St. Tammany Farmer

more or less. in addition wouldn't be
worth mentioning. But for some other
reasons

"Yes: for some other reasons," she
said, repeating it right after me. Then:
"I—we—Daddy and I, might give you
some supper and put you up for the
night, if you wouldn't mind sleep-
ing in the loft."

My Lord! I hadn't so much as seen
her face clearly yet, but I could have
worshiped her! She had just come
from Atropia, and she knew! Of
course, she knew. That little dry-as-
dust hamlet must have been sizzling
for hours with the wire news of the
escaped lunatic who had alighted in
Angels only to light out again with a
stolen inspection car. And in the face
of all that she was willing to take
a chance on me! If she had only
known that I would cheerfully risk
sleeping in the cellar to say nothing
of a loft—rather than lose sight of
her . . . but she was going on a bit
breathlessly: "It is only a short mile
to our cabin and—and if you are very
tired, I might let you ride Winkie."

I shall be most delighted to walk,"
I hastened to say.

"Straight on up the road, then," she
directed.

We had traversed possibly half of
the promised mile in plodding silence
when we came to a place where the
grade was so steep that it cut what
was left of my sea-level wind to the
small end of nothing.

"Stop a minute and get your
breath," said the pony's rider; and
when I had halted: "You are not used
to these high altitudes, are you?"

"N-not so that any one would re-
mark it," I gasped. "How high up
are we?"

"About five thousand feet. The mine
is exactly five thousand three hun-
dred. I believe."

There it was, you see: THE MINE!

"Pardon me," I blurted out; "but
would you mind telling me if your eyes
are blue?"

Her laugh was like a drink of cool
spring water in the middle of a hot
summer day; refreshing, you know,
like that.

"I sup-pup-pose my eyes are blue;
people tell me they are."

"Thank you," I returned. "There is
only one other little matter and that
can very well wait until we are er—
a bit better acquainted, you know.
Shall we go on, now?"

She spoke to her pony and we went
on. Ahead of us and diagonally up a
steep slope I could see the dim shapes
of a number of buildings, all dark.
Then we came to a great dump, look-
ing as if the mountain had at one
time opened to pour out a cataract of
broken stone.

Beyond the dump there was another
building with a light in it; and as the
dog ran ahead of us, barking, the fig-
ure of a man silhouetted itself in the
open doorway.

"Here we are and you are welcome
to the Old Cinnabar," said my com-
panion to me. Then she "hoo-hoo-ed"
cheerily to the man in the doorway
and slipped out of her saddle, letting
her pony stand while she led me across
to the lighted log-built cabin.

CHAPTER VI.
The Old Cinnabar.

"Daddy, here is a man I found down
at the head of Antelope gulch; he
had lost his way, so I brought him
home with me," was the simple man-
ner in which she launched me; and
I found myself shaking hands with
an elderly man who looked as if he
might be a farmer, or a miner, or
something of that nature—you will
know what I mean—flannel shirt,
trousers tucked into boots, iron-gray
whiskers all over his face, an eye as
mild as a collie dog's.

"You done plum' right, Jeanie," he
remarked; and then to me: "Come
right on in, stranger, and be at home.
If you don't see what you want, ask
for it." After which he went to take
care of the piebald pony.

The log cabin proved to be primitive
only on the outside. The interior was
a dream of cozy homeliness. A hang-
ing lamp lighted it, and in its mild
glow I had my first real look at the
girl.

She wasn't beautiful in any show-
girl meaning of the word; she was
something far better—piquant, charm-
ing. A round little face, wind-tanned
to a tint as delicious as the blush in
the heart of an apple-blossom, a jolly
bit of a nose, tip-tilted enough to be-
speak a healthy sense of humor, a
mouth neither too large nor too small
upheld by a firm, round chin, and the
chin upheld by an extra firm little jaw.
As she had admitted, her eyes were
blue—the blue that shades into violet
—and they were well-set: wide apart
and perfectly fearless: the kind of
eyes fit to match the straight-lined
brows that usually go with them.

I sat before the cheerful blaze,
chuckling quietly to myself over the
mad adventures of the day and their
highly romantic, not to say miraculous,
outcome. Beyond all manner of doubt
I had stumbled upon the three talis-
mans of Cousin Percy's cryptic letter.
By the most marvelous of accidents
I had discovered the girl, the horse
and the dog: and, if the remainder of
Percy's letter were to be taken at
its face value, I should now be in
touch with my legacy.

As to the character of that legacy
there could be no further question.
Grandfather Jasper had left me a
mine: and I was fully prepared to
find it the drowned mine of Bullerton's
story. What I might be able to make
of it was a matter which could well
be postponed to another day. Just as
I reached this postponing conclusion
the girl's father came in, drew up a
chair on the opposite side of the
hearth, and began to make me wel-
come in a mild-mannered way, saying
that they didn't have much company,
and were always mighty glad to see
a new face. He did not ask me any
troublesome questions; and beyond
telling me his name, which was Hiram
Twombly, did not volunteer any in-
formation about himself or his daugh-
ter, nor did he explain how they came
to be living in so much comparative
comfort in such an out-of-the-way
place.