The abrupt departure of George Kearney from Devil’s Ford excited but little interest in the community, and was soon forgotten.  It was generally attributed to differences between himself and his partners on the question of further outlay of their earnings on mining improvements—­he and Philip Carr alone representing a sanguine minority whose faith in the future of the mine accepted any risks.  It was alleged by some that he had sold out to his brother; it was believed by others that he had simply gone to Sacramento to borrow money on his share, in order to continue the improvements on his own responsibility.  The partners themselves were uncommunicative; even Whiskey Dick, who since his remarkable social elevation had become less oracular, much to his own astonishment, contributed nothing to the gossip except a suggestion that as the fiery temper of George Kearney brooked no opposition, even from his brother, it was better they should separate before the estrangement became serious.

Mr. Carr did not disguise his annoyance at the loss of his young disciple and firm ally.  But an unlucky allusion to his previous remarks on Kearney’s attentions to Jessie, and a querulous regret that he had permitted a disruption of their social intimacy, brought such an ominous and frigid opposition, not only from Christie, but even the frivolous Jessie herself, that Carr sank back in a crushed and terrified silence.  “I only meant to say,” he stammered after a pause, in which he, however, resumed his aggrieved manner, “that Fairfax seems to come here still, and he is not such a particular friend of mine.”

“But she is—­and has your interest entirely at heart,” said Jessie, stoutly, “and he only comes here to tell us how things are going on at the works.”

“And criticise your father, I suppose,” said Mr. Carr, with an attempt at jocularity that did not, however, disguise an irritated suspiciousness.  “He really seems to have supplanted me as he has poor Kearney in your estimation.”

“Now, father,” said Jessie, suddenly seizing him by the shoulders in affected indignation, but really to conceal a certain embarrassment that sprang quite as much from her sister’s quietly observant eye as her father’s speech, “you promised to let this ridiculous discussion drop.  You will make me and Christie so nervous that we will not dare to open the door to a visitor, until he declares his innocence of any matrimonial intentions.  You don’t want to give color to the gossip that agreement with your views about the improvements is necessary to getting on with us.”

“Who dares talk such rubbish?” said Carr, reddening; “is that the kind of gossip that Fairfax brings here?”

“Hardly, when it’s known that he don’t quite agree with you, and does come here.  That’s the best denial of the gossip.”

Christie, who had of late loftily ignored these discussions, waited until her father had taken his departure.