affect me!--when a man says of something that is mine, and that he wants to be his, that he'll have no conditions, he compels me to act in self-defence. Attend to me, young sir! Be reasonable, or to-morrow I take Margaret back to her mother, a hundred and forty miles away, and you shall not speak another word to her, as sure as my name's Hart."

"Ho! ho! you speak boldly; but it doesn't matter--you're a man in a thousand. In a thousand! in ten thousand. I'm glad you're not younger, or you might prove dangerous." Mr. Hart took off his cap, and bowed lowly at this compliment. "You'll not let me speak to her, will you not? I'll borrow a speaking-trumpet, and shout to her that you are parting us for ever. But there! give me your hand again. I'm not frightened of you. I am in such spirits that I must do something desperate. As you value your life, give me a back!"

With the readiness of a boy, Mr. Hart stooped and rested his hands on his knees. Philip took a run backward, then darted forward like a deer, and, lightly touching the stooping man's back, flew over him like a bird. Then stooped himself, and folded his arms; and old as Mr. Hart was, he took the leap.

After that they had a hearty laugh together.

"By Jove!" exclaimed Philip, "you are as young as I am, and yet I should say you are over sixty."

"I am," said Mr. Hart proudly, straightening his back.

"I don't mind giving way a little to such a man. Name your conditions."

"You want to marry Margaret?"

"I do--to-morrow!"

"Nonsense. You want to marry her."

"I do--I will; stop me who can!"

"She has a mother."

"God bless her, and all belonging to her!"

"Bravo--a good mother, mind."

"All that belongs to Margaret must be good."

"Her mother must be consulted."

Philip scratched his head. "Must?" he asked dubiously.

"Must."

"How is that to be done?"

"By letter."

Philip counted rapidly on his fingers.

"Why, we shall have to wait a week!"

"For the consent. And then perhaps she'll not give it."

"It will be all the same. We'll marry without it."

"But you'll have to wait longer than a week, Philip. You'll have to wait until our three months' engagement at the theatre is at an end."

"Impossible."

"It must and shall be. Why, without Margaret we are nothing."

"I know it," chuckled Philip.

"She is the soul of the company." The wily old fellow was using the very words he had used to the Leading Lady, and he thought nothing of contradicting what he had said a few minutes before, when he declared that Margaret was not clever, and would never make her fortune on the stage. "Do you hear me? She is the soul of the company."

"I know it," chuckled Philip again.

"Well, then, do you think I am going to let you ruin our prospects, and rob us, as you propose doing?"

"Gently, gently there! Not so fast with your robbing!"

"It is the truth that I am speaking, and you know it; you have said so yourself. Margaret is the soul of the company--she is our greatest draw. If she goes without my being able to get another girl as pretty in her place----"

"You can't do that; I defy you."

"Hold your tongue, hot-head!--without our getting another girl nearly as pretty in her place----"

"That's better," interrupted the incorrigible Philip; "but you'll have a rare hunt even for such a one. They don't grow on gooseberry bushes."

"Our business is as good as ruined without her, or some one in her place; and do you suppose I'll stand quietly by and see that done? Besides, think of the money Margaret herself is saving----"

"That for the money!" said Philip, with a snap of his fingers. "Money-making's a man's business, not a woman's."

"That's true, and I like you the better for saying so. But leaving Margaret out of the question, there are persons in our company the happiness of whose life hangs upon their being able to save a certain amount of money within a certain time. Not only their happiness but the happiness of helpless ones who are dearer to them than their heart's blood, depends upon this."

"By Jove! you speak strongly. Mention one of them."

"One of them stands before you now."

Philip turned and looked Mr. Hart straight in the face. Tears were gathering in the old man's eyes, and the young man turned away again, so that he should not see them.

"Forgive me, mate," he said softly; "I am so wrapt up in my own happiness that I am forgetful of the feelings of others."

"Ah, Philip, my son"--there was so tender an accent in the old man's tone, that the tears rose to Philip's eyes as well--"I also have a girl whom I love. See here, my dear boy. This is my daughter. She is at home in England, and I am here sixteen thousand miles away."

He had taken the picture of his darling from his pocket, and now he handed it to Philip. The young man looked at it in the clear moonlight. A round fresh face, open mouth with rosy lips, bright ingenuous eyes, fair curls around her white forehead. She was standing within an ivy porch, and one little hand was raised as though she were listening.

"It was taken seven years ago," said Mr. Hart; "she was twelve years old then."

"She is beautiful, beautiful!" exclaimed Philip enthusiastically. "And you haven't seen her since then?"

"No--and my old heart aches for a sight of her. This money that I am earning will take me to her."

"By Jove! and I was going to step in your way! Brute that I was! Margaret shall stop. I'll wait till the end of the time. I can see her every night; and I can build a wooden house for her in the meantime. God bless you, old boy! Give me your hand again. Next to my own father, you are the man I love and respect the most."

[CHAPTER VIII.]

GOD BLESS EVERYBODY.

"But I haven't finished yet," said Mr. Hart, after a short pause. "I have another condition."

"Another!" exclaimed Philip, with an inclination to turn ill-humoured. "You are insatiable! And how many more after that, pray?"

"None."

"That's a mercy. Out with your last condition--which I'll not comply with."

"Which you will comply with, or I'll know the reason why."

"Ah, ah! my Cornishman, go on with your conditions."

"Where did you get those flowers from?"

"Where did I get them from? I gave Nature an order for them, and they grew for me--and bloomed for Margaret. I rode a dozen miles for them, and I'd ride a thousand if she bade me."

"Or fly to the moon, or swim, or dive in the fire, or ride on the clouds, no doubt!"

"Yes, if she wanted me to. She has but to speak."

"Quite right," said Mr. Hart, turning his face from Philip, so that the smile on his lips should not be seen "but that's not my concern. This is. Mind what I say, sir. I'll have no more flowers thrown to my singing Chambermaid."

"O," retorted Philip, "now it's you'll not have this, and you'll not have that! Very well, then. I wish you good-night."

And off he went, taking huge strides purposely, and stretching his legs to their utmost.

"No, no, Philip!" cried Mr. Hart, running after Philip, and laughing heartily at the wit of the retort. "No, no; I'm serious."

"And so am I," said Philip, stopping so that Mr. Hart might come up to him. "No more flowers, eh! Why, I'll smother her with them every night. I'll compel you to engage some one to carry them off the stage. No more flowers! I'll show you! Why, I'm going to scour the country for flowers, and I shall set seeds all round my tent."

"If you wait for the flowers to grow, I shall be satisfied. You can't make them come up by blowing on them with your hot words and hot breath. But seriously, Philip, there must be no more flower-throwing."

Briefly he explained the reason why, and then upshot of it all was that Philip promised. Then Mr. Hart said that Philip had better return with him to the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle Hotel; it was too late for him to walk back to his reef.

"I can give you a shake-down in my bedroom," said Mr. Hart.

"All right!" said Philip, and thought with ecstasy, "I shall be near Margaret; I shall sleep under the same roof as Margaret."

"Have you anything to drink?" asked Philip when they were in Mr. Hart's room.

Mr. Hart wanted Philip to sleep in his bed, which was but a stretcher, barely wide enough for one fair-sized man, but Philip would not hear of it; so they obtained a straw mattress, and laid it on the floor, and Philip tossed off his clothes, and stretched himself upon his hard bed (and slept upon it afterwards as soundly as if it had been made of eider-duck's feathers), in a state of complete satisfaction with himself and every one in the world. It was while he was lying like this, and while Mr. Hart, more methodical than his companion, was slowly undressing himself, that Philip had asked if he had anything to drink.

"I'll get something," said Mr. Hart, and left the room, and returned with a bottle and glasses.

While he was gone, Philip looked about him, and soon discovered that his Margaret's bedroom was immediately above him. He gazed at the ceiling with rapture, and sent kisses thitherward. A single partition parted him from his sweetheart. He fancied that he could hear her soft breathing. The same roof covered them. It was as yet his nearest approach to heaven.

"Here's to Margaret," said Philip, holding up his glass.

"To Margaret," responded Mr. Hart, "and happiness to you both."

"Another toast," said Philip; "to my old dad and the dear old Silver Flagon."

They drank the toast.

"What is the Silver Flagon?" asked Mr. Hart.

"One of these fine days perhaps I'll tell you," replied Philip.

But Philip never told him. One of these fine days Mr. Hart discovered for himself.

The light was out, and Mr. Hart knelt by a corner of his stretcher, and prayed for a few minutes. He was praying for his daughter, and thinking of her; he beheld her pretty face very plainly in the dark room. Philip saw the shadow of the kneeling man; it made him very tender towards Mr. Hart.

"Heathen that I am!" he whispered to himself. "I haven't knelt at my bedside for many a long month."

Then he prayed in silence, without getting out of bed.

"Are you comfortable, Philip?" asked Mr. Hart presently.

"I am very happy," replied Philip. "Good night--God bless you."

"And you, my boy. Good night."

Philip thought, "I am glad my Margaret has had such a protector. God bless everybody."

The next moment he was asleep.

He was up an hour after the sun, and off to his reef. Things were looking well there. Mr. Hart had spoken to the proprietor of the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle, whose name, by the way, as something has to be said concerning him, it may be as well to mention. You will have heard it before--it was Smith. Mr. Hart had spoken to Mr. Smith about Philip's reef, and showed him some pieces of golden quartz, saying what a pity it was that there was no crushing-machine near such rich stone; and what a fortune a man might make who had money and enterprise enough to erect one. Mr. Smith had both. Four years ago---- But no, common as his name is he deserves a chapter to himself, and shall have it.

[CHAPTER IX.]

A MAN OF METTLE.

Not longer than four years ago, Mr. Smith was a bricklayer in the old country, earning an average wage of thirty shillings a week, out of which he supported himself and his old mother; and one day, for want of something better to do--he was out of work at the time--he emigrated almost by accident. This is a literal fact. He arose early in the morning, with no intention of leaving the country, but somewhat sad at heart because he had no work to do. (When he related the story in after days he said that his hands felt like lumps of lead as they hung by his side.) On this morning, then, he strolled to the London Docks, and saw a ship making ready to start for Australia; was told that it would sail for Gravesend in the afternoon; idly inquired the price of a steerage passage, and found that he had just money enough in his pocket, and a trifle over, the scrapings and savings of ten years' bricklaying; and had a chat with an enthusiast, who painted Australia in the colours of the rainbow, and then painted England in ditch colours.

"What is the use of wearing one's life away in such a country as this?" demanded the enthusiast. "What has a man got to look forward to when he's old, and not fit to work?"

Mr. Smith considered. What was the use of grinding one's life away in such a country as England? What was there to look forward to, to hope for, to work for? A poor man's grave. Perhaps a pauper's funeral. Born a bricklayer, died a bricklayer; that might be his epitaph, if he left money enough to pay for one.

"Australia's the place for such men as us," continued the enthusiast. "Australia's the land of gold, and milk, and honey. England's no country for men of spirit; it's used up, sir--used up. And there's the new land waiting to make poor men rich--holding out its arms for them."

"I should like to go with you," said Smith.

"Come, then," said the enthusiast.

"I'm afraid there's not time," said Smith; "there's my old mother. I couldn't leave without saying good-bye to her."

"What's your name?" asked the enthusiast.

"Smith," replied Smith.

The enthusiast gave a start, and uttered an exclamation.

"What's the matter?" asked Smith.

"Nothing," said the enthusiast; "only I was thinking that I should like you to come."

"But how is it to be managed?" inquired Smith, glancing at the name of the vessel, with his mouth watering. It was a nine-hundred-ton ship, called the Gold Packet. "But how is it to be managed? A man that I know emigrated a year ago, and he had to buy bedding, and tin cups, and soap and towels, and I don't know what else; those things ain't got by whistling for them."

"I'll manage it for you," said the enthusiast. "You go home and say good-bye to your mother. Be back here at one o'clock. By that time I'll have your passage-ticket, and your berth, and bedding, and tin cups, and soap and towels, and everything else ready for you. What do you say?"

"What do I say? There's my hand upon it, and thank you. I'll do it."

And with quickened pulses he hastened home, kissed the amazed old woman--who was so dumbfoundered that she could do nothing but look at her son, and cry--promised to send her plenty of money from Australia and to make a lady of her in five years, and was back to the Gold Packet at one o'clock.

"You're a man of mettle," said the enthusiast; "you're just the sort for the gold-diggings; it's such men as you they want. You'll make your fortune there as sure as eggs are eggs. Here's your ticket. Come down-stairs; I'll show you your berth and things."

"How much does it all come to?" asked Smith. The enthusiast pencilled some figures on a piece of paper, and gave it to Smith, who looked at the items, and added them up. Everything was correct; he handed the enthusiast the money, and had exactly two shillings and fourpence left to conquer the new world with. Smith went down-stairs (to speak courteously of the descent; but there are worse, we are taught) into the den where the steerage passengers were packed, and the enthusiast showed him his berth, his bedding, his tin cups, his bar of yellow soap, and other necessary paraphernalia. The enthusiast showed these things to Smith, but Smith could scarcely see them, the place was so dark. Smith was not daunted because the place was dismal, and because it was filled with women crying, and children screaming, and men growling--a very pit of discomfort. His soul rose to the occasion; he had a spirit above a bricklayer's; with his passage ticket in his hand, and two shillings and fourpence in his pocket, he felt himself a king. There was work before him to do, and he was happy in the prospect of no more idle days. When he went on to the deck he did not see the enthusiast, but he did not miss him, he was so interested in what was going on about him, the hurrying to and fro, the shouting, the singing of the sailors, the loosening of the sails, the hauling of ropes. In an hour the ship was off, winding its way through such a complicated labyrinth of boats and ships and ropes, that the wonder was how it disentangled itself safely. Smith watched the manœuvres with admiration. Then he glanced at the passage ticket. "Holloa!" he said, "they've made a mistake in my Christian name. I'm William Smith, not John."

(Let me mention here, briefly, that our Smith never set eyes again on the enthusiast, whose name was also Smith, prefixed by John. It was his passage ticket, indeed, that our Smith held in his hand. All the time he had been painting in the most glowing colours the glowing attractions of the goldfields on the other side of the world, he had been filled with the most gloomy forebodings. His courage had failed him at the last moment, and seizing the opportunity which had so fortunately presented itself of giving the new world another Smith instead of himself, he had sold his passage ticket and bedding and cooking utensils to the bricklayer, and after receiving the money for them, bade good-bye to the Gold Packet and all the fair promises it held out.)

With his two shillings and fourpence in his pocket, William Smith started on the voyage, and made himself so useful, and was altogether so cheerful and shrewd and bustling, that he soon became a prime favourite with the passengers and crew. In ninety-two days from the date of sailing, the ship passed through Port Philip Heads, and from that day Fortune smiled upon William Smith. In a fortnight he was on the goldfields; in six months he was a speculator; in twelve, he had saved a thousand pounds. And now he was proprietor of a fine hotel and a theatre, and had a dozen other irons in the fire, not one of which did he allow to grow cold.

I think I shall be pardoned for this digression. This story is of the Mosaic kind, and although there are some strange bits in it, I hope none will be found incongruous, but that they will all fit in one with another, and form a complete and original whole.

[CHAPTER X.]

TO-MORROW IT IS ST. VALENTINE'S DAY.

Mr. Hart, then, had spoken to William Smith about Philip's golden reef, and what a capital chance there was for a crushing machine. His words did not fall upon listless ears. The same day William Smith walked to the reef, examined the stone, went down the shaft, chipped here and there, putting two, or three bits of gold and stone in his pocket, as treasure-trove, came up from the hole, strolled about the locality, Argus-eyed, and made up his mind. He spoke it to Philip and his mate. Said he: "In three weeks I will have a machine erected here, with twelve heads of stampers, which shall be working day and night, and which shall crush forty tons of quartz every twenty-four hours. You have raised, I should say, about one hundred and fifty tons of stone. You shall put a dozen men at work in your claim--I will provide the money for their wages, and for powder and fuse--and in three weeks you shall raise another hundred tons. I will do all this on the following terms: You shall contract to give me the first two hundred tons of quartz to crush, and I will contract to crush it at the rate of three ounces of gold per ton." (The shrewd speculator had seen clearly enough that there was plenty of gold in the stone to pay him, and leave a handsome margin; indeed, he calculated that the quartz already raised from the bowels of the earth, and lying on the surface of the claim, would yield not less than ten or twelve ounces to the ton.) "The next two hundred tons I will crush for two and a half ounces of gold per ton; the next two hundred for two ounces per ton."

Some men are born with a genius for figures: William Smith was one; and he had already totted up in his own mind that the crushing of these six hundred tons of quartz would bring him in no less than £6000; and that it could all be done in fifteen days. His £6000 would pay all expenses of labour and the purchase and erection of the machine, which in little more than a fortnight after it was put up would stand him in nothing. There were many chances of this kind in the goldfields for enterprising men.

"After that," concluded William Smith, "we can make fresh arrangements."

Philip and his mate jumped at the offer. Then, practical William Smith, to their astonishment and admiration, told them that although he had been but a short time on the range--it could not have been more than three hours altogether--he had settled on the very spot where the machine was to be erected. He showed them the place. It was on the slope of a natural basin, which, with a little labour, could be made into a splendid reservoir for the rain. Here the machine was to be erected; here the dam was to be built; here the sheds for the furnace and for the washing-out and retorting of the gold were to be put up. All was arranged. The only thing that would be wanted was water. "Pray for rain," said William Smith; and fancying that he saw in Philip's face an intention to fall on his knees that instant, cried out, in a fright, "Not now, not now! In a fortnight, when the dam is ready." So Philip deferred his prayer for two weeks.

Now, it was manifestly impossible to get a crushing-machine from the capital of the colony in time. But William Smith, when he made his offer, knew what he was about. He knew of a machine on a neighbouring goldfield not many miles away, which had been erected in a foolish spot, where it was practically useless, for the quartz would not yield sufficient gold to pay expenses of labour. Those who had bought and erected the machine had done so on the credit of a small patch of gold which they had found, and which they thought would lead them to precious deposits. They found no more gold, or not sufficient to pay. They built castles in the air--which practical William Smith never did; he always went upon solid ground, and seldom made a mistake. Before he was two days older he had bought the machine for a quarter of its value, and fifty men were set to work on it, so that it was almost literally torn down. But he had an experienced man at the head of his workers, and everything was done right. Fifty more men were working at the reservoir, digging out the earth, and piling up the banks, and on the very day succeeding the scene which had taken place between Philip and Mr. Hart the first portion of the crushing-machine arrived on the ground. This kept Philip busy, and although he was burning to get away to his Margaret, he could not do so until the night. The first thing that he saw when he went behind the scenes was one of the flowers he had bought the night before. He raised his eyes from the flower to Margaret's face, for the flower was in her bosom.

"Ah!" he sighed, flushing with delight.

Of such simple thing are life's sweetest pleasures born.

The bunch of flower's had, as a matter of course, formed a fruitful subject of conversation among the members of the dramatic company, and Margaret, being a woman, and womanly, was obliged to make a confidante of some one of her own sex. The Leading Lady was out of the question; so the First Old Woman, the mother of the baby who had proved such a hit, on the first night, received Margaret's confidences, and being a good-hearted, unselfish creature, and delighted at the opportunity of indulging in a little bit of match-making, and also of revenging herself upon the Leading Lady for her objection to baby being a shareholder in the Star Dramatic Company, she listened, and smiled, and congratulated the young girl.

"To-morrow it is Saint Valentine's Day!" she sang.

"You've come to silver Creek for something. Here, my dear, nurse my baby, and get your hand in."

Which caused Margaret to blush furiously.

"O," cried Margaret, "but there's been nothing said between us!"

"Nothing, my dear!" exclaimed the First Old Woman, with a mischievous laugh. "Really nothing!"

"Well, nothing very particular."

"Indeed!" said the First Old Woman, with good-humoured sarcasm. "Is coming behind the scenes every night saying nothing? Was throwing you the flowers saying nothing? Was standing outside your window last night for a full hour and a half--I saw him with my own eyes, my dear! I did; and envied you--was that saying nothing? I declare, then, I shall set my cap at him; I may as well take a chance in the lottery. He's as handsome a young fellow as ever walked in two shoes, and if you intend to disappoint him----"

"O, but I don't," interrupted Margaret, apprehensively.

Whereupon they fell to kissing one another, and baby came in for her share.

[CHAPTER XI.]

"I AM GOING TO SPEAK OUT," SAID PHILIP.

When Philip made his appearance that evening behind the scenes, the First Old Woman smiled significantly at him, and once, when her cue to go on the stage was given, she cried to him, of malice aforethought:

"O, dear me! I'm wanted on the stage! Hold my baby, Mr. Rowe, till I come off again."

And before he had time to utter a word one way or another, baby was in his arms, and the mother darted away, laughing to herself.

Philip was not ashamed of his burden; he nursed the baby tenderly, but somewhat gingerly, it must be confessed--fearful, perhaps, lest he should break the little thing, or dislocate something. Margaret, who was on the stage at the time, looked at him furtively as he was kissing the mite, and her mind was in such a whirl, that for the first time during her engagement she forgot the words she had to speak. Observing which the First Old Woman made matters worse by whispering sly nonsense in Margaret's ear. Little did the unconscious baby suspect the important part she was playing in the sentimental comedy.

Later on in the night, Philip said to Margaret:

"I am going to speak out."

This was the very thing she was pining for, and now that her wish was about to be gratified, she exclaimed:

"If you dare, sir!" saucily, mischievously, coquettishly.

Then what did Margaret do but lead him into a more retired spot, where, if he did speak out, no one but herself could hear him.

"If you dare, sir!" she repeated, with a smile which magnetised him. There was but little need for that; he was bewitched already.

"Call me Philip," he entreated.

"Philip," she sighed.

It was like the whisper of a rose.

He was radiant; the joy in his heart was reflected in his face. He toyed with her fingers. Slender they were, and supple, and not strong. But never were chains more potent.

"Well, Philip?" said Margaret shyly.

"Well, Margaret?"

He could find at that moment nothing more sensible to say. He was engaged watching the light of her eyes, and the colour come and go on her cheek.

"What is that in your hand?" said she.

"A letter."

"Ah, that's what you brought me here for! A letter! For me! Give it to me!" She held out her little hand eagerly.

He withheld the letter from her.

"It is not for you."

"O, indeed!"

She tore her fingers from his grasp, for he had taken them and was kissing them.

"But you may read it," he said ruefully.

She nestled to him, and gave him her hand again, and looked remorseful. When she pleaded mutely for forgiveness, with her pretty face upturned to his, and with her soft red lips within an inch of his, what would you have done, had you been in his place? He did what you would have done--and did it again--and again--and----

"No, sir," she cried, putting her hand upon her lips. "No, Philip, I mean. You shall not--you must not! Some one will be coming this way----"

There was nothing for it, as her lips were covered, but to kiss her neck; and he did so, until she lay in his arms panting.

"You frighten me," she sighed; "and if you are not still, I'll run away."

And she meant it. Dramatic lovers she had had by the score, in silk and fustian. She had been made love to a hundred times upon the stage, but those were sham engagements, and her gentle breast was not fluttered by them, nor was her sweet nature spoilt by them. This sort of thing was quite different.

"And I've a great mind to be angry with you," she said, not moving from his embrace.

"Why?"

"You have brought me no flowers."

He looked disconsolate. "If I had known you wanted them!"

"If you had known, sir! You must guess things. You must look into my face, if you think it will not frighten you, and you must say, Margaret wants this; Margaret wants that----' No, no, Philip I did not say I wanted that!"

"But you told me I must look into your face, and guess things, and I did!"

"Then I'll take back all that I have said, for men are such foolish creatures." She gave him the tenderest smile, to strengthen the words. "And indeed, and indeed, I've a good mind to be angry with you."

"Be angry with me after you have read my letter."

"How can I read it when you will not let me go?"

Certainly his arms were round her, but she did not make the least effort to get away from them.

"Shall I let you go?"

"If you like."

"I don't like."

He pressed her closer to him.

"Tell me, first, how you got my flowers last night."

"Why, you puss, I have told you twice already."

"I forget it, I want to hear it again."

These small deceptions are permissible between lovers, when they are used to such felicitous purpose. He told her again, and her bosom panted, and her heart beat, and a proud and tender light shone in her eyes as he described the mad gallop he had taken; how her face was ever before him, urging him on; how he had won the flowers; the way the woman had said, "O, if it's for that!" then the ride back, singing as he rode----

"Singing!" she exclaimed, interrupting him. "O, you didn't tell me that last night. I knew you had left something out."

"I did sing, and the trees heard me."

"What song was it, sir?"

"Philip!"

"Philip, then. What song did you sing?"

"No song at all--yes, the sweetest song! A song with only one word to it."

"With only one word to it! Dear me I know some, and I don't know that--and the sweetest song, you say."

"The sweetest, the dearest, the best word in the world."

"What word was it?"

"Margaret--Margaret--Margaret!"

"O Philip! And everybody heard it!"

"I left it behind me--no, I didn't; I wouldn't part with it. Part with it! Never, while my heart beats! Yet I did lose it too, for an echo stole it--and I heard it singing Margaret as I rode on."

They were talking together in the open; there was a light in the sky, but the moon had not yet risen. Ten minutes afterwards he said:

"Now read my letter."

"I can't see it," placing her eyes close to it; "it's too dark."

"Not for my eyes." He bent his head to hers; their cheeks touched. "'Dear madam,' he commenced, 'my name is Philip Rowe----'"

"What a stupid commencement!" she said, laughing.

"Is it? Wait. Perhaps it will improve farther on. 'My name is Philip Rowe. I am twenty-six years of age, and I am an Englishman, born in Devonshire. I have a half share in a rich claim on a rich quartz reef. I love your daughter----'"

"O, O," she cried, trembling from happiness. "It's to my mother. And you're from Devonshire. Mother has friends in Devonshire. One in particular, that she has often talked of. I've never been there. Go on, Philip. 'I love your daughter.' Do you, do you, Philip?"

"Do I, my darling?" he said passionately. "Listen to my heart. What does it beat but Margaret, Margaret? I came here to find my life, and I have found her. I love you with all my soul. I never knew what a beautiful thing life was until I saw your dear face."

This was heaven to her to hear. Presently, "Go on, Philip, I love your daughter.'"

"'And she loves me.'"

"O, Philip, who told you? What are you doing, sir?"

"I am listening to your heart, My darling."

"And what does it say! As if it could speak! What does it say, sir?"

"I think I hear it. I think it beats for me."

So inexpressibly tender was his tone, that her arms crept round his neck, and she sighed, "It does, Philip; it does!"

It was the proudest, happiest moment in his life. A blissful silence encompassed them.

"I haven't much more to read," he said, and added cunningly, "Where did I leave off?"

"You know, Philip."

"No, but tell me."

"'And she loves me,'" she whispered.

"My darling! 'I love your daughter, and she loves me. I cannot make a lady of her, for she is that already, thanks to you.' Isn't that good?" he asked, breaking off.

"Yes. Go on; go on. I want to hear the end."

"'I will do all in my power to make her happy; and I write with her permission, to ask you to allow me to subscribe myself, in every letter that follows this, your affectionate son, Philip Rowe.' There!"

"And how can you see to read such a bold letter, sir? My eyes are as good as yours, and there's no light."

"I did not read with my eyes, dear Margaret."

"With what then, Philip? You are full of riddles."

"With my heart, my darling."

[CHAPTER XII.]

"PRAY FOR RAIN, MY DARLING."

"We are getting along finely," said William Smith, rubbing his hands briskly as he looked about with satisfaction upon the busy scene. The crushing machine was nearly fixed. It was a Berdan's, with twelve stampers to pound the stone to dust. The steam-engine was in fine order. The glistening white quicksilver was ready for the work of amalgamation with the bright red gold. The dam was built and ready for water.

William Smith had good reason to feel proud, for by his enterprise he had peopled this hitherto deserted spot. A hundred tents of drill, and a few more pretentious with walls built of slabs, were scattered about, and by a wave of his hand three hundred strong men had found profitable employment. Some had their wives with them, and goats and children scampered about the gullies and over the adjacent hills. The stores, the principal one of which and the most favoured by the gold-diggers belonged to William Smith, were doing a roaring business. A wise man, William Smith; no half-hearted worker; what he did was thoroughly done. He was an honest straightforward man too, driving a hard bargain always, and always to his own advantage; but those he dealt with had their gains also, and they knew that his words were to be depended upon down to the last letter. Wherever he competed he took the lead, and deservedly. His hotel was the best in Silver Creek; the best accommodation was to be found there, the best liquors were to be obtained there. His theatre was a model of comfort. His store on the Margaret Reef (I have not had time before to tell you that Philip had christened it the "Margaret," immediately he knew the name of his sweetheart) was as complete as it was possible for a store on the gold-diggings to be. He sold the best of everything--the best and nattiest water-tight boots with square toes and clean-cut nails in the soles, the strongest laces, the stoutest and soundest drill and calico for tents and flies, the trustiest steel for gads, the most serviceable serge and Scotch twill shirts, the finest pea-jackets, the most expensive cabbage-tree and Panama hats, the best tobacco, and everything else of the first quality. His store was the post-office, and there was a corner in it where the gold-diggers could write their letters and read the Silver Creek Herald and the Silver Creek Mercury. He had planned roads, and had some idea of using his influence for the laying-out of a township by the Government. In his way, William Smith was a small Moses; with room and opportunity and a thousand men at his back he could have laid the solid foundation of a great nation. He had the true legislative faculties for such an undertaking, and I am sure that he would have looked after Number One. The bricklayer who could only earn thirty shillings a week in England, might have become a ruler of men.

The scene, altogether, that was to be witnessed day and night on the Margaret Reef was such as never can be witnessed in an old country. In civilised countries men seem to go about their work with a sadness upon them, and as if they were labouring under some kind of oppression. In such-like places as I am describing, men rise in the morning and set about their work with smiles and vigour, and hearty cheerfulness. In the old country it is, "It's a hard thing to have to work like this! Alas!" In the new country it is, "Come along, boys, with a will! Hurrah!"

I have said that the dam was built and ready for water. William Smith said the same thing to Philip at the conclusion of a conversation. He was in high spirits; there were two hundred and fifty tons of quartz waiting to be crushed, lying in great heaps near the shaft. Half of it was burnt, and was ready for the machine; the other half was piled on the wood kilns and was blazing away, filling the air with not the pleasantest arsenical fumes. New shafts were being sunk along the brow of the Margaret Reef, and one or two were beginning to yield gold-bearing stone.

"What do you think it will crush?" asked Philip of William Smith, as they stood by a heap of the quartz which had been burnt.

William Smith poked about the stone and averaged it, a piece from one place, a piece from another, a piece from another. He saw plenty of gold in it.

"About nine ounces to the ton, I should say," replied William Smith. "We'll first crush fifty tons, and wash up and see what the yield is. Then we'll go straight on with two hundred tons, and get the biggest cake of gold that has ever been seen in Silver Creek and exhibit it in High Street. It'll do the diggings good."

"When shall we commence to crush?"

"We shall be ready in three days. All we want is water in the dam. Now is the time to pray for rain."

Philip went straight to Margaret, as one goes to one's high-priest.

"Pray for rain, my darling," he said, "pray for rain;" and told her the reason why.

Margaret prayed for rain, obediently, as she had been bidden, and prayed for it so hard that, whether you will believe it or not, such a downpour commenced on Silver Creek at ten o'clock that night as had never been witnessed by the oldest inhabitant--a veteran of two years or less. Silver Creek overflowed its banks, and the lower parts of the township were flooded. Philip was wild with joy.

"You duck!" he said to Margaret--he was in the theatre when the rain commenced--"this is all your doing!"

We sober-going persons know, of course, that it was only a coincidence. Margaret, however, smiled demurely. She was quite ready to take the credit of it; she would not have been a woman else. But it was rather a stretch on Philip's part.

William Smith looked anxious. He wanted rain, but he was a little bit afraid of such a downpour as this, thinking that the dam might not be strong enough to bear it. Philip ran to Margaret, and told her of William Smith's fears.

"The dam not strong enough!" she exclaimed. "O, but it is!"

Philip was satisfied. The most profound logic could not have so convinced him of the soundness of the dam. He could not convince William Smith, however, for Smith was not in love. That enterprising person wanted to set out at once for the Margaret Reef, but it was impossible to get there in such a storm. Raging torrents were in the way. Smith fretted that he could not whistle them aside. But he did not fret long; he accepted the inevitable with a grimace. Philip accepted it in a very different fashion; but then it was pleasant to him, for it compelled him to remain for the night in the hotel where Margaret was. He blessed the rain that kept him by Margaret's side. He had also a little private business to do with Mr. Hart. Margaret had related to him the incident on the road which had led to the baby becoming a shareholder in Hart's Star Dramatic Company, and how that it was Mr. Hart who had suggested it. She enacted the entire scene, and burlesqued the Leading Lady in fine style. Philip, who was fond of children, was mightily pleased, and was loud in his praises of Mr. Hart, and Margaret chimed in. She loved the old man; and, indeed, they both had occasion to be grateful to him. Between them they had concocted a plan--that is to say, Philip had concocted it, and Margaret had said, "Yes, yes," to everything; which, in Philip's eyes, made her the author of it. What that plan was will now be seen.

The performances concluded at eleven o'clock: The roof of the theatre was made of zinc, and the rain fell on it so heavily and loudly that not a word could be heard within the walls. But the actors went on with their parts nevertheless, and to keep the audience in good humour, introduced dances in the piece, and played such impromptu antics that the gold-diggers were rather pleased with the storm than otherwise.

When the performances were at an end, Philip and Margaret stood at the side-scenes, talking softly over their plan concerning Mr. Hart. What they really had to say about it might have occupied two minutes--but it took them twenty, they were such bunglers.

"Now I shall go to Mr. Hart," said Philip, and kissed Margaret.

The part he was playing in those happy days was full of cues for kisses. There may have been meaning in the kisses; there was certainly none in the cues.

I think that Philip must have spoken this particular cue, "Now I shall go to Mr. Hart," at least a dozen times (invariably, of course, using it as a fresh cue) before he attempted to stir from Margaret's side. But at length he did say, with something like determination:

"Now I must really go."

Margaret replied with a sigh, "Yes, Philip, you must."

Even then, I think, he would not have gone, if they had not been disturbed in their love-making.

"When it is all settled," said Margaret, "run up to my room and knock at the door; then I will come down and give Mr. Hart a good hug and half-a-dozen kisses."

Philip looked blank at this.

"You goose!" said Margaret. "I have kissed him I don't know how many times. Why, he's over sixty! and don't you think he deserves it, sir, for the care he has taken of me."

"Of course," responded Philip, the cloud in his face clearing. "I am a goose. I know you wouldn't kiss a younger man--unless it was me."

"Not a much younger man," replied Margaret with a merry laugh, as she ran away from him.

[CHAPTER XIII.]

"WHAT IF THERE ARE VILLAINS AND SCOUNDRELS IN THE WORLD?" HE CRIED, "WE WILL NEVER LOSE OUR FAITH IN GOD AND MAN--NEVER! NEVER! NEVER!"

Philip watched until Margaret was out of sight, and then walked slowly to Mr. Hart's room, and knocked at the door, but received no answer. He strolled into the bar of the hotel, but could not see Mr. Hart.

"He must be in his room," quoth Philip to himself. "There was a light there."

He knocked at the door again, and still receiving no answer, turned the handle, and found the door unfastened. He entered the room, and saw Mr. Hart sitting before his little table with his head buried in his hands.

"Ah! you're there," said Philip, closing the door behind him, and drawing a chair to the table. "I want to say something particular to you."

Mr. Hart, with a wave of his hand, motioned the young man to proceed.

Philip was flushed and excited, and somewhat nervous as to how his mission would be received; and being in this condition he did not observe any change in Mr. Hart's face or manner.

"This is how it is," he continued. "You made me an offer for a share in my claim once, and I refused it. Well, I was wrong in refusing, and I want to accept it now. Don't think there's any favour in it, or that the claim is any better or any worse than it was. The stone is looking splendid, and now that the rain is falling the dam will be filled, and we shall commence to crush directly it clears up. I want you to give me two hundred and fifty pounds for a quarter of my half-share. That is an eighth part of the claim, and it sets the claim at a good price--two thousand pounds; and I'll make you a bet of three hundred pounds, and stake the money, that in less than six weeks your share of the profits will amount to three times as much as I ask you for it. There, that is how it is. Now say 'Done!' like a good fellow, and place me under an obligation to you for life. I know you have the money."

He blurted out these words, not coherently and smoothly as they are written here, but in as bungling a manner as can well be imagined. He stammered, he hesitated, he repeated his words, but at length he had explained himself. Mr. Hart had listened quietly, the only motion he made being one which would hide his face more effectually from Philip. When Philip had finished his lame speech and was waiting for an answer, he noticed that Mr. Hart's trunk was open, and that all its contents were scattered about the floor; indeed the whole room was in a state of confusion. Mr. Hart spoke in a low tone.

"You offer me a fourth of your share for two hundred and fifty pounds."

"Yes, and I have the agreement in duplicate in my pocket, with my name to it. I had it drawn out to-day by a lawyer. It only wants your signature, and the thing is settled."

"And you will bet me three hundred pounds, staking the money, that in less than six weeks I shall receive back for my share of the profits three times as much as I give you for it."

"That's it."

"With whom will you stake the money?"

"With you."

"So that I shall really have in hand fifty pounds more than you ask for the share."

"That's it; but why so many words? Say, 'Done and done!'"

Philip was on thorns while the matter was unsettled.

"I must clearly understand," said Mr. Hart, in the same low tone, which, indeed, he preserved throughout this part of the conversation "before I can say anything to the offer. I want to be certain that you mean honestly by me. The world is full of thieves. There is plenty of roguery about."

"That's true," replied Philip complacently; "I'm a bit of a rogue myself."

"And," proceeded Mr. Hart, with a strange hesitation in his voice, "supposing the claim to be utterly worthless, at the end of six weeks I shall be sure to be fifty pounds in pocket?"

"You will be more than that in pocket. The claim's a good one; there's no telling how much gold is in it."

Mr. Hart paused, to steady himself. "I'm not much of an arithmetician; I was always a bad hand at figures; but I can see that I must be a gainer if I accept your offer."

"I hope you will be."

"Your claim is a rich one. All the diggers say so."

"We shall make a fortune out of it in three months," replied Philip, with a bright smile--"you, and all of us."

"On the first day I saw you----"

"When you pulled the centipede out of my hair," interrupted Philip. "A lucky day for me, that was. Good luck to you, old fellow! Yes: on the first day you saw me--go on."

"I offered you, if you remember, a hundred and twenty pounds for a small share in the claim."

"I remember."

"And you refused, saying you would want twenty times as much."

"I spoke like a fool; I didn't know you then." Again Mr. Hart paused.

"Philip," he said presently, in a tremulous tone, "why do you make me this offer?"

Philip hung his head upon his breast, and with a slight trembling of his lower lip, replied softly:

"Because I love you."

A sudden rush of tears came into Mr. Hart's eyes, and he laid his head upon his arm.

"For God's sake don't do that!" cried Philip, rising hurriedly, and looking about him in distress. "If I've said anything to hurt you, forgive me. I'm a great hulking brute; Margaret will never look at me again. There, there, old fellow!"

And Philip, whose heart was as tender as a woman's and whose first intention had been to fly from the room, and dash through the storm, knelt by the side of Mr. Hart, and used words as gentle, and actions as fond as though he were kneeling by the side of a child. And all the time he did this his great limbs were trembling, and the tears were running down his strong beard. Mr. Hart raised his head, which was now on a level with Philip's, and with no more shame or awkwardness than a child would exhibit, put his arms across Philip's shoulders and kissed him.

I draw a veil over the next few moments; neither of them spoke during that time, but their hearts were throbbing with eloquent and tender emotion.

Then said Mr. Hart, when he was calmer:

"Philip, my son, you have taught me a lesson; you have made my heart green again. It was turning bitter against all men, and you have softened it, and restored my faith. Ah, how proud your father must be of such a son!"

Philip groaned. "I ran away from him; I was a scapegrace at home, and I caused the dear old fellow many a heartache. Never mind. I will repay him; I know better now."

"You did nothing wrong, my dear boy, I am sure."

"I almost broke his heart, I think. I tried his patience sorely. He sent me to Cambridge to do honour to his name, and I did my best to disgrace it. I went home with a long tail of debts behind me; he paid them, and said, 'Never mind, my lad; promise me that you will not do so again; see here, I will double your allowance.' I promised him, and took the double allowance, and got into debt again. It hurt him--I saw that. That I should break a promise to him, who had never broken one to me, who had never said a harsh word to me, made him wince. Again he paid my debts; again I promised; again I broke my word. More than that: I involved the son of a friend of his, who gave his name for me to the money-lenders. Well, I couldn't face him the third time. I sent him a list of my debts, and I ran away. The best thing I could do--and the worst, I think, for he loved me, the dear old dad!"

"You will live to repay him."

"I will do my best. I will go home to him, with my dear Margaret on my arm, and say--and say, 'Dear old dad----'"

But he broke down here, and it was Mr. Hart's turn to console him. He was not long in this mood. He jumped to his feet, and with a great shake of his shoulders cried:

"Enough about me! You are in trouble. What is it?"

"I cannot buy the share you offer me, Philip."

"Why? You have money enough, and you shall buy it. You shall! I'll drag the money out of your box. O, I know where you keep it, and I'm strong enough to do what I say."

"You'll find no money there, Philip," said Mr. Hart, sadly.

"You don't mean to say you've been speculating and lost it!" said Philip, pulling a long face.

"No, I have not lost it by speculation, but it is gone all the same. See here, Philip, my son. I had saved nearly four hundred pounds, and I had almost made up my mind to go home and see my daughter at the end of this three months' engagement. It would have been madness to do so when, by staying here for three months longer, I might have doubled my savings, which are all for her; but I am yearning to hold her in my arms, and press my darling to my heart. Ah, Philip! you don't know what a father's love is--you may, one day, my boy, and then you will understand my feelings. Prudence said, 'Stay a little while longer;' but my heart's yearning beat prudence out of the field. It said to me, 'You are an old man; young as you feel, you may break down. Let your daughter see you when you are strong, and able, old as you are, to protect and advise her. Don't wait till you are decrepit and feeble, when she cannot have faith and confidence in you. You have saved money enough three times during the last seven years, and each time you have stayed a little longer, and lost it. Go now, and don't tempt bad fortune again.' About my having saved money enough three times, Philip, it is true, and true that I have lost it, lost it by trusting friends, who deceived me, and played me false. Well, I began to get frightened by these reflections, and to-day, you know, the letters by the Overland Mail camp up to Silver Creek. Among them was a letter for me by my daughter, a letter filled with such expressions of love and affection that I should have been less than a man not to have hungered for a sight of her. I resolved; I would go home when the engagement here terminated. I reckoned that I could land in England with six hundred pounds. After the theatre was closed, I came into my room, and opened my box, to count my money as a miser does. How often have I done it, and with what different feelings from those which must animate a miser! Imagine my despair, my boy, when I found that I had been robbed. Philip, I haven't a shilling in the world! Once more I am left a beggar. It was while I was contemplating the dreary prospect before me that you came in. In my heart I was cursing all mankind, and a terrible feeling of doubt of higher things was creeping into my mind. But your noble offer has restored my faith again. What if there are villains and scoundrels in the world!" he cried, standing up before the admiring Philip. "Let them creep, and crawl, and plunder, and grow rich; and then die their death of shame! We will never lose our faith in God and man--never, never, never! Ay, though our dear heart's wishes may never be gratified, we will bow our heads reverently, and believe in goodness, and hope to the last!"

He held out his hand, and Philip took it. The grasp was to the younger man as though he were pledging himself to a life of honour and integrity.

"In my young days," continued Mr. Hart, with a soft light in his eyes, "I had a friend; in my young days I loved a woman as truly as you love Margaret. I have not seen my friend for thirty years. I have not received line or message from him, nor he from me, and he is still my friend, and I am his. The woman I loved did not love me, and I went from her sight. But though in after years I loved another woman who became my wife, and who gave me my daughter, the memory of the first has never left me, and I think of her with tenderness still. These and other remembrances have in a measure sustained my faith, and, I humbly hope, purified my life. Shall I turn a misanthrope now in my old age, and snarl at mankind because I have been deceived for the dozenth time? No, Philip, no! It would be robbing life of all its sweetness."

But in spite of this generous outburst, his grief was too powerful to be thus suddenly conquered, and his lips quivered again with emotion as he thought of his loss.

"Leave me now, Philip," he said. "I cannot accept your offer, but while my heart beats, you have a place in it."

He had barely uttered these words when the storm without grew more furious. The rain came down like a flood. The wind rattled about the wooden walls of the hotel to such an extent that it seemed as though the building could not possibly hold together. A flash of lightning, so vivid that it almost blinded them, pierced the ground, and at its heels followed a peal of thunder so terrible that it shook the very foundation of the earth. They stood spell-bound. When sight and hearing were restored to them, they heard what sounded like a great crash outside, mingled with human cries; but their attention was diverted from these by the appearance of Margaret, white and trembling, at the door.

[CHAPTER XIV.]

"THIS IS LIKE THE DAWN OF LIFE, MY SWEET."

"I am frightened," she murmured, and ran into her lover's arms, and hid her face in his breast, and tremblingly asked if the world was coming to an end.

Philip, who was really startled by the fury of the storm, recovered his self-possession the moment he saw Margaret. Lovers are not only proverbially, but actually selfish. As Philip embraced Margaret, and pressed her to his breast, I do not believe he cared a pin for the storm--nor Margaret either. She felt quite safe in his arms, but, womanlike, she still expressed her fears.

"O, Philip!"

Clinging closer to him.

"There is nothing to be frightened at, darling," said he.

"It is coming to an end, I know," she murmured (meaning the world), "but it is a comfort to die in your arms!"

"It will be a greater comfort to live in them," replied Philip, half gaily.

She reproved him, asking, "How could he, at such a time?" and murmured that it was wicked to think of such things (never mentioning what things) in the midst of such terrible goings-on. I doubt if any other two persons in the hotel, speaking so softly; could have heard one another, but these two were lovers, and their lips almost, perhaps quite touched. The storm was raging so furiously, and there was such a din and confusion all around them, wind blowing, thunder thundering, and people shouting, that Mr. Hart had to raise his voice very high when he spoke, so that Philip might hear it.

"Something has occurred," he said; "did you hear the crash?"

Philip nodded that he had heard it.

"It was not all thunder. Mischief has been done; I shall go out and see."

"I will go too," said Philip.

"And leave me?" cried Margaret.

He would have found it difficult to do so, she clung to him so closely.

"No," he answered; "come along with us."

Philip caught up a blanket, and wrapped his Margaret in it from head to foot. All was dark outside, except when the lightning lit up the scene.

"Keep close, Margaret," said Philip.

As if she needed telling!

"A black night, indeed," said Mr. Hart, holding his hand before his eyes; "a black night, in every sense of the word. One wants sailors' eyes at such a time. Why, where's the theatre?"

A flash of lightning had revealed to him the space where the theatre had stood, but the roof was no longer visible. Their forms had been recognised in the flash.

"Is that you, Hart?" cried a hearty voice.

It was William Smith who spoke, and his voice was as cheery and as ringing as the blast of a silver trumpet.

"Yes."

"Who is that with you?"

"Philip."

"Ah, Philip! if the dam has stood, our fortune's made, Philip."

"The dam's all right!" shouted Philip.

(Please to remember that there could be no doubt about the safety of the dam, Margaret's lips having insured it.)

"I hope so," shouted William Smith. "It'll be a bit of good luck to make up for a bit of bad. Mr. Hart, the theatre's down!"

Mr. Hart groaned.

"It needed but that," he murmured.

"You could play a piece now with real thunder and lightning," continued William Smith, at the top of his voice. "Why don't you speak? I suppose you're down in the mouth because your theatre's all to pieces! Never say die, man!"

Mr. Hart said nothing. This stroke of bad fortune coming so close upon the loss of his savings almost crushed him.

"We'll have it up again in less than a week," cried the plucky speculator. "William Smith's hard to beat!"

He really seemed to enjoy it. If those who had known him in London could have seen and heard him now, they would scarcely have believed. In the old country he was a mouse; in the new country he was a man. The wind was enough to blow them away, and it was impossible for them to remain longer in the open. They were already wet through, so they turned into Mr. Hart's room; and presently William Smith joined them, smiling, and fresh as a flower, with the rain glistening on his face and in his hair. He did not stop with them long, for he had his business to look after; his bars were thronged with gold-diggers, drinking the lightning and thunder down. Margaret ran up-stairs to her room, to change her dripping clothes, and when she presented herself again, she was dressed in a loose gown, and her long brown hair was hanging down her back.

"By Jove!" said Philip, under his breath, gazing at her in silent admiration.

There was nothing sham about his Margaret, he thought; she was genuine to the very roots of her hair. What had he done to deserve such a prize? Had any other man in the world ever been so blessed?

Margaret smiled coyly; she knew what was passing through her lover's mind, and was not sorry for the opportunity to show herself. So these small bits of sentimental comedy were played, while the tragedy of the storm was being enacted without.

"We'll make a night of it," said Philip.

All this while he had forgotten Mr. Hart's loss, but it flashed upon him suddenly in the sad look that dwelt in the old man's eyes.

"Margaret," said Philip, "go and sit in that corner, and shut your eyes. Mr. Hart and I have a little bit of private business to transact; it won't take five minutes."

Obedient Margaret moved a few paces away, and closed her eyes, and raised the picture of her lover, handsome, and brave, and noble, to feast upon mentally. Philip stole to her, kissed her fresh lips, and whispered a word in her ear. Then he looked about him for pen and ink, and brought them to the table.

"Now," he said, in a low tone to Mr. Hart, "please to sign these papers."

He took from his pocket the duplicate agreements, by which he sold, and Mr. Hart bought, a fourth of his share in the claim on the Margaret Reef. Mr. Hart gently shook his head. But Philip would not be denied. He pressed and argued, and argued and pressed, and even threatened, until all that Mr. Hart could do was to sit still and listen. But still he would not sign.

"Margaret," said Philip, "come and help me."

Up jumped Margaret, and ran to the table.

"This is how it is," said Philip, appealing to her, but Mr. Hart interrupted him.

"No, no; let me explain."

"Stop his mouth, Margaret!"

Margaret placed her small hand on Mr. Hart's mouth, having to encircle his neck with her soft arm to do so. He could not quarrel with the necklace, and he kissed her hand.

"O, you may kiss it!" said she. "Philip will not be angry, nor will I."

"I angry!" exclaimed Philip, "with him or you. Keep your hand there, and let him kiss it as often as he likes."

She gave Philip her other hand as a reward, and he warmed it in his.

"This is how it is, Margaret----" and Philip explained the matter to her.

She was grave and silent when his story was finished, out of sympathy for Mr. Hart's loss, and also out of gratitude for her lover's goodness. There was nothing sordid in either of their souls.

"It amounts to this," said Margaret, in unconscious imitation of Philip's style, "that Mr. Hart wants to part us."

"My dear child!" he remonstrated.

"You do! You know you do! for if you don't sign, and become a shareholder in the Margaret Reef, Margaret and Philip will never be married. No, Philip; I'm resolved! I'll never marry you unless I have my own way in this."

"Do you hear what she says?" shouted Philip, triumphantly. "And do you intend to part us for ever?"

The upshot of it all was that Mr. Hart was compelled to yield; but he declared, in broken words, and with tears in his eyes, that he yielded only under compulsion. It might have been, for at the last moment, before signing, he was about to dash the pen away, when Margaret stayed his hand, and with her fingers upon his guided them to sign his name. It would not make a bad picture this; and one almost as good followed, for Philip seized Margaret round the waist, and they waltzed round the old man, singing and laughing, while the storm howled without, and the tears were running down Mr. Hart's face.

"God bless you, my dears!" said Mr. Hart, and would have continued his expressions of gratitude, had not Margaret drowned his voice with her tra-la-la. It was arranged that the share should be paid for with the first two hundred and fifty pounds that would come to Mr. Hart out of the division of profits.

"So after all," said Philip, "it's only lending you the money for a week or two."

"It is giving me the gold," observed Mr. Hart.

"You gave me Margaret," replied Philip softly; "and do you think she's not worth more than all the gold in the world! I am your debtor still, and shall be all my life."

Delicious words, both to utter and hear.

They sat together until sunrise, and Margaret fell asleep in her lover's arms. Lives there the man who has not enjoyed some such heavenly minutes as these? Philip tasted then the most perfect happiness in his life.

When the sun rose, the storm cleared away. Margaret awoke, and sighed and blushed, and looked tenderly at Philip, and Mr. Hart found something so interesting at his window that he was compelled to keep his back to them. They forgave the rudeness; and presently came also to the window, and looked out upon a glorious sight. The skies were glowing with grand colour. Broad masses of golden light fringed with purple, which changed gradually to crimson, rose from the dip of the horizon. Brightly shone the sun in its bed; the sky was dotted with feather-clouds of rosy red in the east, and fairy islands of the loveliest shades of blue, flecked with white, moved towards them from the west. Raindrops seemed to hang, like glistening eyes, between cloud and land; the heavens laughed; all was sweet, and fresh, and beautiful.

So, in another land, which lay beneath them, and on another morning, when summer was waning, the old man shall stand, after a strange and eventful night, gazing on the sunrise with grateful eyes and grateful heart, embracing her who is dearer to him than his heart's blood.

"This is like the dawn of life, my sweet!" whispered Philip to Margaret.

"Of our life, Philip," she whispered.

Mr. Hart heard them.

"A happy dawn," he prayed. "May it bring a happy day!"

But prayers could not avert what was soon to come.

[CHAPTER XV.]

PHILIP IS CONVINCED OF THE EFFICACY OF MARGARET'S PRAYERS.

William Smith, the practical, the indefatigable, the restless, the dauntless, the man of action, who seemingly could do without sleep, and who had become a hero by contact with opportunity--(well, that is my opinion, and I alone am responsible for what is here written)--William Smith, I say, burst into the room, crying:

"Come, Philip, come! To the Margaret reef!"

Margaret darted out of Philip's arms; she would not let all the world see. Smith knew how matters stood between Philip and Margaret, and he winked at Mr. Hart, and did not look at the lovers--that is, significantly.

"Ah!" said Philip, reluctantly coming back to earth--and water, I might say; "the dam!"

"Yes," said William Smith, "the dam. I told you you might pray for rain. Now pray for the dam."

"I know a prayer," thought Philip and prayed; "Margaret!"

"You get to bed, my girl," said William Smith to Margaret; "all the danger's over now, and all the harm's done. The horses are outside."

"I shall want one," put in Mr. Hart.

"You!" exclaimed William Smith. "What interest have you in the dam? See to your theatre."

"What interest!" said Philip. "Why, he happens to be a shareholder in the Margaret Reef. Didn't you know?"

"No; but I'm glad to hear it. Good luck to the Margaret, and all concerned in it. I'll have a horse ready for you in a jiffy." (A new kind of conveyance for a horse to be harnessed to.)

Out he went again, and before he returned, Margaret had disappeared, first telling Philip that she was going to pray for the dam. Philip was satisfied that her praying was better than the best of puddling. Before the men mounted, they had a look at the theatre; it was a mass of ruins. The wind only had not only blown it down, but had blown pieces of it miles away. In a gully, four miles from the spot, into which a pick had not yet been stuck, the first thing that was found some months afterwards by men who went to seek for gold was a scratch wig belonging to the Low Comedian: which puzzled the prospectors. They did not go to that gully to find scratch wigs. Some part of the wardrobe belonging to the actors was buried beneath the ruins of the theatre, but a great deal had been blown away. Most of it was brought back, at odd times, by diggers and their wives, who had rare laughs over the queer vestments. Some of them made a great commotion in the township one day, by marching into High Street, dressed most absurdly. Charles the Second, in a red wig and with Macbeth's shield on his arm, was followed by Clown, with heavy eyebrows, moustaches, and Lord Dundreary whiskers; behind him came one who was half Roman and half Scotchman; and a perfect piece of patchwork brought up the rear. A fine jollification followed, you may be sure, when they halted at the Rose, Shamrock and Thistle.

As William Smith and his companions were gazing on the ruins of the theatre, a dozen labourers came up, and under the direction of one began to clear away the fallen timber. Mr. Hart and Philip looked to William Smith for an explanation. He gave it them. While the storm was raging, he had made a contract for a new theatre. It might almost be thought that he slept with one eye open. Mr. Hart said as much. William Smith laughed.

"It would be a useful thing to be able to do," he said. "But what are you wondering at? William Smith never loses a day."

He was a kind of man to put heart into men when misfortune overtook them. He would say, "If bad fortune gives me a slap in the face, I don't lay down and whimper." (He was not particular as to his grammar, although he had a proper respect for knowledge and education.) "I don't lay down and whimper," said he; "I tuck up my sleeves, and set to--with a will."

When they were in the saddle, and riding along towards the Margaret Reef, they saw evidences of the same kind of spirit in other men. Numbers of tents had been literally torn into shreds by the storm; valuable shafts had fallen in; tools and windlasses and puddling machines had been swept away by the flood, which in many places had made hills of gullies and gullies of hills. All was confusion, but men were working everywhere, with goodwill, to repair the damage. Very different were the faces of these men and women from the faces of some poor people I saw a short time since, in the crowded city in which these words are written, after an extraordinary high tide in the river, the waters of which had overflowed its banks, and washed into the cellars where they lived and slept. In the new country the men and women bustled about vigorously, with faces almost cheerful; in the old, they stood, banging their heads dolefully, and with not spirit enough amongst them to make one good worker out of a hundred. But the cases are different.

As William Smith and his companions rode along, looking this way and that, Philip suddenly cried "O!" as though he was shot, and turned his horse's head to the west, whereas the Margaret Reef lay to the north of them. Away he galloped, as though for dear life, with no thought of the Margaret Reef in his mind, and William Smith and Mr. Hart followed him. They went only some five hundred yards, but the horses had to make some big leaps over new watercourses in that short distance. Philip jumped off his horse, and tying the animal to a fallen tree, set to work helping some men to dig the earth away from a tent which had been nearly buried by the caving in of a hill. Seeing what was the matter, William Smith, who was at first disposed to grumble, jumped off his horse, and in another minute he and Mr. Hart were by the side of Philip, with their sleeves tucked up. Philip worked like a young Hercules, and when sufficient of the earth was cleared away, he cut a great gash in the canvas roof, and, stooping over with a rope tied round his waist, tenderly lifted two children from the chasm, and handed them to the gold-diggers. He was like a steam hammer, that can come down one minute with an awful thump and beat ten tons of metal into shape, and the next can come down with a tap gentle enough to fashion a thin leaf into the likeness of a delicate flower. After the two children came a woman, whom he raised in his arms as though she weighed about an ounce, and at sight of whom the gold-diggers, seeing that she was alive and comparatively unhurt, raised a great shout. And one, her husband, who was lying on the ground, crippled, burst into a passion of grateful tears. I should like to tell you the story of this family, but I have not time just now. Philip and his companions could scarcely escape from the persons they had helped to rescue, but they had other work to look to, and having ascertained that there was no more human life to be saved, they mounted their horses, and resumed their course. At the foot of the range, on the other side of which the dam lay, Philip paused for a moment to breathe the spell of Margaret's name, but William Smith dashed straight on. The first things that met their sight were wrecks of canvas tents and broken tent-poles lying about. William Smith bit his nether lip, but said not a word. He was already calculating the cost of another and a stronger dam; what he chiefly regretted was the waste of time and water. The panting horses reached the brow of the range, and the men leaped off. William Smith did not stop to ask questions of his workmen, but ran swiftly onward, to see with his own eyes. He was an older and a weaker man than Philip, who raced at his heels, but he was the first to reach the dam.

"Hurrah!" he screamed. "Hurrah! hurrah!" And Philip followed suit, and made the hills resound again with his joyous shouts.

A fair sheet of water lay before them, winking in the eyes of the sun. The head man--I cannot call him master; there was no such thing, in the sense that we in England understand it--met William Smith with a smiling face, and they shook hands. But both of them sobered down within a minute.

"A tolerable piece of work this of yours," observed William Smith, in an off-hand way.

"Middlingish," was the reply, in an indifferent tone.

This implied that making such a dam as this was nothing to him. Give him a real difficult job to accomplish, such as joining two seas, or levelling a mountain a few thousands of feet in height, or making a new river within a week or so, and then you might be able to see what he could do. To construct such a dam as this, however, was really no joke. It was a masterly piece of work, and it was executed in a masterly manner; there was not a flaw in not it, a crack in its sides. They examined it carefully, critically.

"If it will stand such a storm as last night," said William Smith, "it will stand anything."

Philip, as you may guess, was overjoyed; but he was unjust. He gave all the credit to Margaret. He complimented the responsible man in a cool way, which implied, "It is capitally done; but you have Margaret to thank for it, you know."

Philip's faint praise did not affect the contractor. He was not vain-glorious; he had undertaken a piece of work, and had done it well, and was satisfied, having been well paid for it.

[CHAPTER XVI.]

THE CHRISTENING OF THE WILLIAM SMITH.

Before two days had passed, the fires were lighted in the boiler, and the quartz-crushing machine commenced its merry rub-a-dub-dub. The ugly black rooks that were wont to cluster in huge flocks in the once deserted woods and make night hideous with their rusty voices, ceased for a time their harsh cawing and their seemingly interminable circular flights--wondering, doubtless, as the sound reached their ears, what new and strange monster it was that had invaded their domain. For it was evening when the iron-shod stampers first began to thump. It was but a trial. Before actual work commenced, a little ceremony had to be performed. The quartz-crushing machine had to be christened.

William Smith mentioned this to Philip, saying it was a necessary ceremony.

"All right," said Philip, and ran straight to his princess.

The First Old Woman was with Margaret; they were snipping up old dresses, and making them into late new ones. A new piece was to be played at the theatre that evening.

"Margaret," said Philip, "we are going to have a christening."

"O, O!" cried the First Old Woman, and set off laughing.

Philip did not condescend to notice her, nor would he so much as smile at a mock baby she fashioned in a moment out of the dress pieces, and dandled in her arms. Margaret did, and pulled it away from her.

"We are going to christen the machine, Margaret."

"Who is to be godmother?" inquired the First Old Woman briskly.

"Who!" exclaimed Philip. "Why, who but Margaret, I should like to know."

Margaret's eyes sparkled more brightly. The proposition delighted her.

"You'll have to break a bottle of Moselle against the machine, Margaret. You would like to do it, wouldn't you?"

Margaret nodded, and gave Philip a bright look. "O, don't make a stranger of me!" cried the First Old Woman.

The remark was suggested by Philip's stooping over Margaret under the pretence of whispering to her, but really to kiss her--being tempted to do so by the look she had given him. William Smith joined the party.

"We've settled it all," said Philip to him.

"All what?"

"About the christening. Margaret will set the machine a-going."

But William Smith had settled it another way. "Margaret can christen the next machine," he said. "The Warden's lady will christen this."

"The Warden's lady will do no such thing!" cried Philip.

"She has promised to do so," replied William Smith calmly. "Don't be a fool, Philip. Who has it in his power to be our best friend in the Margaret Reef? The Goldfields Warden. Who grants leases, who settles all disputes as to boundaries and encroachments, who, in short, rules Silver Creek? The Goldfields Warden. Who rules the Goldfields Warden? His wife. Nothing can be clearer."

Dissatisfied Philip refused to see the logic of the argument. But William Smith was wise in his generation; he was very desirous of ingratiating himself into the good graces of the lady who was at the head of society in Silver Creek, knowing the value of her influence. He made further efforts to convince Philip, but Philip would not be convinced. Love and prudence were at daggers drawn within him. William Smith appealed to Margaret.

"You are a girl of sense. It is for Philip's good."

"Mr. Smith is right," said Margaret to Philip. "I don't care a pin about it."

She said this with a pang of disappointment, for she did wish to christen the machine; but she recognised the soundness of William Smith's arguments. So Philip was overruled.

I said it was to be a little ceremony. William Smith made it a big one.

He prepared a great feast, and invited all the bigwigs of Silver Creek township to come to the christening. No infant was ever more honoured than this iron baby with its twelve heads of stampers and its iron cradles ready to receive and imprison the gold. Not one person refused the invitation, and a great many came who were not invited, and who, being cordially welcomed, went home in the evening with a skinful and a bellyful. The Goldfields Warden, the police magistrate, the chief of the police, the commissioners, the lawyers, the editors of local papers, and all the lesser luminaries of Silver Creek were present. William Smith had captured a Judge, who happened to be passing that way, within twenty miles of the township; and he was there, in all his glory, and right well was he treated, and right well did he speak, and did not say a cross word even when William Smith slapped him familiarly on the shoulders.

Talk of your laying of foundation-stones by princes and nobles and members of parliament, with their set speeches and stale platitudes! The present christening beat all such ceremonies out of the field. Never could such a sight as this be seen in the old countries. Free hand, free heart; everybody served alike; all standing together, shoulder to shoulder, man to man. Be thankful that I have not time to describe the entire proceedings in detail. Those who wish to read of it more fully can send to Silver Creek for the Herald and the Mercury, where (supposing the copies not to be all sold) they will find fourteen columns of description--no less; and in small type, too. There was a supplement to each paper, and William Smith bought a thousand copies of each, and scattered them broadcast over the land and over the seas. When his old mother in London received the papers, and had the accounts of the grand doings read to her, she could at first hardly believe that she had borne him; but she soon recovered herself, and related to the gossips who sat about her, and whom she was regaling (being quite a lady now with the money William Smith regularly sent her), insignificant incidents in her son's baby life which shadowed forth the great position he was one day to make for himself. If he had heard them, they would have been new to him, for he had no remembrance of them. But when does a mother ever forget the smallest trifle relating to the baby she suckled at her breast? In the glowing reports of the christening in the Silver Creek Herald and Mercury William Smith's name was mentioned ninety-seven times, and there was a wonderful unanimity in the praise bestowed upon him for his enterprise. He deserved all the good things that were said of him, for such men as he are the life and soul of new communities.

And all this time I have not told you the name of the machine. Well, not a soul knew it before the words passed the lips of the Judge, who acted as spokesman on the occasion. Truth to tell, no one thought of it. Being requested by William Smith to perform the ceremony, the Judge rose, and standing on an eminence before the great baby, said it struck him as a strange thing that when he asked William Smith what was to be the name of the infant, William Smith scratched his head, and said he did not know.

"It shows the modesty of the man," said the Judge, assuming a judicial attitude--"and true greatness lies in modesty--not to have thought of the only name which this iron infant can appropriately bear." (William Smith chuckled slyly at this. The idea of calling him modest! A man who could laugh in the face of a storm, as he could and did!) "I can say nothing in praise of William Smith," continued the Judge, "that he does not deserve. He is a representative man; in him enterprise, industry, forethought, and that truly British quality, Pluck, are typified. Although I have only been in this thriving township a few hours, I have heard enough of him, and seen enough of him, to make me wish to hear and see more; and I look forward to the day when I shall welcome him as a member of the Legislative Assembly which makes the laws for this prosperous colony. I hear that William Smith has made up his mind that this machine shall turn out the largest cake of retorted gold which the gold-diggings have yet produced. He will do it, if he has made up his mind to it, for nothing can check or frustrate determination when it is in partnership with common sense and sound judgment--as it is in this case. In christening this machine the 'William Smith,' I pay a fitting tribute to the man by whose enterprise it was placed on this spot;" et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

No occasion to speak of the cheers with which the Judge's oration was received; but loud and deafening as they were, they were nothing to the volleys that were given when the wife of the Goldfields Warden, as the leader of fashion in Silver Creek, broke the bottle of champagne against the machine, and dubbed it the William Smith. Then, everything being prepared, the first shovelful of golden quartz out of Philip's shaft was thrown beneath the stampers by the Judge, and the machine commenced its music, and every man and woman present drank success to it, in sparkling Number Two Moselle. With three times three! And three times three again! And again! And again!

After the lady of the Goldfields Warden broke the bottle of champagne against the machine, cunning William Smith begged her acceptance of the handsomest specimen of quartz and gold which had been found in Philip's claim. She thanked him and smiled sweetly on him, and conversed with him, telling her husband afterwards that William Smith was a most superior man, and had evidently moved in good society in the old country.

You understand that Margaret was at the ceremony of the christening. She looked lovely, not only in Philip's eyes, but in the eyes of all the men and the unfashionable women. Would you like to know how she was dressed? Her gown was of pale-blue muslin, daintily trimmed with ribbons of the same colour. Around her white throat and slender wrists were frillings of delicate lace. And on her head was the sweetest hat, whispers of which must have floated across the seas and set the fashion here, notwithstanding that other ladies may claim the credit of designing it. It was a broad flapped Leghorn hat, turned up coquettishly on one side with a bunch of cornflowers, with a blue-gauze veil floating behind it. And if any lady quarrels with Margaret's taste, or with my description, and says I am wrong in my particulars, I shall be glad to hear from her.

The few fashionable ladies--numbering not more than half-a-dozen--who were present, acted as they act in more civilised circles. They put up their gold spectacles, and surveyed Margaret as they would have surveyed a curiosity, and canvassed and appraised her features and her clothes. They rendered her a kind of patronising justice; they said she was pretty, and dressed in fair taste, but they spoke of her in a tone that plainly proclaimed she was not of their order. Margaret cared not a whit for their looks; she was very happy. The gold-diggers regarded her with pride and admiration, making it a sort of boast--as though it reflected credit upon themselves--that Silver Creek could show the prettiest girl on any gold diggings; so Margaret was surrounded with friends and admirers. She was presented to the Judge, who said many fine things to her, and she not only carried off the palm in beauty, but also in manners and conversation. Philip's joy and delight in her knew no bounds; he discovered fresh charms in her in every new dress that she wore, and if she had not restrained him, he would have made open love to her before all the people. She was compelled to give him a few moments now and then, so that he might have opportunities for secretly pressing her hand. She was as proud of him as he was of her, for as she was the handsomest woman he was the handsomest man there.

The fine ladies were more than gracious to him, sighing, no doubt, that Heaven had made them such a man; but he had no eyes for any but Margaret. The Judge conversed with him, and in conversation showed off his learning, as even such high and mighty persons as judges are glad of the opportunity of doing, by introducing a quotation from Horace. Philip immediately capped it by another; and the judge, after his first surprise, there and then set his stamp upon Philip, and said in the hearing of the fine ladies that if Philip happened to come to town, he would be glad to see him at his private house. This flew round, and Philip became a king; even William Smith paled before him. But William Smith was not to be hurt by this; so long as his speculations were going on all right, he was satisfied. He longed to hear the music of his machine, beating out of the quartz the bright gold, so much of which would fall to his share; for after it was christened, it was only set going for a few minutes; then it was stopped, so that the workmen engaged on it might make merry with the others.

If you had seen the jolly faces of the jolly crowd of gold-diggers and their wives and children, and the pleased and more sober faces of the gentlemen and their ladies; if you had seen the new tents with their decorations which William Smith had put upon the ground; if you had seen the leaping, and racing, and other sports which William Smith improvised, giving handsome prizes to the winners; if you had seen the attendants carving away at the beef and mutton, under the shadow of a great canvas roof, without walls, for the purpose of showing, mayhap, that every one was free to enter, and welcome to partake of the good cheer provided; if you had seen the waving of flags and heard the laughter and clapping of hands--you would have thought you were at an English merrymaking of the very finest description. And a couple of years ago the spot in which it was held was a wild tract of country, over which the feet of twenty white men had not passed. Now hundreds of men were working vigorously there from sunrise to sunset, working and hoping and scheming and living their lives, and thousands more would soon flock around them; now the hollows echoed their shouts, and the forests of trees fell beneath their axes; now the eyes of forges were glowing in their lairs, and the music of the anvils rang along the hills; now diggers sat around the blazing trees of a night, and smoked their pipes, and told their stories, and spoke of their chances, or in more tender tones, of dear friends in the old land so many thousands of miles across the sea; now the women, as with grateful hearts they looked at their healthy well-fed children running about the hills or lying asleep in their cots, thought of the future with hope and pleasure; now men were on the earth and in its bowels, tearing the golden rock from its bed; now steam was doing its wondrous work, and gold was being sent down to the ports, to make men rich in the old countries, and to pay better wages to the working man.

Some who were on the Margaret Reef on that day thought of these things. The Judge for one; William Smith for another; our dear friend Mr. Hart for another; Philip for---- But no. I must be veracious; Philip thought of no such thing; he had enough to do with Margaret.

When the bustle of the ceremony was over, and people were more free to act in accordance with their whims and fancies, Philip conducted Margaret to his tent, and played the host to her. It was a small house, measuring, I should say, not more than ten feet by sixteen, white as snow outside, with a chimney the apex of which was neither more nor less than a whisky barrel, with the ends knocked out of it. The tent was lined inside with green baize, and Indian matting was laid down by Philip especially for the occasion; there was a little cupboard with two shelves in it fixed up in a corner, with an oilcloth flap which served for a door. In another corner there was a little shelf of books. The mantelpiece was of deal, covered with baize, and in the very centre was Margaret's picture, smiling demurely at you; and it deeply touched the living Margaret to see her picture garlanded with fresh green leaves and a few simple wild flowers. On either side of the picture were pipes and two or three dandy gimcracks which Philip had brought away with him from Cambridge. The bed was a stretcher, with an innocent-looking white counterpane covering its imperfections--covering also a life-preserver and a revolver, which Philip had put out of sight, for fear of frightening his girl. The chairs were two stools and part of the trunk of a tree, polished in its seat and of a comfortable height. You may be sure that everything was sweet and clean, or Philip would not have brought his Margaret there. She looked about in every corner, making grand discoveries and uttering little screams at this and that.

"I declare, sir," she exclaimed, "you are more comfortable than I thought you were! I wonder why you want to change."

"Wouldn't you," he asked gaily, "in my place?" She considered deeply, making wrinkles in her forehead.

"No," she said, in a decided tone, "I really don't think I should. If I were in your place, I would change my mind."

"You would not--if you were in my place."

"I would! unless I was a very foolish creature."

He shook his head with fond seriousness.

"My name is Constancy," he said: and was proceeding, when she interrupted him quickly with:

"Constancy's a woman; I'll take that name, if you please, sir."

All the time they were in the tent together he did not kiss her; a feeling of delicacy restrained him.

[CHAPTER XVII.]

NATURE PUNISHES THE THIEF.

The festivities at the Margaret Reef did not conclude the celebration of the christening. In the night a ball was given by William Smith to the gentry of the district. He had a marquee put up especially for the occasion, and so that the fine ladies of Silver Creek might not think it a trade affair (they were mighty particular in some matters, let me tell you), he had requested permission to erect the tent on the ground where the Government Camp buildings were. Of course it was granted, with smiles; one of the small results of William Smith's wisdom in asking the Warden's lady to christen the quartz-crushing machine. The ball was a complete and most brilliant success. The Judge was there, and danced in the first quadrille, and so far forgot himself when he saw Margaret that he asked for the honour of her hand for the second: a proof that judges are human. Many a lady there envied Margaret the honour, and wondering what the Judge could see in her, did not wonder at themselves for wondering at his good taste.

If Margaret was lovely in the morning at the Reef, what shall I say of her in the night at the ball? and what shall I say of her dress? Again, but in a lesser degree, I lay myself open to the criticism of the ladies. Margaret's dress was composed entirely of clouds of fleecy tulle, looped and caught back by tufts of feathery ferns and grasses. And a long trail of bright grass was in her beautiful hair. This is all that I saw, for her charming face took away my eyes from all the rest, and I should scarcely have been surprised to see her floating away on a cloud. Entranced Philip was fairly dazzled by her appearance as she came sailing in on the arm of Mr. Hart, who looked what he was, every inch a gentleman. Everybody shook hands with everybody, as though they hadn't seen one another for weeks. When Mr. Hart resigned Margaret to Philip's care, Philip trod on air. He danced with her, and afterwards said:

"I shall keep possession of you the whole of the night."

Just then the Judge came up to her, and Philip moved a little aside, never thinking that so sedate a man, and one in such a position, would dance with a girl like Margaret.

"Now I am happy," said Margaret to Philip, after the dance, "I have danced with a judge That's one of the things I shall keep on saying all my life. I've danced with a judge!--I've danced with a judge!"

Then came another and younger man, and Margaret waltzed away with him. Seeing jealousy in Philip's face, Margaret whispered:

"Be good. I love only you."

He tried hard to be good, but strive as he might, he could not help feeling a little bit wicked. He contrived, however, to obtain many crumbs of consolation during the night. Crumbs! Slices, I ought to say; for the night was lovely, and now and then between the dances Philip stole into the open with his sweetheart on his arm. Being in the shade once he wanted to embrace her.

"Be quiet, sir," she said, coquettishly. "I'm only to be looked at to-night. How do I look, Philip!"

His eyes answered her, and he became more demonstrative.

"No, Philip, no!" she cried. "I must not be crushed."

"Why," answered Philip, with tender adroitness, "when I am dancing with you, I put my arm round your waist--so!"

"Ah!" she said, with a most delicious little laugh, "that's more neatly done."

"And my face, then, is close to yours--so!"

He had his way, and she became an accomplice. Being fired to emulation, she showed him that she was not to be outdone in tenderness. When a woman is in love, she forgets her cunning.

William Smith said rather a good thing. The Judge had a crisp short habit of speaking.

"I like that judge," said William Smith. "He must be a merciful man. He speaks in short sentences."

At midnight Smith came to the side of Philip, and pulled out his watch. It was exactly twelve o'clock, and at that moment he had arranged that the William Smith quartz-crushing machine should be set going.

"They've commenced to dance," he said gleefully.

He referred to the stampers of his machine.

Philip, gazing at Margaret and a handsome partner, who were whirling away from him, muttered somewhat moodily: "I see them!"

William Smith glanced at Philip in surprise.

"My imagination doesn't carry me as far as yours," said William Smith; "but I daresay you are as impatient as I am."

Philip scarcely heard the words. William Smith continued:

"Mr. Hart and I are going to steal away for an hour; we shan't be gone longer. Play the host while I am absent, and if they ask for me, say I'll be back in a minute or two."

Philip nodded, and presently Mr. Hart and William Smith were in the saddle, galloping away over the hills in the direction of the Margaret Reef; the horses did the distance in twenty-five minutes.

"Do you hear them--do you hear them?" cried William Smith exultantly, as they breasted the hill.

The music of the stampers fell on their ears. They halted at a distance of a couple of hundred yards from the machine. Sparks were flying from the chimneys; the fires were roaring; the machine was thumping away, beating the gold out of the quartz; dark forms of men were moving busily about in the shade and lurid light.

William Smith had good cause for triumph; many a man has won a name in history for doing less than he had done.

But in the midst of his exultation a tender sadness came upon him.

"What would you suppose I am thinking of?" he asked of Mr. Hart.

"I can't guess," replied Mr. Hart, who had thoughts of his own.

"I am thinking of my old mother at home," said William Smith, "and wishing she was here to see this day's doings. How proud she would be of her Billy, as she calls me!"

Mr. Hart was also thinking of a dear one at home and of the time, soon to come he hoped, when he should fold her in his arms. He blessed the music of the stampers; he gazed with tearful eyes upon the bright sparks flying upwards from the chimneys. They would give him the means of seeing his darling daughter in her bloom of womanhood, of sharing her life, of administering to her happiness.

At that moment, also, Philip was talking to Margaret of his father.

So beneath the stars, the old country and the new were joined by the tenderest heart-links that love can forge.

* * * * * *

A word as to the money which had been stolen from Mr. Hart. The thief was no other than the Walking Gentleman and Treasurer of the dramatic company. It has already been seen that he was ignorant of arithmetic; he might have pleaded this as an excuse, had he been called before a human tribunal to answer for his crime. He carried out his character of Walking Gentleman consistently to the end, by walking off with Mr. Hart's money and other money as well. But it was the last opportunity he had of playing a part on this earthly stage. I am inclined to the opinion that nearly every man in the course of his life has an impulse of, and the opportunity for, dishonesty. Another opinion as to the proportion of those who fall to those who conquer I keep to myself. The Walking Gentleman fell--but fell with the distinct intention in his mind of leading an honest life afterwards, if he escaped with his spoil. How many men do you know within the circle of your acquaintance who are leading respectable lives on stolen money, or money as good, or as bad, as stolen? The thief that we have to do with had planned everything carefully. He had so much money of his own; he appropriated Mr. Hart's savings, having learned where the trustful old man was in the habit of depositing them; he had, as treasurer, more than three hundred pounds in hand belonging to the company. A ship was to sail from Hobson's Bay for England in four days; he could do the distance to the port very well in that time. Then on to the ship, and away for home, with nearly a thousand pounds of stolen money in his purse.

All was accomplished an hour before the storm; he played only in the first part of the performances on that night, and at nine o'clock he was off, dashing away from Silver Creek on the back of a fleet horse. He had taken the precaution to disguise himself so that he might not be recognised. It was his intention to ride all night, and to catch up Cobb's coach at a certain point in the morning. All went well for an hour; but then the skies blackened, the thunder began to growl, the lightning to flash, and presently the storm fell upon him. He went on, nothing daunted, thinking it impossible that such a downpour could last. But it did last, as we know, and increased in fury. The thief began to wish that he had chosen another night, and he cursed his bad luck; but curses did not avail him, and there was now no turning back. On he galloped, with his head sunk on his breast, and the heavy rain beat down on him, and caused a singing in his head. It was at first only an indistinct buzzing that he heard, but it took shape presently, and the words, "Thief! thief! fool! thief!" hissed and plashed in his ears. On and on he galloped, and conscience filled the air with accusing shapes and sounds, which pursued and surrounded him, and made him sick and faint. Once raising his eyes, his heart almost leaped out of his throat as he saw a tall thin form bending towards him, with the intention of clutching him. It was but a slender tree, bent by the force of the wind, and he escaped it without really knowing what it was. And now, every branch that swayed brought new terrors to him, and he began to wish that he had remained honest. He was in the bush, with not a tent in sight, having chosen the remotest track, so that he might not be seen; but had a human habitation been within twenty yards of him he would not have been able to see it, for by this time he was enveloped in blackness. He stumbled on, not knowing now whither he was going. For a little while he had strength and sense enough to keep a tight rein on his horse, but a frightful flash of lightning, and a more frightful peal of thunder, so unnerved him that the rein slackened in his grasp. The horse dashed madly forward--over fallen timber, through light thickets of bush, into great pools of water, that plashed up and blinded the runaway. The branches of the trees caught at his clothes and tore them in fragments from his body. His wig had been the first thing to go, and the brown paint with which he had striven to hide his villany was washed from his face with, as it seemed to him, stinging whips of water. A pitiable sight he presented to the lightning, every flash of which caused him to scream with terror, as he clung with wild desperation to the horse's neck. Torn, bleeding, and literally in rags, with the stolen money in a belt fastened round his waist, he rode on madly, a thief confessed. Louder shrieked the storm; over the ranges and through the uneven valleys dashed the maddened horse. A raging torrent was before them, and the animal leaped into it, and in the leap the thief was unhorsed. While he was struggling in the surging waters, and while the only thing that was certain was death in a few seconds he repented most heartily of his crime, and I leave it to priests to say of what value were the choked words and the agonised thoughts that typified repentance.

When the next flash of lightning lit up the wild scene, it illumined the furious waters rolling onwards, and, for the millionth part of a second, the lifeless body of a thief justly punished.

In this way he played his last part in life, and was never more heard of.

[CHAPTER XVIII.]

WILLIAM SMITH'S AMBITION.

Merrily worked the William Smith quartz-crushing machine. Day and night the stampers kept thumping and pounding. The first rest given to it was when the first fifty tons of stone had been passed beneath the stampers. Then the iron baby was quiet for awhile.

The iron cradles were emptied of their treasure in strong washing-tubs--hogsheads sawn in two, and made stronger by the blacksmith with additional belts of iron. The treasure consisted of finely-pounded stone and water, amongst which rolled three or four hundred weight of quicksilver. No gold was to be seen; it was hidden in the quicksilver.

Now commenced the process of washing-up. The deposit in the tubs was panned off in ordinary gold-washing dishes, the quicksilver with its precious treasure being put into a separate tub, and the waste earth which the quicksilver refused to embrace thrown aside in a little heap, as though it were of no account. This waste refuse was considered to belong, by right, to the proprietor of the crushing machine, and consisted chiefly of iron pyrites; it was a valuable privilege, producing a good many ounces of gold to the ton sometimes. The quicksilver, having all been extracted, lay in a silky white mass in the large tub. The strongest man could not have lifted it. The precious liquid was ladled carefully into skins of chamois leather, which, when fairly filled, were squeezed tight over buckets of clear water. The quicksilver which did not contain gold oozed out in silver tears, and wept into the water; it might truly be said that it was alive, argentum vivum. There then remained a thick solid mass of white metal. If you took up a handful of it, you could feel the beaten lumps and nuggets of gold which it concealed from view. The last process was the retorting of the metals. The quicksilver and the gold were deposited in the retort, a spherical vessel, to the cover of which was fixed a slender curved tube, up which the heated quicksilver ascended, as smoke ascends a chimney. This retort, with its precious treasure, was plunged into a fiery furnace, and heated to a white heat. Through the curved tube the boiling quicksilver rose in a silver stream, and rained into the tub of water which lay to receive it; gradually the stream grew less, and when the last few globules of pretty silver spray had fallen, the retort was unscrewed, and a large mass of molten gold, lit up by the most lovely colours, that seemed to flash and play upon its breast with fairy's touch, was exposed to view.

When Margaret, who was present, saw the pretty sight, she clasped her hands, and cried, "O! O! O!" which round circles stand for as much delight and admiration as could be expressed in three pages.

Philip and the rest looked on with sparkling eyes. "What's the weight of it?" asked William Smith. Philip, who was a novice in the matter of cakes of gold, guessed it at four hundred ounces.

"At four pounds an ounce," said William Smith, ever ready for a bargain, "that's sixteen hundred pounds. I'll give two thousand pounds for it as it stands."

Philip would have consented right away, but his more experienced mate laughed at William Smith, and with a knowing look said it would be a thousand pities to make him a loser by his enterprise. William Smith nodded cheerfully, and winked at the shrewder man, as much as to say, "We two are a match for each other!" Then they stood in silence about the retort, waiting for the metal to cool, and gazing at it with an interest as great as that of a fond father who gazes at the cot in which his child is sleeping. When all the rainbow-colour had died out of the gold, and it had become solidified, the cake was put into the scales. It turned fifty-six pounds troy--six hundred and seventy-two ounces. Deducting one hundred and fifty ounces, that being William Smith's payment for crushing the fifty tons of stone, at three ounces per ton, there remained five hundred and twenty-two ounces of pure gold, which Philip sold at sixpence less than four pounds an ounce, receiving in hard cash two thousand and seventy-four pounds nineteen shillings. William Smith obtained threepence an ounce more for his hundred and fifty ounces.

This business being satisfactorily concluded, Philip went to the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle, and made out a fair statement, showing the value of Mr. Hart's share in the gold obtained, Margaret looking over his shoulder the while.

"Just listen to me, Margaret," said Philip.

They laid their heads together for five minutes, at the expiration of which Margaret ran away, and returned enveloped in a large overcoat, which reached to her heels, and with a billycock hat slouched over her head. In that disguise she, followed by Philip, went in search of Mr. Hart. They found him on the stage, giving directions to the property-man.

"Rowe versus Hart," said Margaret, in a gruff voice, tapping him on the shoulder, and thrusting the balance-sheet into his hand in the form of a writ, "suit for two hundred and fifty pounds. If not paid. in five minutes, instant execution is ordered."

Mr. Hart peered beneath the slouched hat, and recognised Margaret. His lips being very close to Margaret's laughing face, he took an unfair advantage of her, and kissed her.

"What's the fine for that, Philip?" cried Margaret. "This," replied Philip, shaking a bag of money vindictively at Mr. Hart. "Here you are, old fellow;" and he handed Mr. Hart two hundred and fifty-nine pounds odd, being an eighth share of the gold. "For this unwarrantable assault, you will instantly pay me the two hundred and fifty you owe me. I don't intend to wait three minutes for the money."

Mr. Hart paid Philip with a grateful sigh; he knew that it would be useless to remonstrate with the young man. Had Mr. Hart been alone in the world, with no ties, he would not have accepted Philip's generosity; he would have quarrelled with him first. But you see how it was with him, and you will not blame him, I am sure.

The theatre was open again, and was thronged as usual. The actors and actresses were much concerned as to the fate of the missing treasurer; none of them, with the exception of Mr. Hart, suspected him. (Mr. Hart had enjoined secrecy upon Philip and Margaret, and no one but the three knew of his loss.) As they never received any tidings of him, they settled that he had been lost in the storm, and they mourned him as one who had come to an undeserved end.

Silver Creek township throve and flourished. New discoveries were made every week, and new leads of gold found in gullies and plains. William Smith, always playing his cards well, knew that now the township was becoming a settled thing, there must soon be a Government land sale, and he began to build and let, and to buy up rights of land wherever he could. Depend upon it, he bought in the proper places, having settled, after careful survey, where it was imperative that the streets would be laid out. You would have thought he had enough to do, what with one thing and another, but he seemed never to have his hands full. He was not of an envious disposition, but he did covet one thing: Philip's quartz claim. It was yielding finely, and he believed he saw a colossal fortune in it. Not to be made out of it in the way Philip and his mates were working it. No; he would put up machinery. He would sink new shafts. The stone should be drawn from the bottom of the shafts not by hand, but by steam-power; the men should be lowered by steam; he would have a steam-engine below, if it was necessary; everything should be done by steam, and labour should be economised. Would that reduce the number of men necessary to work the claim? Not at all. Where there were a hundred men at work now William Smith would have five hundred. What he would do really would be to get ten times as much gold. He would open the claim to its fullest extent; he would buy up as many claims as he could get hold of north and south of Philip's land, and would pay for them all liberally.

You may ask why William Smith wanted to do this. He was making so rapid a fortune, that if things continued as they were for twelve months, he would be at least a fifty-thousand-pounds man. And in three years these figures would be doubled. A hundred thousand pounds! When he was a bricklayer at home working for a bare pittance, on high scaffoldings at the risk of his life, the very idea of possessing such a sum would have been enough to take away his breath. Now he thought nothing of it. But he wanted Philip's claim. For this reason: he burned to be a master of men, not of twenty, or fifty, or a hundred. He wanted to be a master of not fewer than five hundred men, all doing well under him, all living comfortably and being well paid, and if he had Philip's claim he saw his way to it. Then when he went home to the old country, he could say to his old master, "You thought it a great thing to have eighty men under you, each of whom could earn about a guinea and a half a week. Why, I, one of those eighty, went into a new country and employed five hundred men, and every one of them had a house of his own and was well clothed, and could give his family meat for breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper; and after paying for everything, and more besides, could put by thirty shillings a week in the savings bank--in the savings bank, which I started and am trustee of!" You see, the master used to cry out that working men in the old country were better off than they were in any other part of the world. William Smith wanted to show him that he was wrong.

So William Smith yearned to be king of five hundred men, and the proper complement of women and children--to be master of five hundred pairs of hands--to see peace and plenty and industry all about him--to walk among his workmen, and chat and smile with them--to walk among the women and children, and pat the youngsters on the head, and pass kind words with the mothers. He had all these thoughts. It was not a bad ambition.

He offered money for Philip's claim--a large sum. Philip and his mate shook their heads. Mr. Hart would have been glad to sell his share; if he had one-eighth of what William Smith offered, the white sails should spread for him over the seas, for Home, dear Home! But he decided that it would be base to sell; it would be like deserting Philip. "I'll wait yet a little while," he thought. "A few months will soon pass."

William Smith tempted him. Philip stood by.

Mr. Hart declined, and saw in the look of joy which flashed into Philip's face what pleasure his refusal had given the young man.

The largest retorted cake of gold that had been produced for many a score of miles round was produced from a great crushing out of Philip's claim. It weighed no less than two thousand two hundred ounces. It was exhibited in the principal gold-broker's window on a Saturday, which was the busiest day in the township. On that day all the gold-diggers and their wives and children came in from the hills and gullies, and made their purchases. A more bustling scene of its kind could not be witnessed in any other part of the world. All day long the diggers and the women poured in, from east, from west, from north, from south. Where a storekeeper took ten pounds on another day, he took fifty on a Saturday. You should have seen the theatre on Saturday nights.

The people stood round and about the gold-broker's window, and those who were nearest stared and stared, and those who were farthest away peeped over their neighbours' shoulders, at the great beautiful cake of gold, duly labelled. Two thousand two hundred ounces It made every one's mouth water.

But on the Monday morning following this splendid exhibition, Philip arriving at his claim--he had spent the Sunday with Margaret--found the miners standing about in idleness: which was not the way of the men. A part of the shaft had fallen in, and they were waiting to know what to do.

"Do!" exclaimed Philip. "Go down, of course."

And down he went, and made an anxious and critical examination. When he came up again he decided to get the Government mining surveyor to report upon the condition of the shaft. This was done, and the surveyor gave certain directions. The shaft would have to be slabbed round all its sides for fifty feet from the surface--boxed in as it were. Until then it was not safe to work below. The slabbing was done; it occupied a week, and cost some money.

Philip fretted at the delay, and no one was glad but William Smith. He rejoiced. He had not one particle of malice in his nature, but he said quietly to himself, "I'd like that shaft to cave in from top to bottom. Perhaps they'd sell it to me then."

Margaret heard of the disaster--from William Smith's lips, I think. She turned white, and clung to Philip on the night she heard the news. He was annoyed that she knew, but what was there to be frightened at? he asked.

"Frightened at!" she cried. "Oh, Phillip! how can you ask? The shaft will fall in again----"

"How do you know that?"

"I know it--I feel it! And you will be underneath, perhaps!----"

She could not proceed for her terror. He could not but feel glad at this solicitude for him, and he used lover's arguments to prove that there was no danger. These arguments were sweet and delicious to her, but they had a contrary effect from that which he intended. Making her love him more, they made her more anxious for his safety.

"Promise me not to go down," she begged. "Promise me to work at the top.

"And let another man be crushed in my place?" he said proudly. She shuddered, and held him closer to her. "Not if I know it!"

"Then you don't value my life?" she cried, with womanly tact and womanly unreason.

"Your life, my dearest! not value your life, when a single hair of your head is more precious to me than all the gold in Silver Creek!"

"No," she persisted, "you don't value my life, when you are determined to risk it in this way."

"What are you talking about, Margaret? I risk your life!"

"Yes," she cried, "you are about to do it. For if anything happens to you, I shall die."

To pacify her he was compelled to promise that he would not go down below, but he did not keep his word. It was not often he broke it, but here his manhood was in question. He was not going to shirk his fair share of risk. He did not deceive Margaret long, however. She coaxed Mr. Hart to take her to the Reef one day, and did not scruple to say that Philip expected her. When they arrived at the shaft, she was told that Philip was below. White from apprehension, she walked a few yards away, and sat down upon a trunk of a tree, while the workmen from a distance gazed at her lithe and graceful form with respectful admiration.

"Phil Rowe's a lucky fellow," they said.

Mr. Hart passed the word down for Philip to come up, and up he came, strong and handsome, with the veins standing out on his bare arms and throat: a fair sight for a woman who loved him. But Margaret turned from him, and repulsed him, secretly admiring him all the while for his courage.

"This is the way that men deceive women," she said--"promising one thing and doing another!"

Had she been a scholar, she might have flung at him the proverb, "False in one thing, false in all," but she was only a woman in love. Besides, she would have known that there would have been no truth in the proverb, in this case. Perhaps that would not have mattered, though. Women are queer logicians; their logic comes from the heart, not from the head.

"What can I do?" he asked, after listening to her reproaches. "You don't want people to think me a coward, do you?"

"If they dared to say so!" she exclaimed, with a motion which implied that she would defend him.

"They will say so if I do as you wish," he said; her hand was in his now: he did not mind the workmen seeing. "No, no, Margaret. Your word shall be law in everything but this, Women don't understand these matters." She tossed her head disdainfully. "Besides, don't I want to get rich for my Margaret's sake?"

"Rich!" she exclaimed. "Why, you have thousands of pounds!"

"I want thousands more to throw into your lap."

She wavered a little, for just three seconds.

"No," she said then. "You don't want thousands more, if your life is to be risked in the getting of them, Philip," and she looked at him earnestly, "if you were a beggar, I should not care."

"Do you mean to say you would love me all the same?"

"Yes; and work for you, if it was necessary."

She meant it. However, she did not persuade him to act as she wished. But things were working in her favour.

Within a few hours of this conversation, Philip, still working below, made a disheartening discovery. They were preparing for a blast. He was holding the gad, while a workman was striking it on the head with his hammer. Half an inch this way or that, and Philip would have been maimed for life, but it was seldom a man was so unskilful as to cause an accident in this way. The hole for the gunpowder was two feet deep, and Philip lifted up the gad and spooned out the dust. It came up in a liquid state; Philip looked anxious, and more anxious still, when the whole was cleared, to see water bubbling up. They had struck a small stream. It was not very serious at first. They continued working during the day, and fired the blast the last thing in the evening, before knocking off work. When Philip went down the shaft the next morning, he stepped up to his waist in water. They set to manfully, and baled it out; more than half the working hours of the day were lost in this necessary labour. They dug a shaft within the shaft, to serve as a well, and so managed to keep themselves tolerably dry; but the water came in faster and faster.

William Smith smiled and rubbed his hands. The claim was already as good as his; he began already making bids for other claims, north and south. In his mind's eyes he mapped everything out. He saw himself king of this great range. He saw a happy village springing up. Here should be this; there should be that. Tents for the gold-diggers here; a wooden house for himself there. On this spot should be a church; on that a school-house. He saw a well-dressed and happy congregation, his workmen and their families, walking from the church on the Sabbath day, smiling and talking together: he saw the children trooping out of the school-house after school hours, and the schoolmaster standing in the porch, with his cane under his arm: joy stirred in his heart as he fancied these things, and as he heard the shouts and hurrahs of the youngsters. There should be gardens too; yes, every tent should have its garden. He saw the cabbages and peas coming up; flowers also. He went to the highest point of the range, and folding his arms, looked down upon his kingdom. It had been a pleasure to him hitherto to make money, but he had not thought much of it. He had made it so easily, that his heart had scarcely been fluttered by the success of his speculations. But now, as he contemplated the realisation of his pet scheme, money was really sweet to him for the first time.

The quartz-crushing machine hammered away as steadily as ever, the water in Philip's claim increasing in volume every day. It served one good purpose. A race was made from the shaft to the dam, and a continual stream of water was running down it.

"You ought to pay us for the water," said Philip's mate.

"You ought to pay me for taking it," said William Smith.

Matters were growing serious. Out of every twelve hours they could work in the quartz but three.

Yet I do not think that William Smith would have obtained the claim, if it had not been that a woman was on his side.

[CHAPTER XIX.]

MR. HART DECIDES TO WAIT A LITTLE LONGER.

Margaret had a tender, yielding nature, but she was firm withal. It is surprising how determined these soft weaker vessels can be! And they generally get their way. If men, in addition to their naturally greater strength of character, possessed woman's delicate cunning, great results would be accomplished. But men are deficient in finesse. The nature of many a great diplomatist has assimilated closely to that of a woman. A clever man can do fine things, but a clever woman with the same opportunities would beat him hollow.

William Smith, then, found an ally in Margaret. She ran up her colours by the side of his, and declared war against Philip. Innocent, unsuspicious Philip knew nothing of the confederacy; and this is the way his treacherous Margaret undermined the fortress of his resolution.

On one day, "Am I not growing pale?" she asked of him, in a plaintive tone.

Philip, gazing at her in tender solicitude, saw that she was a shade paler than usual.

"And thin, Philip. Feel my arm." He obeyed her. "I'm wasting away," she said.

Now, that Margaret was a little paler than usual is not to be disputed. She had contrived it; by what means, I am not sufficiently in the mysteries to state.

That she was any thinner, I deny. Yet Philip thought differently from me. But he was in love with Margaret; while I---- No, I must not write what was about to glide off my pen. The pen tells many untruths, and I will not add one to the number on this occasion. I also love Margaret.

"You are working too hard," said Philip.

"No, it is not that," sighed she.

"You want a rest, my darling."

"It would do me no good, Philip."

"You are worrying yourself about something."

She sighed. It was a most eloquent affirmative. Then Philip paused. He felt that he had touched dangerous ground. Seeing that Philip did not speak, she used her tongue.

"Yes, I am indeed worrying myself about something. It will be the death of me, Philip."

"Nonsense, my darling, nonsense."

"I should not speak of your death in that way, Philip!"

The ground was crumbling beneath him.

"You are in low spirits, Margaret. You must rouse yourself for my sake."

She shook her head. "I would do anything for your sake, Philip. But I seem to have no strength left."

"Ah! that's it," he said eagerly, catching at a straw; "you are weak and low; you must eat strengthening things."

(Soft-minded fellow! as if, in her languid condition, she was not stronger than the strongest man!)

"Strengthening things!" she echoed, in a tone of soft reproach.

"And you must drink bottled stout. A bottle every day," he said uneasily.

"Bottled stout!" she echoed, in the saddest of tones, which, although she did not say so in as many words, conveyed a distinct denial that bottled stout was a cure for a breaking heart.

On another day it was--"I had a dreadful dream the night before last, Philip."

"There! there! frightening yourself with fancies."

"They are killing me, Philip. I dreamt about you and the shaft. You were working at the bottom. I don't know where I was standing, but dreams are such curious things you know, Philip. I was standing there, and saw you below, and I saw the men at the top, also, working. I saw right down the shaft, Philip, and all at once there was a great crying and screaming, and the men flew wildly about. The shaft had fallen in, and you were buried beneath tons and tons of earth. I could see you even then, holding out your hands to me, and crying to me to help you!"

Margaret's eyes were full of tears, and she shivered and cowered. And I declare I do not know how much of this was acting and how much was genuine.

What could a man do under this sort of persecution? What can he do but yield?

"But, Margaret," said Philip, "we are young, we are strong. It would be folly to go away from Silver Creek, where we are making so much money."

"I don't want to go away from Silver Creek," she replied, her heart beating a little more quickly. "I love the place; if it had not been for Silver Creek, we might never have met, Philip. I can show you a way to make more money than you are making at the Margaret Reef. Ah, how good of you to name it after me! Yes, I can show you how to make more money."

"You show me a way how to make money, little woman! Why, what is there in that pretty little head of yours?"

He took it between his hands and kissed her lips.

"Look straight into my eyes, Philip. Don't they sparkle?"

"Sparkle, my dear little woman! They are the stars in my heaven!"

"But more than usual, Philip? Are they not brighter than usual?" (She made them so.) "Well, now, what makes them so bright just at this moment? I'll tell you without asking. I know you are going to say yes to what I shall propose, and that fills my heart with joy. My heart is in my eyes, because--because, Philip---- Turn yours away, sir! I don't want you to look at me---- Because, I think we might be married next week."

He caught her in his arms, and tried to raise her face to his; but she hung her head, and murmured that she would never be able, for shame's sake, to look at him again if he did not consent at once to what she was about to propose.

"Well, what is it, Margaret? What is it?" he asked, in a rapture of happiness.

"I can't tell you, Philip," she murmured, with her lips close to his ear, "unless you say 'Yes' beforehand."

"Yes, then," he cried. "Yes, a thousand times over!"

Who was the weaker vessel? Margaret or Philip! Really, we have accustomed ourselves to believe in some very fine delusions.

"Well, then," she said, "buy Mr. Smith's hotel and theatre. You will make more money in twelve months than you can get out of your claim in three years."

He was staggered at the suggestion, and was not displeased at it. But after a little consideration he said he was sure that Mr. Smith would not sell a property so valuable. Margaret knew better. All the while William Smith was dropping quiet hints to her as to the dangerous condition of the shaft in which Philip was working, the eyes of Margaret's mind were piercing him through and through.

William Smith himself would have been surprised if he could have heard her summing-up of him. But it is the way of this kind of woman--and let me tell you her name is legion. You and she are in the same room for five minutes, and she never raises her eyes to your face, and when you go out she can make an inventory of you, from the way you part your hair down to the style of your shoe-strings. She knows a great deal better than you whether your clothes fit well or ill, and whether your hands and feet are nice, and I do not think you would care to consult her physiognomically. If you knew what was going on within that little head while her eyes are directed demurely towards the carpet, it might make you uncomfortable. How she gained the power of discovering occult things is a deep unfathomable mystery.

Margaret was one of this kind of women. She had read William Smith through and through, and she talked and talked to Philip until he said he would consult Mr. Hart. Mr. Hart was called in. He thought the idea a fine one; he was filled with grave doubts of the safety of the shaft in which Philip was working, and in a lesser degree shared Margaret's apprehensions. He also thought that William Smith would be willing to come to an arrangement.

Suddenly Philip said:

"I'll do it on one condition, supposing it can be done. Mr. Hart must join us, and become a partner. You want to go home, I know, old fellow, but if you will stay with us for six months and see us fairly afloat, I'll put you on the ship myself at the end of that time with a clear four thousand pounds in your pocket, and wish you good-bye and God speed, and in less than two years Margaret and I will be after you, and we'll all settle down together in a spot I know of, you and your darling, and I and mine."

Margaret clapped her hands in delight.

"I say 'Yes' for him!" she cried.

"I say 'Yes' for myself," said Mr. Hart, without hesitation.

He knew that the share of gold he had received out of the claim would be required in the transaction of the business, and he considered that Philip had a right to dispose of it.

He was appointed agent to moot the proposal to William Smith, and carry it through if it was well received. Philip had not a sufficiently calm head for the transaction. Mr. Hart did his work well; William Smith entertained the scheme, chuckling quietly while it was being propounded, and of course made a good bargain. There was no delay. In four days (William Smith having bought out Philip's mate) William Smith was master of the quartz reef, and Philip was the proprietor of the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle Hotel and Restaurant and the Theatre Royal, Silver Creek. As Mr. Hart had supposed, his money was required for the completion, of the purchase. Philip entered into his property free from debt, and with a good stock in hand, but with very little ready cash. William Smith, had swept it all into his pocket. But it was a fair bargain. The hotel was doing a famous business, and money began to tumble in the first day. On that day the name of the hotel was changed. The new sign-board hoisted up had on it the words,