We heard Squire Courtland refer to Lamont having struck a gold mine. As an actual fact he had, and it had come about in rather a peculiar way. After peace was restored he and Peters had made their way out to the farm, to see how things were looking; but the enormous hole blown out of the ground where the house had stood astonished even them. It was while fossicking in this that the keen eye of the professional prospector was at once attracted. A few more quick strokes with the pick, and the yellow treasures of the earth lay revealed. Up went Peters' hat high in the air, and from his throat a roaring hooray. "We can put on our jackets now," he said. "We're rich men for life." "It may be only a `pocket,'" was the more cautious comment of the other. "Pocket or not--there's enough stuff there to get us a fat offer from any syndicate. But there's more. Well, didn't I tell you we'd make our fortunes here." "Yes, but who'd have thought we should have to blow up the old shack to do it?" They had realised on it well--uncommonly well--declared those who knew; and at once Lamont had set to work to clear off the encumbrances on his ancestral home. "Peters threatens to run across to see us, if we promise not to make him wear a top-hat and a long-tailed coat. I've often told him he can wear anything he likes. Hallo, here's a yarn from Ancram. Christmas cards too--um--um. `Kind regards to Mrs Lamont.'" "It was good of you to get him that berth, Piers. He behaved very meanly to you at first, I thought." "He couldn't help it. He's built that way. And even then--if the poor devil got so desperately `stony'--when you see a chance of putting him on his legs again, you naturally take it." "_You_ do. You are always setting somebody on his legs again." "Ah! ah!"--holding up a warning finger. "Who is likely to suffer from `swelled head' now?" "Well, it seems to me you are going to get no rest on earth. You spent about six months pulling everybody out of holes, and now no sooner do we get here for good than you start in the same line again," said Clare softly. "It's different, dearest. On that side one got them out of hot water; on this side one gets them out of cold--oh, very!" with a shiver at the recollection of his recent ice-bath. Pearly and grey the Christmas gloaming deepens, a few stars peep frostily out, and in the gloom of the fir-woods an owl is hooting melodiously. And the stillness, with the peace of the hour, is sweet to these two, as it rests upon them. The End. End of Project Gutenberg's In the Whirl of the Rising, by Bertram Mitford