“But that has nothing to do with their luck in the beginning. Luck! Blind luck! Fool’s luck! And why not to me? Why to this Gregory Compton? I never believed in luck before, but since this rush, and my own personal experience----” He swallowed a mouthful of tea too hastily, scalded himself, and, while he was gasping, Ora said soothingly: “You cannot help believing in luck if you study the early history of any mining state. There are hundreds of stories of prospectors--you have told of many yourself; the majority had little or no education, less science. Out of a hundred evenly equipped with grit, common sense, some practical knowledge of ores, perhaps two would find a rich pocket or placer. Four or five possibly made a strike that would insure them a competence if they neither gambled nor drank. The rest nothing--not after forty years of prospecting in these mountains. I fancy there is something in that old phrase about the lucky star; in astronomical parlance the position of the planets at the moment of one’s birth.” “But why not I?” wailed the professor. “Why--why this--well, he is a friend of yours--Gregory Compton?” “_Why not?_” “I am infinitely his superior in every way!” cried Whalen in perfect good faith. “It is I who should have discovered those millions and taken them to Beacon Street, not this obscure young Westerner, son of an illiterate old ranchman----” “But you didn’t,” said Ora, patiently. “Besides, the fates are not unjust. They made you a member of the New England aristocracy, and gave you intellect. Do not be unreasonable and demand the mere prospector’s luck as well.” Whalen looked at her suspiciously, but her eyes were teasing, not satiric. He had admired her always more than any woman he had met in the West, and had come to her blindly to be consoled. Suddenly he saw an indefinable change steal over her face, although her mouth remained curled with the stereotyped smile she kept for the Whalens. It was as if something deep in her brilliant eyes came to life, and her slight bust rose under the stiff shirtwaist. Whalen’s ears were not acute and he did not hear the light footstep that preceded a peremptory knock. Ora crossed the room swiftly and opened the door. Whalen was no fool, and he had written fiction for four years. He had guessed at once that his beautiful hostess loved the man who demanded admittance, and when he heard Gregory Compton’s voice he almost whistled. But he merely arose and frowned. “Knocked off and thought I would run in early,” Gregory was beginning, when he saw Whalen. “How are you?” he asked with more cordiality than he usually wasted upon the little man. His spirits always flew to his head when he met Ora, stolid as he might look. “How’s your mine getting on?” he added, as he selected the longest of the chairs before the fire. “Heard it had petered out.” “It has!”