Aunt Anne, meantime, was packing another and more modern chest, her tears besprinkling the contents. "I have put your winter shirts and chamois-skin vest right on top of the tray, Ross," she sobbed as she bade him good-bye. "You better put 'em on as soon as you reach the mountains, as it will be cold there." "All right, aunt; I shall." Ross's voice was a little husky as he turned to his uncle. Dr. Grant was standing beside the vacated breakfast table absorbed in filling a glass of water. Carefully he brimmed it drop by drop. Aunt Anne peered through her tears. "Why, Fred," she exclaimed, "what are you up to? Don't make Ross miss his train." Calmly the doctor added a few more drops, and then turned to his nephew. His eyes narrowed intently as he motioned toward the glass. "I want to test your nerves, Ross. Hold it out," he directed. The boy smiled confidently, raised the glass, carried it from him the length of a long, steady arm, and held it there. Then he returned it to the table without spilling a drop. The doctor grasped the hand that had held the glass, looking earnestly into the boy's eyes. "Ross, the hand that holds the surgeon's knife successfully must _keep as steady as this_." For a long, silent moment uncle and nephew looked into each other's faces as their hands gripped. Ross made no reply, but in the expression which leaped to his eyes the older man read the resolution which satisfied him, and which seemed a part of this slow, steady nephew of his. An hour later the boy was being borne westward on the way to Chicago and the "jumping-off place into the wilderness." At the same time his father sat behind his desk on Broadway reading a letter postmarked Cody, Wyo., and signed D. H. Leonard. It was written in reply to a recent communication from Ross Grant, Senior. "Of course I shall be glad to do anything in my power for your son," the letter read, "along the lines you have suggested. I see the wisdom of your move, too. It doesn't always do to refuse a boy's demands point-blank. It's far better to turn him from his purpose as you are doing--or trying to do, I should say, because, if young Ross is anything like old Ross, he will not be so easily turned. Yet, as you say, a little stirring up and jostling out of his uncle's beaten tracks may put some new ideas into his head. This country certainly bids fair to be stirring enough now to fascinate any young man. It's a good idea also to give him a half-share in your share of the claims; and I'm sure, if the railroad makes good its promise of a way up to Miners' Camp, the claims will be worth working for. And, as a real estate dealer, I don't need to be urged to do my best to interest him in the business of this vast land, the country of the future." In Chicago a telegram overtook Ross. It was from his father. "Stop overnight at Hotel Irma, Cody," it read. "Leonard will meet you there."