“And unless my recollection is badly at fault,” thought Kenyon, “this same young gentleman was settling himself to do for me when our friend Hong Yo asked me the question about Butte, and the first half of my answer led them to think that I was lately from there. His present highly moral attitude hardly agrees with all that, I fancy.” After a long silence, during which the sick man labored painfully for breath, he spoke again. “I feel convinced,” he murmured, “that you are sincere. But that is not the point. To win this girl for your wife you must stand a friend to _him_. His designs must be your designs. You must stand or fall with him.” Forrester’s face was one of agony, but he shook his head; there was no sign of wavering in his manner. The dark-eyed girl was regarding him with wondering, puzzled eyes; but it was Anna who spoke. “Griscom,” she said, and the piteous little tremble in her voice would have shaken a man of granite, “you are breaking my heart. Will you not surrender one mite of principle for my sake?” But Forrester was proof even against this; and though he turned away his face, apparently unable to look into her eyes, his voice was still decided. “No; not even for you.” And then the girl’s head sank once more and the great sobs shook her young body like a storm. Forrester’s determination seemed to have its effect upon the old man also. It was clear that he had staked much upon the young giant, and had not expected this tenacious grip upon an idea that he, more than likely, did not altogether understand. And the disappointment told heavily upon the dregs of vitality left him; his chest seemed to sink, his face grew grayer. When he spoke his voice was lower than before. “You, Mr. Kenyon, have seen stern work, and have no such childish prejudices against force.” Kenyon felt the dark eyes upon him, though he did not turn to see, and he answered promptly: “I have not. Indeed, I have seen much good result from it--at times.” “Excellent! If you are half the man Nunez told me you were, long ago, you will serve me well. I thank you.” Then turning to the girls he said, weakly: “My children, arise!” Both girls arose to their feet obediently and the old man continued. “I have always loved you both. That you know well. But many times I have regretted that you were not young men, that you might take upon yourselves the struggle that is to come. But I see now that it is all for the best. I am glad that you are what you are; for in you I see the triumph of my desire.” In the faces of Forrester and Anna, Kenyon read amazement at these words. But the face of the other girl did not change.