Everet Mapleson spent the next week mostly in hunting and fishing, occupying, however, a portion of one day in looking over the Hermitage again, although without the slightest return for his labor in finding anything new.

At the end of that time he began to grow very restless, and a feeling of depression and loneliness took possession of him.

A few days more of the same kind of life and he declared he could stand it no longer.

Still, he could not make up his mind what he really wanted to do, and was miserable and discontented.

He would have been glad to go to Brooklyn, ascertain where Gladys had gone for the summer, and then follow.

But he reasoned that Geoffrey would be with her this year, and knowing it would be simply maddening to see them together, he felt it was best that he should keep away.

But something he must do to kill time and amuse himself; he had an unaccountable distaste for gay society, and yet longed for some excitement.

“I believe I will take a Western trip,” he suddenly said, one morning, after having read in his paper an interesting account of a certain route taken by a party of travelers going to California and the Yosemite Valley.

Acting upon the impulse of the moment, he packed his portmanteau, dashed off a few lines to his mother informing her of his project, and was westward bound before noon.

He reached Chicago the second morning after starting, and took a room at the Palmer House, to rest for a few days while he was deciding what direction he would take from that point.

The following day, after a good night’s sleep and a fine breakfast, he strolled into the smoking-room with a morning paper to idle away an hour or so and read the news.

There were several people in the room, but he paid no attention to them more than to cast a sweeping glance around; then, seating himself by a window, he lighted a cigar and was soon buried in the contents of his paper.

He looked through one-half of it, and then laid it aside, taking up the other, when a deep, gruff voice just behind him remarked:

“I say, stranger, could you spare a part of that there paper? I’ve read yesterday’s Inter-Ocean about through, and would like something a trifle fresher.”

Everet turned to see who was addressing him, and found a man, every bit as rough looking as his voice had sounded, sitting near him.

He was evidently a miner or ranger, but had an honest, open face which at once attracted the young Southerner.

He passed him that portion of his paper which he had read, receiving his brief thanks with a courteous bow, and then resumed his interrupted reading.

He sat there for perhaps an hour longer, until he grew tired of keeping still, and was contemplating going out for a stroll, when the man addressed him again:

“I take it you’re a stranger in these parts,” he remarked, with a keen, comprehensive glance over the young man.

“Yes, I am from the South,” Everet replied, politely.

“Travelin’ for pleasure?”

“Y-e-s—partly.”

“Any special route laid out?”

“No; I thought I’d like to see something of the far West. I think I shall visit the principal cities on my way, and the chief points of interest, and perhaps take a look at some of the mines; I’ve always had something of a curiosity regarding mining.”

“Have you now?” asked the man with delighted emphasis, his face brightening with pleasure. “Perhaps I can be of use to you in that line then, for I’ve been a miner all my life and know all the ins and outs about as well as any man living. I’ll be glad to give you any points about the business.”

“Thank you,” Everet returned, looking interested. “What mines have you been connected with?”

“I’ve been in Nevada, Colorado, New Mexico, and California,” answered the man, with an air of pride.

“Indeed, you have surely seen a good deal of that kind of life,” remarked Everet, smiling. “When were you in New Mexico? I know a man who once owned stock in some mines there.”

“I went to New Mexico in 18—,” replied the stranger, in answer to Everet’s question, “and did tip-top for ten years, and after that I tried Nevada. What was your friend’s name, sir?”

“Mapleson.”

“Mapleson?” repeated the miner, reflectively. “I don’t think I ever heard the name before, leastwise not in the diggings. What mine did he work?”

“He had some shares in the Moreno mines on the east side of the Rocky Mountains.”

“Wall, I wasn’t located in the Moreno mines myself. I was rather up among the mountains, though I’ve been there; but I never met a man by the name of Mapleson; though there’s nothing strange about that, where so many people own shares. I worked for a man named Dale——”

“Dale!” interrupted Everet, with a sudden shock.

“Yes, and a fine man he was—handsome chap, too; altogether too much of a fine gentleman to be roughing it as a miner, I used to think.”

“Where did he come from?” the young man inquired, trying to repress the eagerness that possessed him.

“I couldn’t tell you. I was in Santa Fe one day looking for a job and he was looking for a man, to sort of superintend a claim. We took to each other, struck a bargain on the spot, and I went back to his diggings with him that very night. He couldn’t or wouldn’t wait till the next day, though I’d been glad to, and afterward I found out the reason—he had the trappiest little wife up there that I ever set eyes on—a sweet, white-livered little thing, with eyes as blue as the sky and hair as bright as the gold we dug out of the bowels of the earth.”

The miner was waxing eloquent over the reminiscence.

“’Tisn’t often that a man cares to take such a dainty piece of humanity into such a wild, outlandish place as a miner’s camp, and goodness knows that it’s rare enough for a rough set like us to see a beautiful woman, let alone having her right among us all the time. But there wasn’t a soul that wouldn’t have risked his life to defend her from any evil or danger, for she always had a kind smile and a gentle word for the worst of us.”

Everet Mapleson sat suddenly erect and looked the astonishment he felt.

His face had grown as white as his shirt front, while his companion was speaking, and his heart was beating with great heavy throbs that almost suffocated him; for a wild suspicion had suddenly taken possession of him.

“You say the man’s name was Dale?” he asked.

“Yes, William Dale——or Captain Dale, as we all called him. You see he was only newly married, and had just brought the little woman there, and that was the reason he didn’t like to leave her alone over night in that wild region,” the miner explained, beginning to notice his listener’s strange manner.

“You are sure that they were married—that she was really his wife?” said Everet, in an excited tone.

The miner looked the surprise he felt at such a question.

“Why, yes; at least everybody supposed she was his wife; he said she was; while they seemed to set the world by each other, and the poor captain grieved like one bereft of his reason when she died.”

“Died?” gasped his listener.

“Yes, poor little lady! she was in the camp just one blessed year, then the little shaver came, and the mother never got up again.”

“There was a child!” ejaculated Everet Mapleson, losing his self-possession more and more.

“Strange,” said the man, with a curious stare, “you seem wonderfully moved over my story—did you ever hear of these people before?”

“I’ll tell you by and by. But go on—tell me about this child,” Everet eagerly urged.

“Well, there was a fine boy,” continued the miner, “and he was the pride of the camp; you see it was a rare thing for a set of rough miners to have a baby among us, and every man Jack of us took as much interest in him as if he’d been our very own; but it cast a gloom over the whole lot when it came to be known that the gentle little mother had to go. I never saw a fellow so upset as Dale was over it; he went about with a face as white as a sheet, and all bowed down like an old man. Not one of us dared to speak to him he looked so awful, and we all kept out of his way as much as we could. It came at last—the final blow; the captain’s lovely wife—pretty Annie Dale—was dead, and the only baby in the place was motherless.

“Annie Dale!” breathed Everet Mapleson, actually growing dizzy as he caught the name.

“Yes, that was her name,” the man answered, with a sigh, “and I shall never forget the day they buried her. They had a parson over from Fort Union, a grave-spoken but pleasant-faced man, and he almost took us right into heaven where that sweet woman had gone, with the beautiful, solemn words he spoke. The coffin was solid rosewood, and came from Santa Fe, with another great box of sweet smelling flowers. The captain never showed himself that day; he just sat alone by the coffin in the front room of his house and never made a sound until the men went in to take it away, when he gave a groan, that I shall never forget as long as I live, and fell on his face to the floor where he was picked up in a dead faint. Poor fellow! he was worn-out with watching, to say nothing of his grief. I tell you that was a sorry day for the camp, for there wasn’t more’n a half-dozen women in the place, and most of them were none of the best; though after the captain’s wife came there they seemed to take more pride in being kind of decent. Well, she was buried under a great cypress tree where she loved to sit on warm days, and the captain had it all fenced off, after a while, and put a white stone up by the grave with just her first name on it, and the miners rough as they were, never let the flowers wither on that grave as long as I staid there. I don’t know how it was afterward, for it’s more than twenty years since the poor thing died.”

The man had to stop and use his handkerchief vigorously just here, and Everet could see that he was deeply moved over the memory of that sad time.

“What became of the child?” the young man asked, after a moment.

“Well, when the Dales first went there to live, they hired a girl to serve Mrs. Dale, for she was delicate, and the captain wouldn’t permit her to do any work, and she—the girl had the care of the boy after the mother died. But they didn’t stay long in the place, only about a month. The captain didn’t seem to have any heart for anything; appeared wretched and half crazed, and finally, when the girl was married to a man named Jack Henly, who was going to California, to be a farmer, the cottage was shut up, its furniture sold, and they all went away together.”

“What was this girl’s name?” Everet demanded.

“Margery something. I can’t remember her other name just now,” said the miner.

Even though Everet Mapleson had been expecting just this reply it gave him a shock when he heard that name pronounced.

He had, at last, he believed, traced Geoffrey Huntress’ birth! It was proved that Annie Dale was his mother. When she left Richmond she had doubtless gone to the man whom she loved, and who had enticed her, with smooth words and fair promises, to go with him to that wild mining region where they had lived together as husband and wife.

That they were not really so, Everet felt quite sure, else the man would never have taken the girl’s name, instead of giving her his own.

“What did they name the child?” he asked.

The miner looked perplexed.

“I’ll be dashed if I can think,” he said, after a moment’s reflection, as he scratched his head. “’Twas a sort of queer, high sounding name—Jeff—Gof—or something after that sort with a tail to it.”

Everet had heard enough to confirm all his suspicions, but he did not enlighten his companion, as to the rest of the name; he did not care to seem to know too much.

“Did Captain Dale ever return to his mine after that,” he inquired.

“Not while I was there; an agent came once or twice, to act for him, and finally bought him out. I’ve never seen him since, though I’ve often wondered what became of the little motherless chap that we were all so fond of.”

The young Southerner sat with bowed head and thoughtful mien for several moments, then taking a case from his pocket, he opened it, and held it before the miner.

“Did Annie Dale look anything like this?” he asked.

The man gave his companion a look of questioning surprise as he took the picture, and turning it toward the light, examined it critically for a moment.

“It does, and it doesn’t,” he said, at last. “It ain’t so delicate like as she was; the eyes are a little smaller, and the face fuller and rounder. I should say this might be a sister or some relation, but it ain’t the captain’s wife. I say, youngster,” he added, looking Everet full in the eye; “it’s mighty queer that you should have this picture, and it strikes me that I’ve been firing arrows at a mark I’d no notion of hitting. Who be you, anyway?”

“My name is Mapleson,” Everet returned, “and the name of the young lady, whose picture I have shown you, was Miss Nannie Davenport. She married a man by the name of Dale, a distant connection of my father’s family. They had one child, a daughter, whom they named Annie. After her parents’ death, she suddenly left the place where she had lived, and no one ever heard anything of her afterward, and her disappearance was a matter of mystery to all who had ever known her.”

“You don’t say! Well, I am beat!” exclaimed the miner, in astonishment. “Things do come about queer enough sometimes, and I reckon there ain’t much doubt that the woman I’ve been telling you of was the daughter of the one in the picture. But—you say her own name was Annie Dale?” he concluded, looking puzzled.

“Yes.”

“That’s queer, too. Then who was Captain Dale?”

“I do not know; possibly some relative,” Everet said, not caring to destroy the man’s romance by arousing his suspicions that there had been a story of shame enacted in that mountain camp.

Further conversation developed the facts that the stranger was in comfortable circumstances, the owner of two or three mining claims in New Mexico, and was on his way there to try to dispose of them.

Everet Mapleson manifested a great interest in New Mexico, and intimated his desire to accompany his new acquaintance thither.

The stranger gladly assented, and said: “I can give you some points about the country, and the mining business, too, that you couldn’t find out for yourself.”

“Thank you; but if we are to be traveling companions, it would perhaps be pleasanter for both of us if we could know each other’s name. Mine is Everet Mapleson, and I am from Richmond, Virginia,” and the young Southerner smiled as he thus introduced himself.

“Well, I’m beat! Here I’ve been talking to you for more’n an hour and never told you who I be!” said the miner, looking blank. “There ain’t nothing high-sounding about my name, but Bob Whittaker is an honest one, and I’m not ashamed of it; and I’m from most anywhere, just as it happens. I guess now we can hitch hosses and go along without any more ceremony.”