"Mr. Ross, you don't know me except as a lucky man--but I have a favor to ask: it is to meet your daughter." There was something very winning in the young man's voice and manner, and Mr. Ross could see no objection to it, and it might interest Ellice to meet this man who had stumbled upon a gold mine. "Very well, suppose we go up now," he said, almost without hesitation. The girl was alone, seated in an easy-chair in the sun--her head only in shadow. The father spoke in a low and very tender voice, "Ellice, I want to present Mr. Clement. Mr. Clement, my daughter Ellice." The impossible had come to pass! As Clement bent down and took her hand and looked into her eyes his heart seemed to stop death-still for a few seconds--then something new and inexplicable took possession of him, and he stood before her calm and clear-eyed. "Don't move," he commanded, "I will draw a chair near you." Mr. Ross said they had been having a long talk, and she listened, smiling the while that hopeless smile. Then the father rose and said: "Where is Aunt Sarah? I want to go down to the telegraph office." The girl spoke in the quiet, tranquil voice of one to whom such things have no importance. "I don't know, papa. A moment ago she was saying something to me, and now she is gone. That is all I know. Never mind; she'll be here in a moment." "I'll be back in ten minutes." "I am all right, papa. If I need anything Mr. Clement can call Aunt." There was a pause after Mr. Ross went. Then she added in the same gentle, emotionless way: "Poor papa! He is a martyr to me. He thinks he must sit by me always. I think he fears I may die while he is gone." Clement leaned forward till his eyes were on a level with those of the girl, and his voice was very calm and penetrating as he said: "What can I do for you, Miss Ross? I have the profoundest conviction that I can do you good." A startled look came into the big brown eyes. She looked at him as a babe might, striving to comprehend. He went on, "Here I am a millionaire, a strong young man--what can I do for you?" "I think I understand you," she said slowly. "It's very good of you, but you can do nothing." "It is impossible," he broke forth in answer, and his voice gave her a perceptible shock. "There must be something I can do. If it will help you there is my arm--its blood is yours." He stammered a little. "It isn't right that one so young and beautiful should die. We won't let you die. There must be something I can do. This wind and sun--and the good water will work with us to do you good." His voice moved her, and she smiled with the tears on her lashes. "It does me good just to look at you. You are so big and brown. I saw you at the spring last night. Perhaps I have come at last----" She coughed--a weak, flat sound which made him shudder. She tried to reassure him. "Really, I have coughed less than at any time during the last five months."