we've struck it at last," he shouted at the top
of his voice, "and you shall come home right away. Where are you, Annie?
Didn't I say wait a bit for me?"

He had entered by the wash-house, but the darkness was thick, almost
palpable, before his face and revealed nothing. He went forward to the
open door, beyond which the burned-down fire gave only a faint red
light, and his foot kicked something heavy on the floor. With a curious
feeling gripping his heart, he stopped dead short where he stood and
fumbled for a match. Then he struck it, and in its sickly glare looked
down. "Annie, my dear!" he called in a shaking voice, and bent down
holding the match close to the upturned face. The light played for an
instant upon it and went out. "Annie!" he called again, and the word
broke in his throat.

A thin wail went up from little Tim in the dusk of the inner room. Where
the man stood was silence and darkness. His strike had come too late.
His wife was dead.

* * * * *

Half-an-hour later a man burst into the "Pistol Shot." It was between
hours, and the bar-tender was just going round lighting the lamps; the
place was nearly empty, only a few miners were standing at the end of
the counter, talking together. The new customer staggered across the
floor as if already under the influence of drink, kicking up the fresh
sawdust on the ground; then he reached the counter and demanded drink
after drink. He tossed the whiskies handed to him down his throat, and
then retreated to a bench that stood against the wall and sat down
staring stupidly in front of him. The little group of men looked at him
once or twice curiously, and then one said--

"Why, it's Bill Johnson, who's just made a strike. Come up, boys, let's
congratulate him."

The men moved up to the motionless, staring figure, and one of them
slapped him on the shoulder.

"Say, Bill, old man, you're in luck, and we'll all drink your health.
Got any gold to show us?"

The sitting figure seemed galvanised suddenly out of its stupor. Will
raised his head with a jerk, and the men involuntarily drew back from
the glare of his bloodshot eyes. He put his hand to his pocket and drew
out a small dirty buckskin bag. He dashed it suddenly on the ground with
all his force, so that the sawdust flew up in a little cloud.

"Curse the gold!" he said, and got up and tramped heavily out of the
saloon.

CHAPTER IV

GOD'S GIFT

They buried Mrs