Here she stopped, remembering that Jack was in his grave, and that his memory was held sacred in Samona and among the miners, whose camp she had visited several times with Elithe and Rob. But she carried her point with regard to refurnishing. The room Jack had occupied was to be turned into a salon, where the family were to have their meals served. Hair mattresses were to be bought for the beds. There was to be drapery at the windows in place of the paper curtains,—rugs for the floor, and four towels a day each for Mr. and Mrs. Ralston, and Paul, Tom and the maid could get along with two each. The landlord looked aghast. One towel a day was as much as he ever furnished, except to Mr. Pennington, who insisted upon two, and he thought the Ralstons must be a dirty lot. Twelve towels for three people, and two apiece for their help, making sixteen in all. “There ain’t enough in the tavern to hold out. I’ll have to get more,” he said. “Get ’em, then,” Miss Hansford replied, and he got them. The _saloon_, as he called it, was an innovation of which he had never dreamed, and unmistakable airs for which the Ralstons would have to pay “right smart.” “They’ll do it,” Miss Hansford assured him, suggesting a price which staggered the landlord more than the _saloon_ had done. “Good land,” Miss Hansford said, “that’s nothing for folks who are used to paying four, five and six dollars a day apiece, besides extra for a parlor. Don’t you worry, but do your best.” He did his best, and it was so very good that when the Ralstons arrived they were more than delighted with their quarters and made no objection to the price, which the landlord gave them with many misgivings, fortifying himself by saying, “That Massachusetts woman told me you’d pay it, and I’ve been to a great deal of expense and trouble.” “Certainly, we’ll pay it, and more, if you say so,” Mr. Ralston replied, complimenting everything and in a few days quite superceding Jack in the estimation of his host and hostess.