The place where they were camped was a mountain glen, and our young friend Desmond, being in splendid health, was exceedingly happy.  The life thus far had been one of constant excitement, and therefore at his age one of continuous enjoyment, and besides, to crown all, he was comparatively rich.  As intimated, Creedon had valued the dust at ten thousand dollars, and when it should be turned into money Desmond could indeed clear his mother’s farm and go to school, and then to college, and it was his highest ambition to obtain a fine education.  He was an ambitious lad.

Creedon was restless and excited all the evening; for him a great decision was to be rendered.  He had come to know that Brooks was indeed an expert, and should the latter decide that his claim was of value it meant that for which he had been struggling a long time, as he had said, for fifteen years.

Creedon did not sleep; much danger would not have kept him awake, but the possibilities of the dawning day did cause exceeding restlessness.  Desmond noticed that the woodsman did not sleep and went over and sat near him.

“What’s the matter, lad; why don’t you sleep?”

“Why don’t you sleep?”

“To tell the truth, I can’t.”

“Neither can I.”

“I don’t see what keeps you awake.”

“The possibilities of the coming day.”

Creedon was in a thoughtful mood, and Desmond asked: 

“Why are you so anxious to get rich?”

“Lad, I’ll tell you:  I am thirty-three years old; I started from home when I was less than eighteen; my father was a poor man.  Living in our town was a rich man who had a lovely daughter; she was just fifteen.  I had known her from the time we were wee little tots, and we fell in love with each other, although she was fifteen and I but a little past seventeen, but her father was rich; he despised low people, and that girl and I agreed that I was to leave home, go into the world and earn a fortune, and go back and claim her.  We made a solemn agreement, pledged ourselves under the stars, she was to wait for me even if I did not return until I was a gray-haired man.  Boy, she is waiting yet; she is a handsome woman now—­I have her photograph—­and once a year I receive a letter from her.  She has urged me to return; her father is dead and she has a competency in her own right, but I am not willing to go home, marry her and live on her money; and besides, I want to get rich—­real rich.  I wish to buy her the finest house in our native town, give her horses and carriages; I’ll die before I will return poor.  The people in the town have often and often hurt her feelings by their deridings, telling her that I had forgotten her, that if I did succeed in winning a fortune I would never return to her, but would marry some one else.  They told her I was a thriftless vagrant, never would get rich, and through all this she has remained true to me, and every time I receive a letter from her she urges me to return.  I don’t know; if my mine turns out all right I will return, if it don’t I will not return, and here I am just about to learn what the chances are.  It means to me life, love, and happiness, or a return to the endless longing that has inspired me for the last fifteen years; but, boy, I will never return unless I have a fortune.”