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There was a moment of silence. The drone of a bumble-bee near by seemed to make the silence swim drowsily in their ears; far off they heard the faint beat of a woodpecker. The suggestion of their kneeling figures in this magic mirror was vague, unreasoning, yet for the moment none the less irresistible. His arm instinctively crept around her little waist as he whispered,–he scarce knew what he said,–“Perhaps here is the treasure I am seeking.”

The girl laughed, released herself, and sprang up; the pan sank ingloriously to the bottom of the pool, where Fleming had to grope for it, assisted by Tinka, who rolled up her sleeve to her elbow. For a minute or two they washed gravely, but with no better success than attended his own individual efforts. The result in the bottom of the pan was the same. Fleming laughed.

“You see,” he said gayly, “the Mammon of unrighteousness is not for me–at least, so near your father’s tabernacle.”

“That makes no difference now,” said the girl quickly, “for dad is goin’ to move, anyway, farther up the mountains. He says it’s gettin’ too crowded for him here–when the last settler took up a section three miles off.”

“And are YOU going too?” asked the young man earnestly.

Tinka nodded her brown head. Fleming heaved a genuine sigh. “Well, I’ll try my hand here a little longer. I’ll put up a notice of claim; I don’t suppose your father would object. You know he couldn’t LEGALLY.”

“I reckon ye might do it ef ye wanted–ef ye was THAT keen on gettin’ gold!” said Tinka, looking away. There was something in the girl’s tone which this budding lover resented. He had become sensitive.

“Oh, well,” he said, “I see that it might make unpleasantness with your father. I only thought,” he went on, with tenderer tentativeness, “that it would be pleasant to work here near you.”

“Ye’d be only wastin’ yer time,” she said darkly.

Fleming rose gravely. “Perhaps you’re right,” he answered sadly and a little bitterly, “and I’ll go at once.”

He walked to the spring, and gathered up his tools. “Thank you again for your kindness, and good-by.”

He held out his hand, which she took passively, and he moved away.

But he had not gone far before she called him. He turned to find her still standing where he had left her, her little hands clinched at her side, and her widely opened eyes staring at him. Suddenly she ran at him, and, catching the lapels of his coat in both hands, held him rigidly fast.

“No! no! ye sha’n’t go–ye mustn’t go!” she said, with hysterical intensity. “I want to tell ye something! Listen!–you–you–Mr. Fleming! I’ve been a wicked, wicked girl! I’ve told lies to dad–to mammy–to YOU! I’ve borne false witness–I’m worse than Sapphira–I’ve acted a big lie. Oh, Mr. Fleming, I’ve made you come back here for nothing! Ye didn’t find no gold the other day. There wasn’t any. It was all me! I–I–SALTED THAT PAN!”

“Salted it!” echoed Fleming, in amazement.

“Yes, ‘salted it,'” she faltered; “that’s what dad says they call it–what those wicked sons of Mammon do to their claims to sell them. I–put gold in the pan myself; it wasn’t there before.”

“But why?” gasped Fleming.

She stopped. Then suddenly the fountains in the deep of her blue eyes were broken up; she burst into a sob, and buried her head in her hands, and her hands on his shoulder. “Because–because”–she sobbed against him–“I WANTED YOU to come back!”

He folded her in his arms. He kissed her lovingly, forgivingly, gratefully, tearfully, smilingly–and paused; then he kissed her sympathetically, understandingly, apologetically, explanatorily, in lieu of other conversation. Then, becoming coherent, he asked,–

“But WHERE did you get the gold?”

“Oh,” she said between fitful and despairing sobs, “somewhere!–I don’t know–out of the old Run–long ago–when I was little! I didn’t never dare say anything to dad–he’d have been crazy mad at his own daughter diggin’–and I never cared nor thought a single bit about it until I saw you.”