when the slower train was left behind asked a question of Virginia.

"Ah--wasn't one of those two the young gentleman who called on you
yestehday afternoon, my deah?"

Virginia admitted it.

"Could you faveh me with his name?"

"He is Mr. Morton P. Adams, of Boston."

"Ah-h! and his friend--the young gentleman who laid his hand to ouh
plow and put the engine on the track last night?"

"He is Mr. Winton--a--an artist, I believe; at least, that is what I
gathered from what Mr. Adams said of him."

Mr. Somerville Darrah laughed, a slow little laugh, deep in his chest.

"Bless youh innocent soul--he a picchuh--painteh? Not in a thousand
yeahs, my deah Virginia. He is a railroad man, and a right good one at
that. Faveh me with the name again; Winteh, did you say?"

"No; Winton--Mr. John Winton."

"D-d-devil!" gritted the Rajah, smiting the hand-rail with his
clenched fist. "Hah! I beg your pahdon, my deahs--a meah slip of the
tongue." And then, to the full as savagely: "By Heaven, I hope that
train will fly the track and ditch him before eveh he comes within
ordering distance of the work in Qua'tz Creek Canyon!"