ld in his haste, or the disgust he had expressed was
genuine, for he left it lying on the bank.

He now no longer fled without a purpose. Many miles down that same
stream there dwelt a gold-digger in a lonely hut. His name was Paul
Bevan. He was an eccentric being, and a widower with an only child, a
daughter, named Elizabeth--better known as Betty.

One phase of Paul Bevan's eccentricity was exhibited in his selection of
a spot in which to search for the precious metal. It was a savage,
gloomy gorge, such as a misanthrope might choose in which to end an
unlovely career. But Bevan was no misanthrope. On the contrary, he was
one of those men who are gifted with amiable dispositions, high spirits,
strong frames, and unfailing health. He was a favourite with all who
knew him, and, although considerably past middle life, possessed much of
the fire, energy, and light-heartedness of youth. There is no
accounting for the acts of eccentric men, and we make no attempt to
explain why it was that Paul Bevan selected a home which was not only
far removed from the abodes of other men, but which did not produce much
gold. Many prospecting parties had visited the region from time to
time, under the impression that Bevan had discovered a rich mine, which
he was desirous of keeping all to himself; but, after searching and
digging all round the neighbourhood, and discovering that gold was to be
found in barely paying quantities, they had left in search of more
prolific fields, and spread the report that Paul Bevan was an eccentric
fellow. Some said he was a queer chap; others, more outspoken, styled
him an ass, but all agreed in the opinion that his daughter Betty was
the finest girl in Oregon.

Perhaps this opinion may account for the fact that many of the miners--
especially the younger among them--returned again and again to Bevan's
Gully to search for gold although the search was not remunerative.
Among those persevering though unsuccessful diggers had been, for a
considerable time past, our hero Tom Brixton. Perhaps the decision with
which Elizabeth Bevan repelled him had had something to do with his late
reckless life.

But we must guard the reader here from supposing that Betty Bevan was a
beauty. She was not. On the other hand, she was by no means plain, for
her complexion was good, her nut-brown hair was soft and wavy, and her
eyes were tender and true. It was the blending of the graces of body
and of soul that