Both Allen and the Colonel were smitten by temptation. Like a man suddenly arrested in happy, undisturbed wayfaring by some irresistible call to sin, the Colonel stood irresolute, fighting with his desire once more to “try his luck.” His resources had grown smaller again within the last year, and he found it meant financiering to keep up the donations for “Carter’s girl” and “G. T.’s widow.” Early in the year he had sold one of the South Park houses, almost the only good piece of property he still retained, paid his assessments for the new pumps they were putting up in the mine in Shasta and placed “Joe’s boy” in business. “Carter’s girl” would not be a care much longer. She was eighteen and engaged to be married. “G. T.’s widow” was the only pensioner that would remain on his hands till either he or she was called to a final account. The Colonel felt that he must live up to her ideal of him, which was that he was as good financially as the Bank of England. Allen had not a thought to give to such matters as individual pecuniary obligations. He was continually at his mine or in Virginia, returning for brief visits at odd times, when he talked thickly and volubly of the wonderful developments of the Nevada camp. He was deteriorating rapidly. He drank now in the daytime. There were stories going about that ore in the Barranca was very low grade, the ore-body narrowing. In October the Colonel met a mining man from the locality who said it was common talk at Foleys that the Barranca was “pinching out.” Whether it was or not Allen was known to be investing in “wildcat” in Virginia. He went about with his pockets full of maps which he was perpetually unrolling and pointing out this or that undeveloped claim which would some day yield a new bonanza and was now a prospect hole in the sage brush. The engagement of Rosamund filled him with delight. He was a man whose affection was largely founded on pride, and it satisfied him that one of his girls should “capture,” as he expressed it, a fiancé so eminently eligible. He made much of Rosamund, of whom he had never before been as fond as he was of June, and treated Harrower with a familiar jocoseness under which that reserved young man winced and was restive. “He thinks I’m rich,” Allen had said one evening to the Colonel as they sat alone over their cigars. “He thinks he’s going to get a fortune with Rosamund.” “What put that into your head?” the Colonel had asked in sudden annoyance. “The boy loves her as he ought to. He’s a man, that fellow. He’s not after money.” “Maybe that’s your opinion,” the other had returned, “but I happen to have a different one. He takes me for a millionaire mining man and thinks Rosamund’s going to get her slice of the millions for a dowry. He’s going to get left, but that’s not my concern or yours. Rosamund’ll have as good a trousseau as any girl, but when you come to dowry--!” He broke off, laughing. The Colonel found it difficult to respond without a show of temper.