There was a moment of silence. The drone of a bumble-bee near by seemed to make the silence swim drowsily in their ears; far off they heard the faint beat of a woodpecker. The suggestion of their kneeling figures in this magic mirror was vague, unreasoning, yet for the moment none the less irresistible. His arm instinctively crept around her little waist as he whispered,—he scarce knew what he said,—“Perhaps here is the treasure I am seeking.”
The girl laughed, released herself, and sprang up; the pan sank ingloriously to the bottom of the pool, where Fleming had to grope for it, assisted by Tinka, who rolled up her sleeve to her elbow. For a minute or two they washed gravely, but with no better success than attended his own individual efforts. The result in the bottom of the pan was the same. Fleming laughed.
“You see,” he said gayly, “the Mammon of unrighteousness is not for me—at least, so near your father's tabernacle.”
“That makes no difference now,” said the girl quickly, “for dad is goin' to move, anyway, farther up the mountains. He says it's gettin' too crowded for him here—when the last settler took up a section three miles off.”
“And are YOU going too?” asked the young man earnestly.
Tinka nodded her brown head. Fleming heaved a genuine sigh. “Well, I'll try my hand here a little longer. I'll put up a notice of claim; I don't suppose your father would object. You know he couldn't LEGALLY.”
“I reckon ye might do it ef ye wanted—ef ye was THAT keen on gettin' gold!” said Tinka, looking away. There was something in the girl's tone which this budding lover resented. He had become sensitive.
“Oh, well,” he said, “I see that it might make unpleasantness with your father. I only thought,” he went on, with tenderer tentativeness, “that it would be pleasant to work here near you.”
“Ye'd be only wastin' yer time,” she said darkly.
Fleming rose gravely. “Perhaps you're right,” he answered sadly and a little bitterly, “and I'll go at once.”