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“Me heap knew Missy Wells and ole man, who go dead. Ole man allee time make chin music to Missy. Allee time jaw jaw–allee time make lows–allee time cuttee up Missy! Plenty time lockee up Missy topside house; no can walkee–no can talkee–no hab got–how can get?–must washee washee allee same Chinaman. Ole man go dead– Missy all lightee now. Plenty fun. Plenty stay in Blown’s big house, top-side hill; Blown first-chop man.”

Had he inquired he might have found this pagan testimony, for once, corroborated by the Christian neighbors.

But another incident drove all this from his mind. The little stream–the life blood of his garden–ran dry! Inquiry showed that it had been diverted two miles away into Brown’s ditch! Wells’s indignant protest elicited a formal reply from Brown, stating that he owned the adjacent mining claims, and reminding him that mining rights to water took precedence of the agricultural claim, but offering, by way of compensation, to purchase the land thus made useless and sterile. Jackson suddenly recalled the prophecy of the gloomy barkeeper. The end, had come! But what could the scheming capitalist want with the land, equally useless–as his uncle had proved–for mining purposes? Could it be sheer malignity, incited by his vengeful cousin? But here he paused, rejecting the idea as quickly as it came. No! his partners were right! He was a trespasser on his cousin’s heritage–there was no luck in it–he was wrong, and this was his punishment! Instead of yielding gracefully as he might, he must back down now, and she would never know his first real feelings. Even now he would make over the property to her as a free gift. But his partners had advanced him money from their scanty means to plant and work it. He believed that an appeal to their feelings would persuade them to forego even that, but he shrank even more from confessing his defeat to THEM than to her.

He had little heart in his labors that day, and dismissed the Chinamen early. He again examined his uncle’s old mining claim on the top of the slope, but was satisfied that it had been a hopeless enterprise and wisely abandoned. It was sunset when he stood under the buckeyes, gloomily looking at the glow fade out of the west, as it had out of his boyish hopes. He had grown to like the place. It was the hour, too, when the few flowers he had cultivated gave back their pleasant odors, as if grateful for his care. And then he heard his name called.

It was his cousin, standing a few yards from him in evident hesitation. She was quite pale, and for a moment he thought she was still suffering from her fall, until he saw in her nervous, half-embarrassed manner that it had no physical cause. Her old audacity and anger seemed gone, yet there was a queer determination in her pretty brows.

“Good-evening,” he said.

She did not return his greeting, but pulling uneasily at her glove, said hesitatingly: “Uncle has asked you to sell him this land?”

“Yes.”

“Well–don’t!” she burst out abruptly.

He stared at her.

“Oh, I’m not trying to keep you here,” she went on, flashing back into her old temper; “so you needn’t stare like that. I say, ‘Don’t,’ because it ain’t right, it ain’t fair.”

“Why, he’s left me no alternative,” he said.

“That’s just it–that’s why it’s mean and low. I don’t care if he is our uncle.”

Jackson was bewildered and shocked.

“I know it’s horrid to say it,” she said, with a white face; “but it’s horrider to keep it in! Oh, Jack! when we were little, and used to fight and quarrel, I never was mean–was I? I never was underhanded–was I? I never lied–did I? And I can’t lie now. Jack,” she looked hurriedly around her, “HE wants to get hold of the land–HE thinks there’s gold in the slope and bank by the stream. He says dad was a fool to have located his claim so high up. Jack! did you ever prospect the bank?”