"I've got a message for her, ma'am."
"If it's from Mr. Orton Campbell, you can go back and tell him that she won't receive any messages from him," said the landlady, resolutely.
"I don't know who you mean, ma'am," replied the man, in apparent surprise. "I don't know any such gentleman."
"Then who sent you?" inquired the landlady, whose turn it was to be surprised.
"It's a man just come from the mines," said the driver—"a Mr. Dewey."
Florence had drawn near to the head of the stairs in her interest to hear who had called, and she caught the name of her lover. She came flying down stairs, and demanded breathlessly, "What about Richard Dewey? I am Miss Douglas, and your message is for me."
Jones, for it was he, touched his hat respectfully, and held out a note penned on rough paper and written in pencil.
"This will explain everything, miss," he said.
Florence took the paper, and with some difficulty read it. It ran thus:
"Dear Florence: I have struggled to reach you, but have been struck down by fever when I was nearly at the end of my journey. I have had bad luck at the mines, and was almost discouraged, when I learned that you were in San Francisco. Poor as I was, I determined to come to you, even at the risk of your misjudging me. I am not able to write much, and must defer particulars till I see you. I am staying at the house of a kind stranger a few miles from the city. The man whom I send with this note is trustworthy. If you will trust yourself to his guidance, he will bring you to me. I know that I am asking a great deal of you, but I think you will not fail me.