The next morning the town was startled by the announcement that Mrs. Grim was dead. The church bell tolled fifty-six times. Bertha Allen was prostrated with grief, while the rich mine owner had the entire sympathy of the people of Gold Bluff. Rufus Grim did nothing by halves, and there could not have [205] been a more splendid show of grief than that for which his arrangements provided. The works on the Peacock were stopped, and the men, on full pay, invited to the funeral. It was an imposing affair. The crape on Mr. Grim’s hat was of the widest pattern, and jet studs took the place of his diamond. His black suit fit his plump form well, and he seemed subdued with genuine grief. Bertha Allen looked very fair and interesting in her costume of black. She clung dependently to Mr. Grim’s arm during the burial service, and looked unusually pretty, notwithstanding the marks of grief and weeping upon her handsome face; indeed, she enlisted the sympathy of all who saw her. The following day work on the Peacock was started up again, and the deep, resounding blasts down below the earth’s surface told of more gold flowing towards the coffers of Rufus Grim. The machinery in Gray Rocks mine had been behaving badly. Several big breaks had occurred, and work had been delayed at one time for two weeks. The days glided by, and October had come again. The rocks high up the mountain, overlooking Gold Bluff, reflected the autumn sun, while the forests on the mountain side were ablaze with fiery autumn tints—nature’s superb clothing. Colonel Bonifield had ceased, in part, to be the enthusiast of former days. Perhaps he felt that he had passed his word to give up work on Gray Rocks if disappointment should again reward his efforts, and possibly it saddened him. One evening Vance and Louise had called on Bertha Allen. She was beautiful as ever, and lisped in sweet intonation. Her dress indicated the grief that still rested [206] upon her. That evening, after her callers had taken their leave, Rufus Grim joined Bertha in the parlor of his luxuriant home. The weeks that had intervened since the death of his wife had not made him entirely forget the proper melancholy tone which formality, at least, demanded he should exhibit. Bertha seemed frightened with some secret fear and anxiety. She knew too well that a crisis in her life was approaching. Yes, Rufus Grim came to declare himself. He was confident, as he always was, of the result, nevertheless, there was a timidity that prevented him from feeling the full assurance that he would have liked. He sat down beside her, and after a few common-place remarks, he said, in a voice low, yet audible: “Bertha, I have something to say to you.” “Yes,” she lisped innocently enough, and looked up into his face. “What I have to say,” Grim went on, in a husky voice, “cannot be a matter of news to you. You must know that I love you; yes, love you with my whole heart.” His hands trembled and his voice was unsteady.