The father's theme was touched upon now. "No, poor girl, she is in bad
condition, but I think she's better. The air seems not to have made
her worse, at any rate. I haven't much faith in climate, but I believe
she has improved since we left Kansas City and began to rise."

He had a marvelous listener in Clement, and they consumed three
cigars apiece while he told of the doctors he had tried and of the
different kinds of air and water they had sought.

His eyes were wet and his voice was tremulous.

"The fact is, Mr. Clement, she don't seem to care about living--that's
what scares me. She's just as sweet and lovely as an angel. She
responds to any suggestion, 'Very well, papa,' but I can see she does
it for me. She herself has lost all hope. It ain't even that--she has
lost care about it. She is indifferent. She is going away from me just
because I can't rouse her----"

He frankly broke down and stopped, and Clement felt his throat swell
too tight for speech at the moment.

They sat for a time in silence; at last Clement said:

"Mr. Ross, you don't know me except as a lucky man--but I have a favor
to ask: it is to meet your daughter."

There was something very winning in the young man's voice and manner,
and Mr. Ross could see no objection to it, and it might interest
Ellice to meet this man who had stumbled upon a gold mine. "Very well,
suppose we go up now," he said, almost without hesitation.

The girl was alone, seated in an easy-chair in the sun--her head only
in shadow. The father spoke in a low and very tender voice, "Ellice, I
want to present Mr. Clement. Mr. Clement, my daughter Ellice."

The impossible had come to pass! As Clement bent down and took her
hand and looked into her eyes his heart seemed to stop death-still for
a few seconds--then something new and inexplicable took possession of
him, and he stood before her calm and clear-eyed. "Don't move," he
commanded, "I will draw a chair near you."

Mr. Ross said they had been having a long talk, and she listened,
smiling the while that hopeless smile. Then the father rose and said:
"Where is Aunt Sarah? I want to go down to the telegraph office."

The girl spoke in the quiet, tranquil voice of one to whom such things
have no importance. "I don't know, papa. A moment ago she was saying
something to me, and now she is gone. That is all I know. Never mind;
she'll be here in a moment."

"I'll be back in ten minutes."

"I am all right, papa. If I ne