had exchanged his three or four minutes' conversation with the fair
postmistress,--a conversation at times impeded by bashfulness or
timidity, on his part solely, or restricted often to vague smiling,--he
resignedly made way for the next. It was a formal levee, mitigated by
the informality of rustic tact, great good-humor, and infinite patience,
and would have been amusing had it not always been terribly in earnest
and at times touching. For it was peculiar to the place and the epoch,
and indeed implied the whole history of Mrs. Baker.

She was the wife of John Baker, foreman of "The Last Chance," now for
a year lying dead under half a mile of crushed and beaten-in tunnel at
Burnt Ridge. There had been a sudden outcry from the depths at high
hot noontide one day, and John had rushed from his cabin--his young,
foolish, flirting wife clinging to him--to answer that despairing cry of
his imprisoned men. There was one exit that he alone knew which might be
yet held open, among falling walls and tottering timbers, long enough to
set them free. For one moment only the strong man hesitated between her
entreating arms and his brothers' despairing cry. But she rose suddenly
with a pale face, and said, "Go, John; I will wait for you here." He
went, the men were freed--but she had waited for him ever since!

Yet in the shock of the calamity and in the after struggles of that
poverty which had come to the ruined camp, she had scarcely changed. But
the men had. Although she was to all appearances the same giddy, pretty
Betsy Baker, who had been so disturbing to the younger members, they
seemed to be no longer disturbed by her. A certain subdued awe and
respect, as if the martyred spirit of John Baker still held his arm
around her, appeared to have come upon them all. They held their breath
as this pretty woman, whose brief mourning had not seemed to affect her
cheerfulness or even playfulness of spirit, passed before them. But she