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I should like to say that David’s swift upward career owed thanks entirely to his own good habits, newly discovered gifts for mining engineering, and industry; but a strict regard for the truth prevents. Upon his own resources and talents he must have succeeded in the end; but his success was the swifter for the interest, and presently affection, that Uriah Grey himself contributed toward it. In short, David’s chances came to him as soon as he was strong enough to handle them, and were even created on purpose for him; whereas, if he had had no one behind him, he must have had to wait interminably for them. But the main point, of course, is that, as soon as he began to understand what was required of him, he began to make good.

His field work ended about the time that Miss Violet Grey returned from Europe “completely finished and done up,” as she put it herself, and he became a fixture of growing importance in Mr. Grey’s main offices in Denver and a thrill in Denver society. His baby w‘s instead of rolling r‘s thrilled the ladies; his good habits coupled with his manliness and success thrilled the men.

“He doesn’t drink,” said one.

“He doesn’t smoke,” said another.

“He doesn’t bet,” said a third.

“He can look the saints in the face,” said a fourth; and a fifth, looking up, thumped upon a bell that would summon a waiter, and with emphasis said:

“And we like to have him around!”

Among the youngest and most enthusiastic men it even became the habit to copy David in certain things. He was responsible for a small wave of reform in Denver, as he had once been in Aiken; but for the opposite cause. Little dialogues like the following might frequently be heard in the clubs:

“Have a drink, Billy?”

“Thanks; I don’t drink.”

“Cigar, Sam?”

“Thanks (with a moan); don’t smoke.”

“Betcherfivedollars, Ned.”

“Sorry, old man; I don’t bet.”

Or, in a lowered voice:

“Say, let’s drop round to—-“

“I’ve (chillingly) cut out all that sort of thing.”

Platonic friendships became the rage. David himself, as leader, maintained a dozen such, chiefest of which was with the newly finished Miss Grey. At first her very soul revolted against a friendship of this sort. She was lovely, and she knew it; with lovely clothes she made herself even lovelier, and she knew this, too. She was young, and she rejoiced in it. And she had always been a spoiled darling, and she wished to be made much of, to cause a dozen hearts to beat in the breast where but one beat before, to be followed, waited on, adored, bowed down to, and worshipped. She wished yellow-flowering jealousy to sprout in David’s heart instead of the calm and loyal friendliness to which alone the soil seemed adapted. She knew that he often wrote letters to a Miss Tennant; and she would have liked very much to have this Miss Tennant in her power, and to have scalped her there and then.

This was only at first, when she merely fancied David rather more than other young men. But a time came when her fancy was stronger for him than that; and then it seemed to her that even his platonic friendship was worth more than all the great passions of history rolled into one. Then from the character of that spoiled young lady were wiped clean away, as the sponge wipes marks from a slate, vanity, whims, temper, tantrums, thoughtlessness, and arrogance, and in their places appeared the opposites. She sought out hard spots in people’s lives and made them soft; sympathy and gentleness radiated from her; thoughtfulness and steadfastness.

Her grandfather, who had been reading Ibsen, remarked to himself: “It may be artistically and dramatically inexcusable for the ingenue suddenly to become the heroine–but I like it. As to the cause—-” and the old gentleman rested in his deep chair till far into the night, twiddling his thumbs and thinking long thoughts. Finally, frowning and troubled, he rose and went off to his bed.