the seemingly endless journey.

The end neared at last, however, and as Dora recognized the familiar
landmarks that told her she had almost reached the fruition of her
hope deferred, her eyes brightened daily, a new flush came into
her thin cheeks; and though she grew more quiet and abstracted than
formerly, it was plain that her reveries had no tinge of darkness, her
hope no shadow of fear, her faith no alloy of doubt. And when the time
came for her to part with the good people in whose company she had
traveled so far, she bade them adieu with a light heart, and at once
set out alone by stage for Carter's Gulch.

Reaching the straggling, ill-conditioned village at nightfall, she
asked the driver, as she alighted in front of the stage-office, to
direct her to the Buena Vista.

"The Buny Visty! The Buny Visty's not a hotel, ma'am," that individual
explained. "It's the Golden Gate that you want, I reckon."

"No, sir," she replied confidently. "I have a friend at the Buena
Vista--Mr.--Mr. Posey. Perhaps," she went on, with a little tremor in
her voice, "you can tell me if he is well?"

"Posey!" He stopped some moments at the word and looked in blank
amazement at the delicate, tender, unmistakably honest face that
confronted him. Then he continued hastily: "Never better. Saw him
yesterday morning. You see that green lantern? That's the Buny Visty.
Good-night, ma'am. _I_ stay here--if you should want a friend, you
know. Good-night."