“In the dear old cabin,” said Christie quickly; “I remember it; I wish we were there now.”

“Do you really?  Do you?” said Whiskey Dick, with suddenly twinkling eyes.  “That’s like you to say it.  That’s what I allus said,” continued Dick, addressing space generally; “if there’s any one ez knows how to come square down to the bottom rock without flinchin’, it’s your high-toned, fash’nable gals.  But I must meander back to town, and let the boys know you’re in possession, safe and sound.  It’s right mean that Fairfax and Mattingly had to go down to Lagrange on some low business yesterday, but they’ll be back to-morrow.  So long.”

Left alone, the girls began to realize their strange position.  They had conceived no settled plan.  The night they left San Francisco they had written an earnest letter to their father, telling him that on learning the truth about the reverses of Devil’s Ford, they thought it their duty to return and share them with others, without obliging him to prefer the request, and with as little worry to him as possible.  He would find them ready to share his trials, and in what must be the scene of their work hereafter.

“It will bring father back,” said Christie; “he won’t leave us here alone; and then together we must come to some understanding with him—­with them—­for somehow I feel as if this house belonged to us no longer.”

Her surmise was not far wrong.  When Mr. Carr arrived hurriedly from Sacramento the next evening, he found the house deserted.  His daughters were gone; there were indications that they had arrived, and, for some reason, suddenly departed.  The vague fear that had haunted his guilty soul after receiving their letter, and during his breathless journey, now seemed to be realized.  He was turning from the empty house, whose reproachful solitude frightened him, when he was confronted on the threshold by the figure of Fairfax Munroe.

“I came to the stage office to meet you,” he said; “you must have left the stage at the summit.”

“I did,” said Carr angrily.  “I was anxious to meet my daughters quickly, to know the reason of their foolish alarm, and to know also who had been frightening them.  Where are they?”

“They are safe in the old cabin beyond, that has been put up ready to receive them again,” said Fairfax quietly.

“But what is the meaning of this?  Why are they not here?” demanded Carr, hiding his agitation in a burst of querulous rage.

“Do you ask, Mr. Carr?” said Fairfax sadly.  “Did you expect them to remain here until the sheriff took possession?  No one knows better than yourself that the money advanced you on the deeds of this homestead has never been repaid.”

Carr staggered, but recovered himself with feeble violence.

“Since you know so much of my affairs, how do you know that this claim will ever be pressed for payment?  How do you know it is not the advance of a—­a—­friend?”