d to each other,
and winked their entire approval of Abe's performance, for this was his
specialty.

'Very decent fellow, Abe, but his talk wouldn't print.'

Here Craig paused, as if balancing Abe's virtues and vices.

'Well,' I urged, 'who is she?'

'Oh yes,' he said, recalling himself; 'she is an Edinburgh young
lady--met Lewis Mayor, a young Scotch-English man, in London--wealthy,
good family, and all that, but fast, and going to pieces at home. His
people, who own large shares in these mines here, as a last resort
sent him out here to reform. Curiously innocent ideas those old country
people have of the reforming properties of this atmosphere! They send
their young bloods here to reform. Here! in this devil's camp-ground,
where a man's lust is his only law, and when, from sheer monotony, a man
must betake himself to the only excitement of the place--that offered
by the saloon. Good people in the east hold up holy hands of horror at
these godless miners; but I tell you it's asking these boys a good deal
to keep straight and clean in a place like this. I take my excitement
in fighting the devil and doing my work generally, and that gives me
enough; but these poor chaps--hard worked, homeless, with no break or
change--God help them and me!' and his voice sank low.

'Well,' I persisted, 'did Mavor reform?'

Again he roused himself. 'Reform? Not exactly. In six-months he had
broken through all restraint; and, mind you, not the miners' fault--not
a miner helped him down. It was a sight to make angels weep when Mrs.
Mavor would come to the saloon door for her husband. Every miner would
vanish; they could not look upon her shame, and they would send Mavor
forth in the charge of Billy Breen, a queer little chap, who had
belonged to the Mavors in some way in the old country, and between them
they would get him home. How she stood it puzzles me to this day; but
she never made any sign, and her courage never failed. It was always a
bright, brave, proud face she held up to the world--except in church;
there it was different. I used to preach my sermons, I believe, mostly
for her--but never so that she could suspect--as bravely and as cheerily
as I could. And as she listened, and especially as she sang--how she
used to sing in those days!--there was no touch of pride in her face,
though the courage never died out, but appeal, appeal! I could have
cursed aloud the cause of her misery, or wept for the pity of it. Before
her