ations nor any other questions could ever be of such importance to
him as this new and all-absorbing one. The love which had sprung up in
his heart was not the sudden, changeable fancy of a boy, but rather the
wild, fierce passion of a man of strong will and imperious temper. He
had been accustomed to succeed in all that he undertook. He swore in
his heart that he would not fail in this if human effort and human
perseverance could render him successful.

He called on John Ferrier that night, and many times again, until
his face was a familiar one at the farm-house. John, cooped up in the
valley, and absorbed in his work, had had little chance of learning
the news of the outside world during the last twelve years. All this
Jefferson Hope was able to tell him, and in a style which interested
Lucy as well as her father. He had been a pioneer in California, and
could narrate many a strange tale of fortunes made and fortunes lost
in those wild, halcyon days. He had been a scout too, and a trapper, a
silver explorer, and a ranchman. Wherever stirring adventures were to be
had, Jefferson Hope had been there in search of them. He soon became a
favourite with the old farmer, who spoke eloquently of his virtues. On
such occasions, Lucy was silent, but her blushing cheek and her bright,
happy eyes, showed only too clearly that her young heart was no longer
her own. Her honest father may not have observed these symptoms,
but they were assuredly not thrown away upon the man who had won her
affections.

It was a summer evening when he came galloping down the road and pulled
up at the gate. She was at the doorway, and came down to meet him. He
threw the bridle over the fence and strode up the pathway.

"I am off, Lucy," he said, taking her two hands in his, and gazing
tenderly down into her face; "I won't ask you to come with me now, but
will you be ready to come when I am here again?"

"And when will that be?" she asked, blushing and laughing.

"A couple of months at the outside. I will come and claim you then, my
darling. There's no one who can stand between us."

"And how about father?" she asked.

"He has given his consent, provided we get these mines working all
right. I have no fear on that head."

"Oh, well; of course, if you and father have arranged it all, there's
no more to be said," she whispered, with her cheek against his broad
breast.

"Thank God!" he said, hoarsely, stooping and kissing her. "It is
settled, t