And they, when they saw her so thoroughly in earnest, regarded her with an admiration and respect which grew gradually to affection. To the men, roughened by labor in the mines and by year-long contact with the unlovely side of life, this delicate and gentle girl was singularly attractive, and their voices instinctively took a softer tone than usual when they spoke to her. To the women she was a revelation of neatness and refinement, and any suspicion or envy with which they may have regarded her at first was soon forgotten when they found her so eager to help them in every way she could, so free from guile and selfishness, so willing to give them of her best. Gradually, a keen observer might have noted, the hats of the women and girls of her acquaintance became less gaudy; gradually dresses of flaming greens and yellows disappeared; slowly certain rudiments of good taste began to be apparent. Of all the battles Bessie Andrews waged—and they numbered many more than may be set down in this short history—this one against the liking for garish things in dress was not the least heroic, requiring such patience, tact, and gentle resolution as few possess.
It was at a little party one evening at the home of George Lambert, superintendent of one of the larger mines, that her host swung suddenly around upon her with a proposition which for a moment took her breath away.
“You’ve been here nearly a year now, Miss Bessie,” he began, “and you’ve seen about everything the valley’s got to show. You’ve been on top of Old Nob—”
“Oh, yes; Mr. Bayliss and two of the boys took me up there last spring.”
“And you’ve been down to the falls?”
“Yes; we had a picnic there, you know.”
“But there’s one place you haven’t been.”
“And where is that, Mr. Lambert?”
“That’s back in our mine.”
For a moment she did not answer, and Mrs. Lambert laughed a little as she looked at her.