“I prefer solitude to the society of mean, selfish, and designing men,” answered the old man bitterly.
“All men are not mean or selfish.”
“No doubt you are right, but those whom I trusted most have proved so.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“Six years.”
“Are you—poor? If so, perhaps I can help you.”
“No, no; poverty is the smallest of my troubles. Look there!” and the old man drew from his pocket a handful of gold pieces. “I have enough to see me through the few years I have yet to live.”
“But you have no occupation—no way to fill up your time?”
“I have a few books and my own thoughts. I will tell you what little is to be told. I came here six years ago, and for a time devoted myself to gold-digging. I was fortunate, and secured all I needed for my modest wants. Then I stopped, for I had no object in accumulating more. But you tell me about yourself. You are young to be in California.”
“Yes, I came to seek my fortune. I was a poor boy, and my mother is unhappily situated. I came to see if I could not improve her lot and my own.”