"I am sorry people have seemed inhospitable," began Maclane, "but——"
"Oh, when it comes to that," Evelyn interrupted, "every one has been hospitality itself. Even the bank people, while officially they were insulting me, in the name of their wives and sisters offered to put up my party in some sort of fashion till we get settled. Hastie refuses to charge one penny for accommodating us till we find permanent quarters, though he had the impertinence—I'm sure he didn't mean to be impertinent—to suggest that we could stay indefinitely if we liked to work our way as chambermaids and waitresses and dishwashers and things. Even that impudent editor offered to turn out of the wretched cupboard of a room at the back of his office where he lives, and sleep on a printing press if we liked to go stay there. At least a dozen families have invited us to bunk in their stuffy little cabins till my father's return. But that isn't my way of doing things at all. I'm accustomed to having the best and paying for it. Yet not a soul will accept my note or give me one pennyworth of credit. Just wait till my father hears how I am being treated!"
"Ah, your father!" Maclane caught at the idea. "A talk with your father would clear things up immediately."
"Yes, of course. But where is my father? how to get at him? I ask, ask, ask. Everyone has seen him quite recently. Every one assures me he is in his usual perfect health. Yet when I insist on knowing definitely which path he took, every one points vaguely north, south, east, west, toward the mountains."
"Then, for the present, why not accept that view of it?" the minister suggested. "It seems to be a matter of general knowledge that he is well, and off on a prospecting tour—and to a born prospector, such as is your father, there seem to be no limitations in the way of time, space, endurance, when searching for treasure. Only one thing can be predicated with certainty: sooner or later a man must turn up at some base of supplies to renew his outfit. And then, knowing your anxiety, the whole district will see to it that he and you are put into communication with each other."
Miss Durant moved her daintily shod feet impatiently. "I'm not accustomed to waiting for anything that money can procure me. Why can't I send messengers flying to recall him, in every direction where there is a trail? One would think that hordes of these out-at-elbow camp hangers-on would be on their knees to me, begging for the chance—yet, though I have notices posted up everywhere offering a liberal salary and a thousand dollar bonus, I have had not one single application, not though I offer for security the Rainbow Mine."
"Poor child!" Maclane looked at her compassionately, wondering in what way the bitter truth might be most gently broken to her, and examining his own honest conscience to know if his should be the task. Before this was clear to him, however, to his infinite relief he saw the handsome person of the Sergeant, now clad in full uniform, coming up the garden path. "Why not take our friend Scarlett into our counsels?" he hastened to suggest.
"What! That insolent young man who pretended to take service with me!" Miss Durant ignored the soldier's military salute.
"My dear," remonstrated the good Maclane, "our friend is greeting you."
"Ah, Sergeant," cried Evelyn, with hauteur, "I did not see you! That is to say, in my world a lady does not see a gentleman until she recognizes him."