"Oh, no," said Miss Brown, "I couldn't think of it--it isn't mine."

"You washed it out, marm, an' that makes a full title in these parts."

All of the traditional honesty of New England came into Miss Brown's
face in an instant; and, although she, Yankee-like, estimated the value
of the dust, and sighingly thought how much easier it was to win gold in
that way than by forcing ideas into stupid little heads, she firmly
declined the gold, and bade the crowd a smiling good-day.

"Did yer see them little fingers uv hern a-holdin' out that pan?--did
yer see her, fellers?" inquired an excited miner.

"Yes, an' the way she made that dirt git, ez though she was useder to
washin' than wallopin'," said another.

"Wallopin'!" echoed a staid miner. "I'd gie my claim, an' throw in my
pile to boot, to be a young 'un an' git walloped by them playthings of
han's."

"Jest see how she throwed dirt an' water on them boots," said another,
extending an enormous ugly boot. "Them boots ain't fur sale now--them
ain't."

"Them be durned!" contemptuously exclaimed another. "She tramped right
on my toes as she backed out uv the crowd."

Every one looked jealously at the last speaker, and a grim old fellow
suggested that the aforesaid individual had obtained a trampled foot by