Once more the gold goddess beckoned with her smile, and fortune was
there, almost in reach--the fortune that he and his partners had sought
so doggedly, so patiently--the fortune for which they had starved and
delved and suffered--only to see it vanish in the air as the sunshine
will vanish from a peak.

Old hopes, like ghosts, went skulking by, vain charlatans, ashamed. But
friendships stood about in every scene--bright presences that cast a
roseate glow on all the tribulations of his life. And it seemed as if a
failure here was half a failure only, after all. It had not robbed him
either of his youth, his strength, or a certain boyish credulity and
trust in all his kind. He still believed he should win his golden goal,
and he loved the land that had tried him.

His last, his biggest venture, the Monte Cristo mine was, however,
gone--everything sold to meet the company debts. Nevertheless, he had
once more purchased a claim, with all but his very last dollar in the
world, and he and his partners would soon be on the ground, assaulting
the stubborn adamant with powder, pick, and drill, in the fever of the
miner's ceaseless dream.

To-day, as he rode beside the girl, he wondered at it all--why he had
labored so persistently. The faint, far-off shadow of a sweetheart, long
since left behind, failed to supply him a motive. She had grown
impatient, listened to a suitor more tangible than Van's absent self, and
so, blamelessly, had faded from his scheme of hopes, leaving no more than
a fragrance in his thoughts, with certainly no bitterness or anger.

"Old New York," he repeated, at the end of his reverie, and meeting once