ould be impossible to describe adequately the manner in which the
character of Peter Blunt peeped out at one from every corner of his
home, nevertheless it did impress itself upon his every visitor. And
its peculiar quality affected all alike. There was a strangely gentle
strength about the man that had a way of silencing the most
boisterously inclined. He had a quiet humor, too, that was often far
too subtle for the cruder minds of Barnriff. But most of all his
sympathy was a thing that left no room for self in his thoughts. No
one attempted undue familiarity with him; not that he would have been
likely to actively resent it, but simply, in his presence nobody had
any inclination that way. Nobody could have been more a part of the
Barnriff community than Peter Blunt, and yet nobody could have been
more apart from it.

Peter did not even look up from his labors when his visitor flung
himself into the vacant chair. He silently went on with his
examination of first one fragment of quartz and then another. And the
man in the chair watched him with moody, introspective eyes. It was a
long time before either spoke, and when, at last, the silence was
broken, it was by Peter's deep mellow voice.

"I'm looking for gold in a heap of dirt, Jim," he said, without
lifting his eyes. "It's hard to find, there's such a pile of
the--dirt."

"Why don't you wash it?"

"Yes, I s'pose I ought to," Peter allowed.

Then he glanced over, and his mild eyes focused themselves on the
bottle protruding from Jim's pocket. For some moments he contemplated
it, and then he looked up into his friend's face.

"How's the 'AZ's'?" he inquired casually.

"Oh, all right."

"In for a--vacation?"

Jim stirred uneasily. There was a directness about the other's manner
that was disconcerting. He laughed mirthlessly, and shifted his
position so that his bottle of whiskey was concealed.

"No," he said. "I'm getting back--sometime to-night."

"Ah." Then Peter went on after a pause: "I'm glad things are going
well for you. Restless told me he'd got an order from you for some
buildings on your _own_ land."

Jim turned his eyes in the direction of the doorway and found them
gazing upon Eve Marsham's little home beyond it. As Peter offered no
further comment he was finally forced to reply.

"I've--I've just canceled that order."

"Eh?"

Jim turned on him irritably.

"Confound it, Peter, you heard what I said. I've canceled that order.
Do you get