his gloom. Her courage was of that serene kind that refuses to
believe defeat possible, and lifts the spirit into the triumph of final
victory. Through the past week she had been carefully disposing her
forces and winning recruits. And yet she never seemed to urge or
persuade the men; but as evening after evening the miners dropped into
the cosy room downstairs, with her talk and her songs she charmed them
till they were wholly hers. She took for granted their loyalty, trusted
them utterly, and so made it difficult for them to be other than true
men.

That night Mrs. Mavor's large storeroom, which had been fitted up with
seats, was crowded with miners when Mr. Craig and I entered.

After a glance over the crowd, Craig said, 'There's the manager; that
means war.' And I saw a tall man, very fair, whose chin fell away to
the vanishing point, and whose hair was parted in the middle, talking
to Mrs. Mavor. She was dressed in some rich soft stuff that became her
well. She was looking beautiful as ever, but there was something quite
new in her manner. Her air of good-fellowship was gone, and she was
the high-bred lady, whose gentle dignity and sweet grace, while very
winning, made familiarity impossible.

The manager was doing his best, and appeared to be well pleased with
himself. 'She'll get him if any one can. I failed,' said Craig.

I stood looking at the men, and a fine lot of fellows they were. Free,
easy, bold in their bearing, they gave no sign of rudeness; and, from
their frequent glances toward Mrs. Mavor, I could see they were always
conscious of her presence. No men are so truly gentle as are the
Westerners in the presence of a good woman. They were evidently of
all classes and ranks originally, but now, and in this country of real
measurements, they ranked simply according to the 'man' in them. 'See
that handsome, young chap of dissipated appearance?' said Craig; 'that's
Vernon Winton, an Oxford graduate, blue blood, awfully plucky, but quite
gone. When he gets repentant, instead of shooting himself, he comes to
Mrs. Mavor. Fact.'

'From Oxford University to Black Rock mining camp is something of a
step,' I replied.

'That queer-looking little chap in the corner is Billy Breen. How in
the world has he got here?' went on Mr. Craig. Queer-looking he was. A
little man, with a small head set on heavy square shoulders, long
arms, and huge hands that sprawled all over his body; altogether a most
ungainly specime