It is difficult now to understand the tremendous influence of Tennyson among all the English-speaking peoples fifty years ago. Before Darwin was accepted and even before he had published, the Victorian poet was pointing the way with prophetic vision. He was the apostle of the new age, of the intellectual freedom that was to transform the world. His voice penetrated to the farthest corners of Australia and America. The eager and noble minds of youth turned everywhere to him for guidance. To-night, however, Hugh was nibbling at verse less profound. He was reading “The Gardener’s Daughter.” A descriptive phrase flashed at him: A certain miracle of symmetry, A miniature of loveliness, all grace Summed up and closed in little. Involuntarily his glance swept to the dusky head on the other side of the table. Her shining-eyed ardour seemed to him the flowering of all young delight. Another verse leaped out at him from the page: . . . those eyes Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair More black than ashbuds in the front of March. He turned the pages abruptly and began “The Charge of the Light Brigade.” It would never do for him to get sentimental. Mrs. Budd opened the door and pushed her head into the room. “Mr. Ralph Dodson’s here an’ would like to see you—on business,” she announced. “To see me?” asked Hugh. “No. Miss Lowell.” “I wonder what about,” murmured that young woman, putting down the paper she was marking. “He didn’t say.” “Well, I don’t care to see him.” “Hadn’t you better?” suggested Hugh. “If he’s got something up his sleeve we might as well know what it is.” “All right. He can come in.” Hugh rose to go, but she made a little gesture that asked him to stay. “If you don’t mind,” she said, smiling at him. “Not a bit. He probably knows I’m here, anyhow.” Dodson bowed to Vicky, more stiffly to McClintock. The man from Virginia City just acknowledged his greeting. “If you’ve come to see me about my claim, Mr. Dodson, you can speak before Mr. McClintock. He’s my business adviser,” Vicky said. The big mine owner was ever so slightly taken aback. “My business is rather private,” he said. “Do you mean that it is a secret?” “Oh, no. I have an offer to make you. But first I ought to preface it with a statement of fact,” he said formally. “Your title to the claim you’ve been working isn’t good, I’m afraid.” “Why isn’t it?” she asked sharply. “A prior interest in it was held by Singlefoot Bill, an old prospector who located on Bald Knob and worked all over it.” “He did no work on my claim to speak of. When I began my assessment work there wasn’t a hole two feet deep on the location.” He smiled. “That will be a matter for the courts to determine, I suppose.” “The courts. What do you mean?” she snapped. “This old prospector never did any real digging on my claim. He’s dead, anyhow. Who is there to make trouble?”