“You can hear a pin drop during rush hours. This is one of the rush hours, me going home to supper. That gives you the dimensions of the rush.” The young man laughed pleasantly. “My name's Johnny Severance,” he added, by way of introduction. “Mine's Brown.” “Huh,” said Johnny. “That's Brown's Peak you're looking at. Brown was an old-time scout; he stood off a bunch of Apaches here way back in the early days. They named the mountain after him.” “You'll always meet plenty of Browns wherever you go,” said the owner of that name, in impartial judgment of its merits. “It is awful common,” agreed Johnny. “You prospecting?” Brown shook his head. “Health, mebby?” But Brown's appearance was strongly against this supposition. “I don't want no more health than I got,” he said. “Well, you do look hearty,” admitted Johnny. “But every now and then they blow in here for their health. That was the way with the last fellow who had this cabin. He croaked.” And young Mr. Severance sank his voice in decent recognition of the universal tragedy. He continued: “I'm keeping the pumps up at the Red Bird sucking. The stockholders are suffering from cold feet. Well, so long, Mr. Brown!” and he moved off in the direction of the sixteen houses that constituted Sunset. He passed fifteen of these houses, whose back doors looked boldly out across an arid valley to a distant line of jagged peaks that saw-toothed the horizon under flaming bands of color. No one of the fifteen but breathed an air of dilapidation and neglect, for they sepulchered dead hopes. The sixteenth was in pleasing contrast; it was newly painted and two stories high. A sign announced this the Mountain House,—M. Ferguson, Proprietor. Johnny passed about a corner of the Mountain House and paused beside the kitchen door, where there was a barrel, a bench, a tin basin, a roller towel, a cake of soap and a sixty-mile view set under the splendid arch of the heavens. He filled the basin at the barrel, tossed aside his blouse, and began the removal of such evidences of honest toil as he had brought away from the Red Bird. A window overlooked the bench, and he was presently aware that a slender bit of a girl was gazing down on him with serious blue eyes and smiling warm red lips; a fresh color the mountain wind had blown there was in her soft round cheeks, which held a dimple that came and went tantalizingly, and her hair curled in golden disarray about her pretty face. Johnny stared up at her through a mist compounded of soap and water. “My eyes are chuck-full of suds, but I can see good enough to know you're the sweetest thing that ever was, Mollie,—honest you are!” he said. The girl laughed, disclosing a row of white even teeth. “Well, will you just get on to them dimples!” cried Johnny. “Now, Johnny,—honest?” “Honest, what?” “The sweetest thing——” “Wish I may die if you ain't!” said Johnny fervently.