lphur!" cried I. "I don't smell any sulphur."

"Come over here, then, and blow the bellows," replied Joe.

I took his place, but no sooner had I done so than I, too, began to
cough. The smell of sulphur evidently came from our spoonful of sand,
and as I was standing between the door and the window the draft blew the
fumes straight into my face. On discovering this, I pulled the
bellows-handle over to one side, when I was no more troubled.

The iron pot, being set right down on the "duck's nest" and heaped all
around with glowing coals, had become red-hot, when my father, peering
into it, held up his hand.

"That'll do, Phil. That's enough," he cried. "Give me the tongs, Joe."

My father removed the melting-pot, and making a hole with his heel in
the sandy floor of the shop, he poured the contents into it.

"Lead!" we both cried, with one voice.

"Yes, lead," my father replied. "Galena ore, ground fine by the action
of water."

"Do you mean," I asked, "that there is a lead-mine in the bottom of the
pool?"

"No, no. But there is a vein of galena, size and value unknown,
somewhere up on Lincoln Mountain. The fine black sand sticking to the
ground ice was brought down by our stream, being reduced to powder on
the way, and deposited in the pool, where its weight has kept it from
being washed out again."

"I see. And do you suppose Yetmore recognized the sand as galena ore?
Would he be likely to know it in the form of sand?"

"I expect so. He's a sharp fellow enough. He must have seen pulverized
samples of galena many a time in the assayers' offices. I've seen them
myself: that was what gave me my clue."

"And what do you suppose he'll do?"

"He is pretty certain, I think, to try to get hold of some of the stuff,
so that he may test it and make sure; though how he will go about it
there's no telling. It will be interesting to see how he manages it."

"And what shall you do, father? Go prospecting?"

My father laughed, knowing that this was a joke on my part; for I was
well aware that he would not think of such a thing.

"Not for us, Phil," he answered. "We have our mine right here. Raising
oats and potatoes may be a slow way of getting rich, but it is a good
bit surer than prospecting. No, we'll tell Tom Connor about it and let
him go prospecting if he likes. You shall go up to Sulphide the first
Saturday after the ice-cutting is finished and give him our information.
There's no hurry about it: he can't go