When they had gone Thirlwell sat down and lighted his pipe, for he knew he must grapple with his trouble before it mastered him. Looking back, he saw that he had been strangely pleased by Agatha's letters, and when he met her had at once felt her charm. This, however, was all; he frankly enjoyed her society and thought she liked his, but he was not romantic and was satisfied that they should drift into a close and confidential friendship. It was obvious now that he had been remarkably dull; Scott had seen how things were going. Then he had taken it for granted that Agatha would not find the vein, and had helped her because he thought it better she should convince herself that Strange had been the victim of his imagination. He had honestly thought this when they started, but now recognized that he had unconsciously had another object: he wanted her society and to earn her gratitude. A light began to dawn on him when he found Strange's tobacco-box, but he had, so to speak, evaded full illumination until it became obvious that they were near the vein. Then the truth could no longer be denied. He was in love with the girl, and had unconsciously loved her from the first. In a sense, this looked ridiculous; but there it was and he must face it. If she had been poor, he would have urged her to marry him, although it might have exposed her to some risk of hardship. But she was rich, and the best he could hope for was a post at a mine like the Clermont. He had no ground for imagining that Agatha would be willing to marry him; but if she were, it would look as if he meant to share her riches when he offered his help. In fact, it would look as if he meant to take advantage of her ignorance about mining matters and her trust. It would not disturb him if outsiders thought this, but she might come to think so. Besides, he was not going to be supported by his wife's money. In view of their characters, the situation would be humiliating for both. Agatha might learn to despise him, which would be intolerable. Then he felt a touch on his shoulder and got up with a start. Agatha stood close by and he thought there was more color in her face than usual, although her eyes were calm. "Brooding over our good luck?" she said with a smile. "Isn't that a curious attitude?" "The good luck is yours." "If you insist on the difference, but I don't know that it's kind! Besides, I wanted to give you half my frontage on the vein." "That's quite impossible," said Thirlwell firmly. "Why is it impossible?" "It would look as if I'd meant to take advantage of your generosity." "Does it matter how the thing would look?" "Yes," said Thirlwell, who hesitated. "I want to keep your good opinion--if I have it." Agatha smiled, but her glance was soft. "I won't flatter you, because I think you ought to know. But why are you moody? I'd expected you to be sympathetic to rejoice with me." "For your sake, I am glad." "But not for yours?"