Chapter Fifty Six.

The Golden Harvest.

In a year from that time there was not a single gold-digger left in the neighbourhood, for the news of fresh discoveries further north had drawn them all away, and Nature soon hid the untidy spots they had made in Golden Valley with their camps. Gunson had no hesitation in selecting the black valley for his farm, where, in a wonderfully short space of time, patches of green began to appear; while Mrs John, in perfect faith that the place would soon recover, herself picked out the spot at the entrance of the burned valley, close by a waterfall, and was more contented by the fact that several magnificent pines were left standing by the fire, which at starting had not extended so far. Here a delightful little cottage was built almost in Swiss fashion, the men from the Fort helping eagerly to prepare a home for one who, by her gentleness, had quickly won a place in their esteem, without counting the fact that she was their chief officer’s sister.

In a very short time this was surrounded by a garden, in which Mr John spent the greater part of his time, planting flowers that his wife loved, while Esau and I had our shares of the gold invested in land bought by acting under Mr Raydon’s advice, ready for our working at some future time, for then we were busy helping the Dempsters and Gunson, making plans and improvements.

How we all worked! and what delightful days those were, the more so that in due time there came to our friend’s home a sweet-looking, grey-haired lady with a patient, rather pinched aspect, and a grave, handsome woman, whom I knew at once for Gunson’s sister; but I was rather puzzled when I heard that their names were Mrs and Miss Effingham.

“My name, Mayne, my lad,” said the prospector, “when I was a gentleman, and now I take it once again.”

Those two ladies looked scared and sad till they saw Mrs John, and then a change seemed to come over them, such as I had seen in Gunson—I mean Effingham—as he listened to Mr Raydon’s words.

In a week Mrs Effingham was ready for me with a smile, and Miss Effingham was singing about the place while I helped her plan a garden for the alpine flowers we collected.

Yes: that soon became a happy valley, where there was always some new pleasure of a simple kind—the arrival of boxes of seeds, or packages of fruit-trees from England, implements for the farming—endless things that civilisation asks for.

Then Esau developed into a wonderful carpenter, after instructions from Grey at the Fort; and from carpentering blossomed into cabinet-making. Every one was busy, and as for Quong, he quite settled down as cook in general, baker, and useful hand, confiding to me that he did not mean to go back to China till he died.

“This velly nice place, sah. No sabbee more ploper place. Quong velly happy, sah. You like cup flesh tea?”

He always offered me that whenever I went near him, and I think his feelings were those of every one there. For it was a pleasant sight to see Mr and Mrs John in their garden, which was half Nature-made when they began, and grew in beauty as the years rolled on, though they had formidable competitors up at the farm.

“Yes,” said Mr Effingham one day as I stood with him and Mr Raydon in the big barn—that big barn built of Douglas pine planks, cut down by Esau and me, sawn in our own mill turned by the beautiful stream—a mill erected with Mr Raydon’s help. “Yes,” he said, as he thrust his hand into a sack, and let the contents trickle back; “that’s as good wheat as they grow in England. You were right, old fellow. Do you hear, Mayne? These are the real golden grains, and the best that man can find.”

The End.