The stranger gladly assented, and said: “I can give you some points about the country, and the mining business, too, that you couldn’t find out for yourself.” “Thank you; but if we are to be traveling companions, it would perhaps be pleasanter for both of us if we could know each other’s name. Mine is Everet Mapleson, and I am from Richmond, Virginia,” and the young Southerner smiled as he thus introduced himself. “Well, I’m beat! Here I’ve been talking to you for more’n an hour and never told you who I be!” said the miner, looking blank. “There ain’t nothing high-sounding about my name, but Bob Whittaker is an honest one, and I’m not ashamed of it; and I’m from most anywhere, just as it happens. I guess now we can hitch hosses and go along without any more ceremony.” CHAPTER XXIV. EVERET MAKES A STARTLING DISCOVERY. It was settled that Everet Mapleson was to accompany Bob Whittaker, the miner, to the mines of New Mexico, and two days after the conversation related in the previous chapter found them on their way thither. Arriving at their destination, about a week later, they found that what had been a small camp in those early days, when Bob Whittaker had worked for Captain Dale, was now a thriving village, or “city,” as the place was designated in that region, and the miner could hardly realize that it was the same place which had once been so familiar to him. Everet looked about the town with a great deal of interest, after which he visited the tiny plot where, overshadowed by a venerable cypress tree, all that remained of beautiful Annie Dale rested. There was no sign of any grave there now; every trace of it had disappeared. There was nothing save a simple head-stone of pure Italian marble, with the single name “Annie” inscribed upon it, standing in the center of the inclosure, to mark the spot where she had been laid. Two or three varieties of ivy had been planted by some loving hand beside the fence which surrounded it, and a luxuriant growth now almost concealed it from view, and embowered the little plot of ground in a frame-work of living green. The small house, where the beautiful girl had lived during that short, happy year, and where her child was born—where, as Everet Mapleson firmly believed, Geoffrey Dale Huntress was born—stood near this spot, and was still empty. No one had ever lived in it since the poor young mother died, one of the older inhabitants of the village told him. It was believed that the same gentleman owned it still, though he had not been seen there for years, and would not allow any one else to occupy it. It seemed as if he deemed the place too sacred to be invaded by strangers, and so had preferred to sacrifice it to desolation and decay. Everet passed through the small yard, now thickly overgrown with vines and brambles, to the tiny porch, and looked in through the side-lights of the front door.