"It's better than going home like a tramp. It's strange how much more people think of you when you're worth a little property. And I don't know but they're right. To get money, I mean honestly, a man must have some brains, and he must be willing to work. How much money do you think I had when I arrived here?" "I don't know." "Eighteen dollars. It was grit or brains with me, I can tell you. Eben here wasn't much better off." "Not so well. I only had nine dollars." "And now we've got eight thousand apiece. That'll make us comfortable for a while, eh, Eben?" "For life, Rawson. I shall never come back here, but settle down at home, where people will call me a rich man." "I can't answer for myself. How is it with you, Dean?" "I shall come back," said Dean, positively. "There's very little chance for me in Waterford." "Well, perhaps you are right. You'll have a fair start, and you're industrious and enterprising." They stopped in Denver on their way home, and called at the office of the agent through whom their claims had been sold. "Gentlemen," said the agent, "may I venture to give you some advice?" "Certainly," said Rawson. "The best thing you can do with a part of your money is to invest in real estate in this town." Eben Jones shook his head. "I'm going to buy a farm at home, and put the rest of the money in the savings bank," he said. "How is it with you, Mr. Rawson?" "No doubt your advice is good, but I want to let the folks at home see what I have brought in solid cash." "And you?" continued the agent, turning to Dean. "I will invest two thousand dollars in Denver lots," said Dean, promptly, "and take the rest home as a present to my uncle and aunt." "You won't regret it. Denver is growing rapidly. I predict that the lots will double in your hands in a year." Dean took a walk round the embryo city with the agent, and made a purchase of ten lots on Lawrence street, in accordance with his judgment. "Now," said the agent, smiling, "I shall be sure to see you out here again." CHAPTER XXXV. AFFAIRS IN WATERFORD. Leaving Dean in Denver, let us go back to Waterford, and see how matters stood in that quiet little village. With Adin Dunham they did not go well. He had an attack of rheumatism during the winter which hindered him from working for several weeks, and so abridged his earnings. Both he and his wife missed Dean, whose lively and cheerful temperament enlivened the house. They were troubled too because months had passed since they had heard from him. "I don't know what has happened to Dean," said Adin one Saturday evening, when he sat beside the kitchen fire with his wife. "Seems to me he'd write if he was in good health. I am afeared something has gone wrong with the boy." "I hope not, father," said Sarah Dunham, pausing in her knitting. "So do I, Sarah, but you must agree that it's strange he don't write."