repetition of Peyton's charitable offer, "I think I'd better stay here
and dig gold--WITH YOU."

"And I think you'd better not," said the man, with a gravity that was
very like a settled determination.

"But my cousin never came for me to Sacramento--nor sent, nor even
wrote," persisted Clarence indignantly.

"Not to YOU, boy; but he wrote to the man whom he reckoned would bring
you there--Jack Silsbee--and left it in the care of the bank. And
Silsbee, being dead, didn't come for the letter; and as you didn't ask
for it when you came, and didn't even mention Silsbee's name, that same
letter was sent back to your cousin through me, because the bank thought
we knew his whereabouts. It came to the gulch by an express rider,
whilst you were prospectin' on the hillside. Rememberin' your story, I
took the liberty of opening it, and found out that your cousin had told
Silsbee to bring you straight to him. So I'm only doin' now what Silsbee
would have done."

Any momentary doubt or suspicion that might have risen in Clarence's
mind vanished as he met his companion's steady and masterful eye.
Even his disappointment was forgotten in the charm of this new-found
friendship and protection. And as its outset had been marked by
an unusual burst of confidence on Clarence's part, the boy, in his
gratitude, now felt something of the timid shyness of a deeper feeling,
and once more became reticent.

They were in time to snatch a hasty meal at Buckeye Mills before the
stage arrived, and Clarence noticed that his friend, despite his rough