Gabriel Conroy. Bret Harte
said the old man, stolidly.
Philip again turned away.
"You buried the case and papers?" asked the old man.
"Yes."
"Through the snow—in the earth?"
"Yes."
"Securely?"
"Securely."
"How do you indicate it?"
"By a cairn of stones."
"And the notices—in German and French?"
"I nailed them up wherever I could, near the old trail."
"Good."
The cynical look on Philip's face deepened as he once more turned away. But before he reached the door he paused, and drawing from his breast a faded flower, with a few limp leaves, handed it to the old man.
"I found the duplicate of the plant you were looking for."
The old man half rose on his elbow, breathless with excitement as he clutched and eagerly examined the plant.
"It is the same," he said, with a sigh of relief, "and yet you said there was no news!"
"May I ask what it means?" said Philip, with a slight smile.
"It means that I am right, and Linnæus, Darwin, and Eschscholtz are wrong. It means a discovery. It means that this which you call an Alpine flower is not one, but a new species."
"An important fact to starving men," said Philip, bitterly.
"It means more," continued the old man, without heeding Philip's tone. "It means that this flower is not developed in perpetual snow. It means that it is first germinated in a warm soil and under a kindly sun. It means that if you had not plucked it, it would have fulfilled its destiny under those conditions. It means that in two months grass will be springing where you found it—even where we now lie. We are below the limit of perpetual snow."
"In two months!" said the young girl, eagerly, clasping her hands.
"In two months," said the young man, bitterly. "In two months we shall be far from here, or dead."
"Probably!" said the old man, coolly; "but if you have fulfilled my injunctions in regard to my papers and the collection, they will in good time be discovered and saved."
Ashley turned away with an impatient gesture, and the old man's head again sank exhaustedly upon his arm. Under the pretext of caressing the child, Ashley crossed over to Grace, uttered a few hurried and almost inaudible words, and disappeared through the door. When he had gone, the old man raised his head again and called feebly—
"Grace!"
"Dr. Devarges!"
"Come here!"
She rose and crossed over to his side.
"Why did he stir the fire, Grace?" said Devarges, with a suspicious glance.
"I don't know."
"You tell him everything—did you tell him that?"
"I did not, sir."
Devarges looked as if he would read the inmost thoughts of the girl, and then, as if reassured, said—
"Take it from the fire, and let it cool in the snow."
The young girl raked away the embers of the dying fire, and disclosed what seemed to be a stone of the size of a hen's egg incandescent and glowing. With the aid of two half-burnt slicks she managed to extract it, and deposited it in a convenient snow-drift near the door, and then returned to the side of the old man.
"Grace!"
"Sir!"
"You are going away!"
Grace did not speak.
"Don't deny it. I overheard you. Perhaps it is the best that you can do. But whether it is or not you will do it—of course. Grace, what do you know of that man?"
Neither the contact of daily familiarity, the quality of suffering, nor the presence of approaching death, could subdue the woman's nature in Grace. She instantly raised her shield. From behind it she began to fence feebly with the dying man.
"Why, what we all know of him, sir—a true friend; a man to whose courage, intellect, and endurance we owe so much. And so unselfish, sir!"
"Humph!—what else?"
"Nothing—except that he has always been your devoted friend—and I thought you were his. You brought him to us," she said a little viciously.
"Yes—I picked him up at Sweetwater. But what do you know of his history? What has he told you?"
"He ran away from a wicked stepfather and relations whom he hated. He came out West to live alone—among the Indians—or to seek his fortune in Oregon. He is very proud—you know, sir. He is as unlike us as you are, sir—he is a gentleman. He is educated."
"Yes, I believe that's what they call it here, and he doesn't know the petals of a flower from the stamens," muttered Devarges. "Well! After you run away with him does he propose to marry you?"
For an instant a faint flush deepened the wan cheek of the girl, and she lost her guard. But the next moment she recovered it.
"Oh, sir," said this arch hypocrite, sweetly, "how can you jest so cruelly at such a moment? The life of my dear brother and sister, the lives of the poor women in yonder hut, depend upon our going. He and I are the only ones left who have strength enough to make the trial. I can assist him, for, although strong, I require less to support my strength than he. Something tells me we shall be successful; we shall return soon with help. Oh, sir—it is no time for trifling now; our lives—even your own is at stake!"
"My own life," said the old man, impassively, "is already spent. Before you return, if you return at all, I shall be beyond your help."
A spasm of pain appeared to pass over his face. He lay still for a moment as if to concentrate his strength for a further effort. But when he again spoke his voice was much lower, and he seemed to articulate with difficulty.
"Grace," he said at last, "come nearer, girl—I have something to tell you."
Grace hesitated. Within the last few moments a shy, nervous dread of the man which she could not account for had taken possession of her. She looked toward her sleeping brother.
"He will not waken," said Devarges, following the direction of her eyes. "The anodyne still holds its effect. Bring me what you took from the fire."
Grace brought the stone—a dull bluish-grey slag. The old man took it, examined it, and then said to Grace—
"Rub it briskly on your blanket."
Grace did so. After a few moments it began to exhibit a faint white lustre on its polished surface.
"It looks like silver," said Grace, doubtfully.
"It is silver!" replied Devarges.
Grace put it down quickly and moved slightly away.
"Take it," said the old man—"it is yours. A year ago I found it in a ledge of the mountain range far west of this. I know where it lies in bulk—a fortune, Grace, do you hear?—hidden in the bluish stone you put in the fire for me last night. I can tell you where and how to find it. I can give you the title to it—the right of discovery. Take it—it is yours."
"No, no," said the girl, hurriedly, "keep it yourself. You will live to enjoy it."
"Never, Grace! even were I to live I should not make use of it. I have in my life had more than my share of it, and it brought me no happiness. It has no value to me—the rankest weed that grows above it is worth more in my eyes. Take it. To the world it means everything—wealth and position. Take it. It will make you as