with his knee around the pommel and talking meditatively over
his shoulder.

"You see, I've got mining in my blood. My grandfather was a Forty-Niner."

"Did he get rich?" asked Polly, interestedly.

"Not so's you'd notice it. Spent all he had and died trying to get home."

"Oh!"

"Hard luck, wasn't it? My folks went to Detroit when I was a little codger
and they both died there. I was adopted by an uncle--an uncle who was the
whitest man God ever made," declared Scott, solemnly.

"Why was he--I mean, how was he?" Polly had by nature that healthy
capacity for asking questions, which is one of the most flattering
characteristics that a woman can have or assume.

"He was always doing decent things. Didn't have much money, either, but
somehow he always made it do for a lot of folks who didn't have any. He
adopted a girl that wasn't any kin to him, had her educated and then
married her. She made him a fine wife, too, thought the world of him.
Well, he adopted me and sent me to school and when he saw I had the roving
instinct and couldn't stick to the books, he gave me a lift to go West to
the mines. He knew that there was no use arguing.

"He was queer, too. Didn't like city folks nor their ways. He owned one of
those big farms out near what's now Grosse Pointe--ran down to the
river--and when the town began to grow out toward them, instead of holding
on to his land as it began to get valuable, he'd sell out and go further
away. Died, leaving Aunt Mary just enough to live comfortably on--might
have been a millionaire. But Uncle Silas was a wise man.

"Sometimes when I look at these tight-fisted old guys who make their
millions and tie 'em up into estates to hand down, and then remember Uncle
Silas--not giving a hoot for money and always pulling along a dozen or two
poor relations and setting 'em on their feet, living comfortable and
happy, leaving a wife that's as fond of him to-day as she was the day he
died--well, I sort of wonder if money and success mean as much as folks
think they do."

Scott's autobiography was halted by the view which met their eyes as they
rounded the turn at the top of the canyon. Turning, the narrow trail wound
its way around the mountainside until one looked down upon the tops of
foothills, green with scrubby vegetation. Then it stretched in an
irregular line down the mountainside, to disappear in their midst. Beyond
lay another range of mountains.

"Back of that range and across the m