There was silence in Jacob Dorn’s parlor. Mrs. Mar had refused to credit a story of this sort once before. Her unbelief had not only cost her a great fortune; it had cost her happiness. She sat in silence, reflecting. But she gave no sign.
“People have got so’s they don’t take much stock in any feller’s talkin’ ’bout the Mother Lode. I don’t blame ’em myself.”
“It turns out as stupid sometimes to be too skeptical as to be too credulous,” quoth Mrs. Mar.
Mr. Blumpitty did not applaud the sentiment. He looked sadly at the lady and then, as though the effort to hold up his eyelids were too great, he rested his heavy eyes on the silver rim of the ink-pot. “Everybody knows they must be a Mother Lode some’ers around up there.”
“Why must there?”
“Wa-al, I don’t know,” said Blumpitty impartially. “P’raps the gold come down from Heaven.”
“Don’t talk nonsense.”
“Well, if it don’t come from Heaven, the gold they’re findin’ at Nome an’ in the Klondike, and the noo camps—all the loose placer gold o’ the North,” he reflected, “if it ain’t come down from Heaven, it’s been washed an’ weathered and glayshered out o’ some reef or range, or great natchrul store-house.”
“Yes. I’ve read about that.”