Stephen, on his part, carried in his heart one memory which shortened his working day, gladdened his leisure hours, and left no time for vain regrets. This was the thought of one evening which he had spent at Mr. Cameron’s house, on the occasion of a “Gringo” dance, whereto all the workers in camp, except the Mexicans, had been bidden, in celebration of Washington’s birthday. Often did Stephen recall the flag-draped room, the Mexican orchestra, which in color resembled a slice of strawberry, vanilla, and chocolate ice-cream. He remembered the lantern-lighted porch, its lamps blending with the soft darkness of the southern night, hung with its own lanterns of stars. But all these were only a background of his real memories, which were the warm touch of Jean’s hand, as he had held it in the dance for five blessed minutes, and the sound of her voice as she had talked with him on the porch, in the brief intervals when the guests had gathered around the musicians, to invoke the “Star Spangled Banner” and urge that long might it “Wa-a-ave!” What they had talked about Stephen scarcely knew; but he had a confused impression that under the commonplaces of their talk had lurked, on her part, a hint of friendship which made his dreams perhaps not quite so wild, for he recognized in her something softly invincible which once having given friendship would never withdraw it, though the skies fell. In fact, while Loring was playing cards over the mess table one evening, Jean was putting her friendship to the proof in another quarter of the camp. “Father, he is a gentleman.” Jean made this remark after a period of silence, during which she had sat on the porch of the shack, contemplating the moon as it rode high in the unclouded sky. “Who is a gentleman? The man in the moon?” As he asked the question, Mr. Cameron withdrew his cigar from his mouth, and pulled the smoke in leisurely rings into the air. “No,” Jean answered, “not the man in the moon; the man on the hoist, Stephen Loring.” “What made you think of him?” “I met him this afternoon in the valley. That put him into my head.” “Well, I advise you to take him out again.” “Not at all. I shall keep him there. He interests me, because he is a gentleman.” “What are the hall-marks of a gentleman?” “Oh,” said Jean slowly, “there are a hundred little signs which cannot be suppressed. A deacon may turn into a horse thief, or a millionaire into a beggar; but once a gentleman, always a gentleman. Mr. Loring tries to hide it; but he cannot. Oh, haven’t you noticed the difference?” “Between Loring and the other men? No, I cannot say that I have. But I am not particularly interested in the question whether my hoist engineers are gentlemen.” “Don’t you think you ought to be?” “Why?” Jean clasped her hands around her knee and looked out over the dim hills bathed in the mist of the moonlight. After a while she said: “It must be very lonely for a gentleman in a camp like this.”