“Why, my dear Raydon,” cried Mr Gunson, merrily, “what moles we all are, and how things shape themselves without our help! I find that in my wild thirst for gold I have been acting as your good genii.”
“How?” said Mr Raydon.
“By bringing Mayne and you closer together than you would ever have been without this mistake. See what I have done for you too, in clearing the valley of this horrible gold!” he cried, merrily.
“But you’ve ruined the estate I was to have had,” said Mr John. “My brother and I went down and had a look at it, and it is one horrible black desert.”
“Pish, man!” cried Gunson; “may work for the best.”
“What!” cried Mr John; “are you mad?”
“No, sir. Never more sane; for the gold mania has gone. That vale was grand with its mighty trees, but it was the work of a generation to clear that forest. Through me, that place was swept clean in a couple of days.”
“Clean?” said Mr John, dolefully.
“Yes; and the ground covered with the rich, fertilising ashes of the forest. Raydon, what will that place be in a year?”
“Green again; and in two years, when the black stumps are demolished, far more beautiful and suitable for settlement than it was before. He is quite right, John; it is a blessing for us in disguise.”