He had done many good acts, had always helped his brother miners, had tried to look on the bright side of life, had fought manfully, and been defeated in the battle. He had imagined sometimes that the clouds had a silver lining, but the storms always came sooner or later. He meditated thus as he lay under the tree, and finally, more dead than alive from want and exhaustion, fell asleep. Two men passed along under the brow of the mountain, by the tree. They were tall and straight, and from their dark hair and skin it was easy to perceive their Indian blood. “The white man is dead,” said one of the men, as he bent on his knee beside the sleeper. “No, there is a twitching of the eyelids,” said the other. “He is pale and sick. I will take him home, and Mimosa will care for him.” The conversation, carried on in a low tone, awakened the miner. “Come with us, and you shall have food and shelter,” said the friendly Indian. Scarcely able to bear his weight, Martin leaned upon the arms of the two men, and soon found himself in the humble Indian cabin. “Mimosa, here is a stranger. Take care of him. Red Cloud never left a human being to die. He will get well, and then we will send him back to his people.” A shy, pale Indian girl came forward and did as she was bidden. She did not speak, but looked very pityingly out of her fawn-like dark eyes. When Martin had been placed in the simple bed she prepared food for him, and fed him as though he were a child. Day by day she came and went, speaking little, but doing gently the things which only a woman’s hands can do. After a time the miner, still a young man, gained in strength, and began once more to hope for a successful future. “Mimosa,” he said one day, “I owe my life to you, and if I am ever rich I will come back and reward you.” “I shall miss you,” said the girl shyly. “But I want no money. I shall be happy because you are well again and happy.” “I shall yet find gold, Mimosa. I used to think I should be rich, and then I became poor and sick and lost heart. You wear a ring on your finger and sometimes a chain about your neck, both of beaten gold. Did the metal come from mines near here?” “My father gave them to me,” she replied, and nothing more could be learned from her on the subject. “Would you care, Mimosa, if I wore the ring until I went away? Perhaps I can find the place where the gold came from.” “You may wear it till you come back rich,” she said, smiling. Days grew into weeks, and the time drew near for the miner to say good-by to the girl who had become his comrade as well as deliverer. Tears filled her eyes as they parted. “You will forget Mimosa,” she said. “No, I will bring back the ring, and you shall give it to the man who makes you his bride. I shall never forget Red Cloud nor his daughter.” Strong and hopeful again, Martin took up life, obtained work, and believed once more that he should find gold.