character and calling of Posey than he had been with Dora herself.
By his account it appeared that Posey had spent about a month in the
mines without striking a single streak of luck to hearten him. At
the end of that time, completely discouraged, he went to the nearest
village and advertised himself as willing to work for his board at
anything that might offer. The thing that offered was a situation as
assistant bar-tender at the Buena Vista gambling-house. Posey
accepted this situation with ardor, and discharged the delicate duties
pertaining to the place so satisfactorily that he very soon found
himself promoted to the distinguished position of "stool pigeon."
In this capacity he developed shining talents, and the Buena Vista's
gaming-tables soon became the most famous resort in all that region
for those confiding birds whose favorite amusement appears to lie in
being plucked. And thus Posey went on prospering until he achieved a
partnership in the concern; and his partner soon after being suddenly
called to that bourne whence no traveler returns, Posey found himself
sole proprietor and manager of an uncommonly flourishing concern in an
uncommonly lively line of business.

All this information was carefully kept by her companions from the
ears of Dora, of course; and she, having obtained the long-coveted
trace by means of which she felt sure that she could not fail to find
her lover, was quite cheerful and happy throughout the remainder of
the seemingly endless journey.

The end neared at last, however, and as Dora recognized the familiar
landmarks that told her she had almost reached the fruition of her
hope deferred, her eyes brightened daily, a new flush came into
her thin cheeks; and though she grew more quiet and abstracted than
formerly, it was plain that her reveries had no tinge of darkness, her
hope no shadow of fear, her faith no alloy of doubt. And when the time
came for her to part with the good people in whose company she had
traveled so far, she bade them adieu with a light heart, and at once
set out alone by stage for Carter's Gulch.

Reaching the straggling, ill-conditioned village at nightfall, she
asked the driver, as she alighted in front of the stage-office, to
direct her to the Buena Vista.

"The Buny Visty! The Buny Visty's not a hotel, ma'am," that individual
explained. "It's the Golden Gate that you want, I reckon."

"No, sir," she replied confidently. "I have a friend at the Buena
Vista