She put her hand in his.
"You make me strong, my daughter. I have much to say to you, much to say to you of my past."
She put her fingers on his lips gently.
"Is that best, father, do you think?" she said, looking lovingly into his face.
He glanced at her in quick surprise. She was a girl no longer, but a woman, wise and strong and brave.
"Perhaps you are right, my daughter. But you will remember that it was for you I lived my lonely life, for you I pursued my fevered quest. You were all I had left in the world after I had laid your mother in her grave. I feared to bring you to me. Now I know I need not have feared. Now I know what I have missed, my daughter."
"We have found each other, dear, dear father," the girl said, and while her voice broke for a moment in a sob her face was bright with smiles.
"Yes, my daughter, we have found each other at length. The doors of my heart, long closed, had grown rusty, but now they are wide open, and gladly I welcome you."
There was silence for some minutes, then the old man went on, painfully, with ever-shortening breath. "Now, listen to me carefully." And then he told her the tale of his search for the Lost River, ending with the eager exclamation: "And last year I found it. It is a mine rich beyond my fondest hopes, and it is yours. It is yours, my daughter."
"Oh, father," cried the girl, losing herself for a moment, "I don't want the mine. It is you I want."