“Certainly,” said Lance, trying to see Flip’s eyes, which were resolutely averted.

“Thet’s whar you’d be lyin’!  That yar heat kem out of the bowels of the yearth,—­kem up like out of a chimbley or a blast, and kep up that yar fire.  And when she cools down a month after, and I got to strip her, there was a hole in the yearth, and a spring o’ bilin’, scaldin’ water pourin’ out of it ez big as your waist.  And right in the middle of it was this yer.”  He rose with the instinct of a skillful raconteur, and whisked from under his bunk a chamois leather bag, which he emptied on the table before them.  It contained a small fragment of native rock crystal, half-fused upon a petrified bit of pine.  It was so glaringly truthful, so really what it purported to be, that the most unscientific woodman or pioneer would have understood it at a glance.  Lance raised his mirthful eyes to Flip.

“It was cooled suddint,—­stunted by the water,” said the girl, eagerly.  She stopped, and as abruptly turned away her eyes and her reddened face.

“That’s it, that’s just it,” continued the old man.  “Thar’s Flip, thar, knows it; she ain’t no fool!” Lance did not speak, but turned a hard, unsympathizing look upon the old man, and rose almost roughly.  The old man clutched his coat.  “That’s it, ye see.  The carbon’s just turning to di’mens.  And stunted.  And why?  ’Cos the heat wasn’t kep up long enough.  Mebbe yer think I stopped thar?  That ain’t me.  Thar’s a pit out yar in the woods ez hez been burning six months; it hain’t, in course, got the advantages o’ the old one, for it’s nat’ral heat.  But I’m keeping that heat up.  I’ve got a hole where I kin watch it every four hours.  When the time comes, I’m thar!  Don’t you see?  That’s me! that’s David Fairley,—­that’s the old man,—­you bet!”

“That’s so,” said Lance, curtly.  “And now, Mr. Fairley, if you’ll hand me over a coat or jacket till I can get past these fogs on the Monterey road, I won’t keep you from your diamond pit.”  He threw down a handful of silver on the table.

“Ther’s a deerskin jacket yer,” said the old man, “that one o’ them vaqueros left for the price of a bottle of whiskey.”

“I reckon it wouldn’t suit the stranger,” said Flip, dubiously producing a much-worn, slashed, and braided vaquero’s jacket.  But it did suit Lance, who found it warm, and also had suddenly found a certain satisfaction in opposing Flip.  When he had put it on, and nodded coldly to the old man, and carelessly to Flip, he walked to the door.

“If you’re going to take the Monterey road, I can show you a short cut to it,” said Flip, with a certain kind of shy civility.

The paternal Fairley groaned.  “That’s it; let the chickens and the ranch go to thunder, as long as there’s a stranger to trapse round with; go on!”

Lance would have made some savage reply, but Flip interrupted.  “You know yourself, Dad, it’s a blind trail, and as that ’ere constable that kem out here hunting French Pete, couldn’t find it, and had to go round by the canon, like ez not the stranger would lose his way, and have to come back!” This dangerous prospect silenced the old man, and Flip and Lance stepped into the road together.  They walked on for some moments without speaking.  Suddenly Lance turned upon his companion.