At certain places Louisiana opened her lips, as if she could not control an exclamation; but when Brainard paused, she merely motioned him impatiently to continue. As he told of his dropping from the train at the lonely water tank, and of the strange little girl who had guided him to Gunnison’s shack, Louisiana’s mobile lips parted in a curious smile. She was not so much interested in his Mexican adventures, nor in the European chapters, but when he described his first visit to the deserted house on the hill above Monument, the girl’s face sobered to a wistful expression, and she caught her breath as if she might sob. “And there I missed her by a few weeks!” Brainard said. Louisiana laughed aloud, as if it were all a joke. “It sounds,” Brainard remarked, having rapidly concluded the account of his experiences as a miner, “like a dime-novel yarn, but it happens to be all true. And throughout my adventures, all through these six years, I’ve clung to the idea of just being the trustee for this unknown lady—this Miss Melody Krutzmacht, or whatever her real name may be. I think that is what has saved me from becoming a plain gambler, and the whole business no better than the melodrama Farson and I saw, _The Stolen Bonds_, where we met my old friend Hollinger. I’ve got Melody to thank for saving my moral character, as well as doing a lot else for me. But I haven’t much hope now of finding the lady, to thank her for anything!” “She ought to have something to thank _you_ for, I should say!” Miss Delacourt exclaimed warmly. “I’m afraid not. I really feel in my bones that those crooks will beat me out of the property, unless a miracle comes along. I’ve been a poor sort of steward while I had charge of the money. I put every cent I squeezed out of the bankers into developing the mine, and saved myself by a fluke with the sulfur wells. Then all the money they brought in I’ve sunk in this theater game, without much to show for it, as you know.” “Didn’t you keep a few dollars for yourself?” Louisiana inquired with childish directness. “Oh, there are a few thousands lying around—enough, young lady, to have kept you going in Europe another year, and to put on this play of Farson’s. That wipes the slate clean, and I must pawn these duds to stake myself!” “Maybe this play will make money,” the actress suggested thoughtfully. “That will be the miracle, then!” Brainard exclaimed whimsically. “It will be a greater miracle than the one that made me into a millionaire.” “Don’t you believe in Mr. Farson’s play?” “Of course! But I don’t believe in our luck, nor in the people’s taste in drama, as I once did.” The girl sat staring at the little picture, clutching its frame with her hands. After a time she looked up into Brainard’s face with a winning expression about her small mouth. “Will you give me this?” Brainard hesitated.