"Yes, father dear," said Constance, gently stroking his forehead, and thin gray hair. "The paper is safe; no one shall get it, so do not worry."
The man, however, did not heed her remarks, but rambled on. "The gold! the gold! I see the gold! Look, Connie, see how it shines! We'll get it yet."
"Hush, hush, father dear." Constance's eyes were moist as she listened to his wandering words, and watched his wan face.
"Oh, Mr. Steadman," she said, "it is so hard to see him this way. He does not know me at all."
"Gold! The trail! I see the gold! Connie, Kenneth," moaned the sufferer.
"Your father seems to have some trouble pressing on his mind," said Keith. "He talks so much about the gold, the trail, and yet he does not look like a man who has roughed it in this country."
"My father never did any mining," Constance responded. "He knows nothing about it. Oh, Mr. Steadman," she continued, after a pause, "I want to speak to some one concerning this very matter. It is almost breaking my heart. You are a clergyman and a doctor, and I know I can trust you. May I speak?"
"I assure you, Miss Radhurst," Keith replied, "that I will not only listen to your story, but I shall consider it a great honour, as well, to be thus taken into your confidence."
But Constance did not begin at once. For a time she was silent, lost in thought. She made a fair picture, sitting on the rude bench, with her right arm resting upon the table, supporting her head.
The room was bare, painfully bare, destitute of the little comforts so precious to a woman's heart. The walls of rough-hewn logs were unrelieved by picture or knick-knack. The uneven floor was as scrupulously clean as a pair of small hands could make it. This was kitchen, sitting, dining, and Mr. Radhurst's sleeping room combined. A portion of the building was hidden by several dark blankets, and served as Constance's own private apartment.