put her things away, "they're not so bad."

"Who?" asked Christie.

"Why, the Kearneys, and Mattinglys, and Fairfax, and the lot, provided
you don't look at their clothes. And think of it! they told me--for they
tell one EVERYTHING in the most alarming way--that those clothes were
bought to please US. A scramble of things bought at La Grange, without
reference to size or style. And to hear these creatures talk, why, you'd
think they were Astors or Rothschilds. Think of that little one with
the curls--I don't believe he is over seventeen, for all his baby
moustache--says he's going to build an assembly hall for us to give
a dance in next month; and apologizes the next breath to tell us that
there isn't any milk to be had nearer than La Grange, and we must do
without it, and use syrup in our tea to-morrow."

"And where is all this wealth?" said Christie, forcing herself to smile
at her sister's animation.

"Under our very feet, my child, and all along the river. Why, what
we thought was pure and simple mud is what they call 'gold-bearing
cement.'"

"I suppose that is why they don't brush their boots and trousers, it's
so precious," returned Christie drily. "And have they ever translated
this precious dirt into actual coin?"

"Bless you, yes. Why, that dirty little gutter, you know, that ran along
the side of the road and followed us down the hill all the way here,
that cost them--let me see--yes, nearly sixty thousand dollars. And