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“Strange he never wrote of you. He seems very proud of you, too.”

Kelley looked out of the window. “We get along first rate.”

The girl studied his fine profile attentively. “I’m glad he fell in with a strong man like you–an experienced miner. He might have made a mistake and lost all his small fortune. My! but it’s fine up here! What’s that wonderful snowy range off there?”

“That’s the Sangre de Cristo Range.”

“Sangre de Cristo–Blood of Christ! Those old Spaniards had a lot of poetry in them, didn’t they?”

“I reckon so–and a whole lot of stiffening, too. You go through the Southwest and see the country they trailed over–the hot, dry places and the quicksands and canyons and all that. They sure made them Injuns remember when they passed by.”

“You know that country?”

“I may say I do. It was my parade-ground for about fifteen years. I roamed over most of it. It’s a fine country.”

“Why did you leave it? Do you like this better?”

“I like any new country. I like to explore.”

“But you’re settled for a while?”

“Well, I don’t know–if my partner will take my interest, I think I’ll shift along. I want to get into Alaska finally. I’d like to climb one of them high peaks.”

Fred, who was seated in front, turned. “Mother wants to know what the mine paid last year–you tell her.”

“It didn’t pay much,” replied Kelley, cautiously. “You see, we had some new machinery to put in and some roads to grade and one thing or another–I reckon it paid about”–he hesitated–“about three hundred a month. But it’s going to do better this year.”

Florence, who was studying the men sharply, then said, “You wrote you were getting about five dollars a day.”

Fred’s face showed distress. “I meant net,” he said. “I didn’t want to worry you about details of machinery and all that.”

Kelley began to feel that the girl’s ears and eyes were alert to all discrepancies, and he became cautious–so cautious that his pauses revealed more than his words. But the mother saw nothing, heard nothing, but the face and voice of her son, who pointed out the big mines that were still running and the famous ones that were “dead,” and so kept her from looking too closely at the steep grades up which the car climbed.

At length, on the very crest of the high, smooth hill, they alighted and Fred led the way toward a rusty old hack that looked as much out of place on that wind-swept point as a Chinese pagoda.

Florence spoke of it. “Looks like Huckleberry Springs. Whom does its owner find to carry up here?”

“Mostly it carries the minister and undertaker at funerals,” replied Kelley.

“Cheerful lot!” exclaimed the girl. “It smells morbific.”

“You can’t be particular up here,” responded Fred. “You’ll find our boarding-place somewhat crude.”

“Oh, I don’t mind crudeness–but I hate decayed pretensions. If this were only a mountain cart now!”

“It was the only kerridge with springs,” explained Kelley.

The little mother now began to take notice of her son’s partner. “My son tells me you have been very good to him–a kind of big brother. I am very grateful.”

“Oh, I’ve done no more for him than he has for me. We both felt kind of lonesome and so rode alongside.”

“It’s wonderful to me how you could keep Mr. Kelley out of your letters,” said Florence. “He looks exactly like a Remington character, only his eyes are honester and his profile handsomer.”

Kelley flushed and Fred laughed. “I never did understand why Remington made all his men cross-eyed.”

Mrs. Morse put her small, cold hand on Kelley’s wrist. “Don’t mind my daughter. She’s got this new fad of speaking her mind. She’s a good daughter–even if she does say rude things.”

“Oh, I don’t mind being called ‘a good-looker,'” said Kelley, “only I want to be sure I’m not being made game of.”

“You needn’t worry,” retorted Fred. “A man of your inches is safe from ridicule.”