And sometimes when it had been put away for the night, and there was enough fire still to kick into a redder glow, or a great white moon in the sky, then Denis would loosen the shirt that he buttoned higher than most, and there was the little ring his Nan had given him, the red-white-and-blue of its ruby, diamond, and sapphire, twinkling and glittering as it had in the light of day upon her finger; and there was the lanyard of her beloved hair; and it, too, shone as though still upon her sunny head: and so he thought she told him she was well. But what had he to tell her? He had stayed behind to do something that was not yet fairly begun, and already two months were up. There were times when Denis did not regret the letter which might never arrive. Its unredeemed tale had cost him much in the unvarnished telling on which his nature insisted; what if it were to cost him as much again in her sight? There could be, after all, but one excuse for his separate existence at Ballarat. And when he realized this, it was a hard, dark face that Denis turned to great white moon or little red fire; it was dark with disgust of self and circumstance; it was harder than ever with a determination which had never wavered. After one such night in the middle of December, the beginning of the end came quite quietly and naturally at the following evening's meal. Moseley had received his remittance, days before it was due, and, as Denis said, it could not have come at a better time. At this the moneyed partner had looked up from his platter in somewhat anxious inquiry. "Because I'm going to take your advice," explained Denis, "and give in--and clear out!" "Home to England?" cried Moseley, while Doherty stayed the hand that held a loaded fork. Denis shook his head, and Moseley's face fell a little; but Doherty sat munching with a satisfaction as solid as the morsel in his mouth. "Eureka?" inquired Moseley, putting a brave face on it. "No." "Canadian Gully?" "No." "The Gravel Pits?" "No, thank you." "I know!" chimed in Doherty. "Sailor's Gully!" "No, Jimmy." "Little Bendigo, then?" "No." Jimmy said he gave it up. But Moseley had an idea. "Not the other Bendigo, Dent?" Denis smiled. "From what you've always said," he went on, "it's the better diggings of the two." "I believe it is," said Moseley, doubtfully. "Not quite so over-run and overdone, you know." "No; that is so, I'm sure; but--but, I say, Dent, I don't want to show my face there again, I don't really!" said Moseley, with a manifold anxiety more droll than he supposed. "You may laugh," he went on, smiling himself, "but I didn't commit a crime there, though you might think it. I didn't even tell a lie. But I did pretend that I had done pretty well. I let them think I was on the point of sailing, cock-a-hoop, for England home and beauty!"