"Oh, I'm so glad!" she sighed, "and you haven't lost your mine. I got to the Governor first." "You did?" he cried and then he sat up and the old fire came back into his eyes. "That's right," he laughed, "you must have beat him to it--I thought that pardon came quick! This'll cost old Murray a million." "No, you haven't lost your mine," she went on, smiling curiously. "You think a lot of it, don't you?" "Well, I don't know," grumbled Denver, "whether I do or not now. I believe that mine was a Jonah. I believe I made a mistake and chose the wrong treasure--I should have taken the gold." "Oh, Denver!" she beamed, "do you really think so? I've always just hated that mine. I've always had the feeling that you thought more of it than you did of me--or anybody." "Well, I did," confessed Denver, "it seemed to kind of draw me--to make me forget everything else. And Drusilla, I'm sorry I didn't come down--that night when you went away." "It was the mine," she frowned, "I believe it was accursed. It always came between us. But you must sell it now, and not work for a while--I want you to entertain me." "I'll do it!" exclaimed Denver, "I'll sell out for what I can get and then we can be together. How did you get along on your trip?" "Oh, fine!" she burst out radiantly, "Oh, I had such _luck_. I was only the understudy, and doing minor parts, when the soprano was taken ill in the second act and I went in and scored a triumph. It was 'Love Tales of Hoffmann' and when I sang the 'Barcarolle' they recalled me seven times! That is they recalled us both--it's sung as a duet, you know." "Um," nodded Denver and listened in glum silence as she related the details of her premier. "And how about those tenors?" he asked at last, "did any of 'em steal my kiss?" "No--or that is--well, we won't talk about that now. But of course I have to act my parts." "Oh, sure, sure!" he answered rebelliously and a triumphant twinkle came into her eyes. "Do you still believe in the prophecy?" she asked, "and in all that Mother Trigedgo told you? Because if you do, I've got some news--you won't die until you're past eighty." "I won't?" challenged Denver and then he stopped and waited as she smiled back at him mischievously. "She's a nice old woman," went on Drusilla demurely, "but I wouldn't take her too seriously. She told me, for instance, that I'd give up a great career in order to marry for love. Yes, I went over to see her, myself." "But what about me?" demanded Denver eagerly, "did she say I'd live till I was eighty?" "Yes, she did; and she told me some other things, including the color of your eyes. But don't you see, Denver, that you made a mistake when you took what she said so seriously? Why, you wouldn't even speak to me or let us be friends for fear that I'd rise up and kill you; and now it appears that it was all a mistake and you're going to live till you're eighty."