Mrs. Stokes was tired, as she had sat all night by the restless man and was glad of a little change. He would probably sleep for some time, and, accepting the offer, she went out, leaving Elithe alone with the stranger. For a time she sat very still, studying him closely, wondering who he was and feeling a great pity that one so young should have fallen so low. Her father was a gentleman and so were many of the men who lived in Samona, but Elithe felt that this stranger was a different type from them; not half so good, but more polished, perhaps,—more accustomed to polite society, of which she knew so little. Once he stirred in his sleep and muttered something of which she could only catch the word “Mignon.” Who was Mignon? Elithe wondered. His sister, or wife, or sweetheart? Probably the latter, and her interest in him was at once increased. Again he stirred and spoke to Mignon, this time more distinctly, telling her he was sorry and would pay it all in time. “If you knew what a hole I’m working in and how I have blistered my hands, you would know I am in earnest,” he said, and then relapsed again into a heavy sleep. The sweetheart theory did not seem quite so likely now. Mignon was some one he owed and was trying to pay, Elithe thought, remembering what he had said to Stokes about a debt of honor. Glancing at his hands, she saw the red blotches on them where the skin had peeled off, and knew that they had been blistered in his efforts to wield the heavy pick-axe. “Poor fellow, I’m sorry for him,” she thought, just as in the next cabin she heard the jerky sound of the melodeon Rob was trying to play, while those of the miners who could read music were attempting to follow him. The sound grated harshly on her sensitive ear, but she was not prepared for the effect it had on the sick man, who started from his pillow and said in a thick, husky voice very different from the one in which he had talked to Mignon, “Shtop that d——d discord, I shay.” Elithe gave an exclamation of dismay, which the man heard, and turning fixed his eyes on her. They were large and dark and bright, with a watery expression, telling of dissipation and of something else which, unused as she was to any world but Samona, Elithe could not define. She liked him better with his eyes shut, and turned her own away from him, but turned them back when he said in a natural voice, “I beg your pardon; I thought you were Lizy Ann. She was here when I went to sleep. I didn’t expect to find a lady in this place.” He was lying back upon his pillow, with his eyes fastened upon her, a kindling light in them which fascinated her in spite of herself. She had no idea what a lovely picture she made in that humble room with her fresh, young face, her soft brown eyes, her bright color and her short, curly hair with the jaunty riding cap upon it. The sick man noted it all, but seemed at first most struck with the cap. “I say, where did you get that cap, so much like Mignon’s?” he asked.