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“Ef you ‘pass’ on the gal, you kin hand it back to me and I’LL try it on.” Forty dollars for expenses was put into Cass’s hands, and the entire community accompanied him to the cross roads where he was to meet the Sacramento coach, which eventually carried him away, followed by a benediction of waving hats and exploding revolvers.

That Cass did not participate in the extravagant hopes of his comrades, and that he rejected utterly their matrimonial speculations in his behalf, need not be said. Outwardly, he kept his own counsel with good-humored assent. But there was something fascinating in the situation, and while he felt he had forever abandoned his romantic dream, he was not displeased to know that it might have proved a reality. Nor was it distasteful to him to think that Miss Porter would hear of it and regret her late inability to appreciate his sentiment. If he really were the object of some opulent maiden’s passion, he would show Miss Porter how he could sacrifice the most brilliant prospects for her sake. Alone, on the top of the coach, he projected one of those satisfying conversations in which imaginative people delight, but which unfortunately never come quite up to rehearsal. “Dear Miss Porter,” he would say, addressing the back of the driver, “if I could remain faithful to a dream of my youth, however illusive and unreal, can you believe that for the sake of lucre I could be false to the one real passion that alone supplanted it.” In the composition and delivery of this eloquent statement an hour was happily forgotten: the only drawback to its complete effect was that a misplace of epithets in rapid repetition did not seem to make the slightest difference, and Cass found himself saying “Dear Miss Porter, if I could be false to a dream of my youth, etc., etc., can you believe I could be FAITHFUL to the one real passion, etc., etc.,” with equal and perfect satisfaction. As Miss Porter was reputed to be well off, if the unknown were poor, that might be another drawback.

The banking house of Bookham & Sons did not present an illusive nor mysterious appearance. It was eminently practical and matter of fact; it was obtrusively open and glassy; nobody would have thought of leaving a secret there that would have been inevitably circulated over the counter. Cass felt an uncomfortable sense of incongruity in himself, in his story, in his treasure, to this temple of disenchanting realism. With the awkwardness of an embarrassed man he was holding prominently in his hand an envelope containing the ring and advertisement as a voucher for his intrusion, when the nearest clerk took the envelope from his hand, opened it, took out the ring, returned it, said briskly, “T’other shop, next door, young man,” and turned to another customer.

Cass stepped to the door, saw that “T’other shop” was a pawnbroker’s, and returned again with a flashing eye and heightened color. “It’s an advertisement I have come to answer,” he began again.

The clerk cast a glance at Cass’s scarf and pin. “Place taken yesterday–no room for any more,” he said, abruptly.

Cass grew quite white. But his old experience in Blazing Star repartee stood him in good stead. “If it’s YOUR place you mean,” he said coolly, “I reckon you might put a dozen men in the hole you’re rattlin’ round in–but it’s this advertisement I’m after. If Bookham isn’t in, maybe you’ll send me one of the grown-up sons.” The production of the advertisement and some laughter from the bystanders had its effect. The pert young clerk retired, and returned to lead the way to the bank parlor. Cass’s heart sank again as he was confronted by a dark, iron-gray man–in dress, features, speech, and action–uncompromisingly opposed to Cass–his ring and his romance. When the young man had told his story and produced his treasure he paused. The banker scarcely glanced at it, but said, impatiently,–