his mind, or whether his late reflections had repeopled it with
his family under pleasanter auspices, it would be difficult to
determine. Destitute as he was of imagination, and matter-of-fact in
his judgments, he realized his new situation as calmly as he would have
considered any business proposition. While he was decided to act upon
his moral convictions purely, he was prepared to submit the facts of
Slinn's claim to the usual patient and laborious investigation of his
practical mind. It was the least he could do to justify the ready and
almost superstitious assent he had given to Slinn's story.

When he had made a few memoranda at his desk by the growing light, he
again took the key of the attic, and ascended to the loft that held the
tangible memories of his past life. If he was still under the
influence of his reflections, it was with very different sensations
that he now regarded them. Was it possible that these ashes might be
warmed again, and these scattered embers rekindled? His practical sense
said No! whatever his wish might have been. A sudden chill came over
him; he began to realize the terrible change that was probable, more by
the impossibility of his accepting the old order of things than by his
voluntarily abandoning the new. His wife and children would never
submit. They would go away from this place, far away, where no
reminiscence of either former wealth or former poverty could obtrude
itself upon them. Mamie--his Mamie--should never go back to the cabin,
since desecrated by Slinn's daughters, and take their places. No! Why
should she?--because of the half-sick, half-crazy dreams of an old
vindictive man?

He stopped suddenly. In moodily turning over a heap of mining
clothing, blankets, and india-rubber boots, he had come upon an old
pickaxe--the one he had found in the shaft; the one he had carefully
preserved for a year, and then forgotten! Why had he not remembered it
before? He was frightened, not only at this sudden resurrection of the
proof he was seeking, but at his own fateful forgetfulness. Why had he
never thought of this when Slinn was speaking? A sense of shame, as if
he had voluntarily withheld it from the wronged man, swept over him.
He was turning away, when he was again startled.

This time it was by a voice from below--a voice calling him--Slinn's
voice. How had the crippled man got here so soon, and what did he
want? He hurriedly laid aside the pick, which, in hi