His hair grew grayer and his form bent. He would write Martha and Alice and John when he had made his fortune, but not now. He lived alone in his little shanty, often weary, always lonely, “forever unlucky,” as he said, but still hoping that better days would come. Every spare moment he searched the mountains, till it was common talk that Asa Scranton knew every vein of silver and lead in the surrounding country. He would make one last effort. He had been to one spot stealthily, from time to time, where, from the surface ore, he felt sure of success. But how could he interest capital? He had failed in other projects, and the world did not believe in him. In vain he besought men to join him. He hoarded his money, grew thin from lack of food, dressed in ragged clothes, and still dreamed of future success. Finally a little money was put into the venture, but no veins worth working were found. Asa was sure they would win if they probed further into the mountain. He labored with men in and out of camp to put in more money. The miners said he was crazy. He certainly was cold and hungry, and well nigh frenzied. At last he found a German, Hans Bochert, who, like himself, had struggled for years, had lost and won,—with many losings to one winning,—but who, out of pity for the old miner, gave nearly his last dollar to push on the work. Asa seemed in a half delirium. He would not leave the place day or night. Cold or rain did not deter him, though he seemed ill and broken. Finally the good news came that a big body of ore was struck. Asa Scranton’s face gleamed as though the full sunlight poured upon it. “I’m going to my shanty to write to Martha,” he said, and hurried away. He did not come back in the morning, and Hans Bochert and the other men hastened over to know the reason. Asa sat in his chair with the same halo about his face—dead from an excess of joy. On a paper, on the little table, was the letter he had begun to write to Martha Scranton at Fairport: “_Darling Wife_: I have struck it rich, and you and the children”— The pen had fallen from his hand. FOOD AT THE DOOR. “DON’T FEED him, because others will be sure to come.” The speaker was a handsome woman who sat at dinner with her husband in one of the beautiful homes of C. She was dressed in a rich garnet satin, with a bunch of yellow chrysanthemums at her throat, which accorded with the dark garnet leather of the carved furniture. All had gone well with Mrs. Heatherstone. Her husband, with hair prematurely gray from his hard financial struggles, had become rich, and his wife and only son were spending the money in fine clothes and stylish equipages. A servant had just come in to say that an old man was at the door who had had nothing to eat all day, and to ask if she should give him a supper.