their faces in their handkerchiefs, to hide a few half-hysterical tears.  Happily, their father, completely absorbed in a practical, scientific, and approving contemplation of the topography and material resources of the scene of his future labors, had no time to notice their defection.  It was not until the stage drew up before a rambling tenement bearing the inscription, “Hotel and Stage Office,” that he became fully aware of it.

“We can’t stop here, papa,” said Christie Carr decidedly, with a shake of her pretty head.  “You can’t expect that.”

Mr. Carr looked up at the building; it was half grocery, half saloon.  Whatever other accommodations it contained must have been hidden in the rear, as the flat roof above was almost level with the raftered ceiling of the shop.

“Certainly,” he replied hurriedly; “we’ll see to that in a moment.  I dare say it’s all right.  I told Fairfax we were coming.  Somebody ought to be here.”

“But they’re not,” said Jessie Carr indignantly; “and the few that were here scampered off like rabbits to their burrows as soon as they saw us get down.”

It was true.  The little group of loungers before the building had suddenly disappeared.  There was the flash of a red shirt vanishing in an adjacent doorway; the fading apparition of a pair of high boots and blue overalls in another; the abrupt withdrawal of a curly blond head from a sashless window over the way.  Even the saloon was deserted, although a back door in the dim recess seemed to creak mysteriously.  The stage-coach, with the other passengers, had already rattled away.

“I certainly think Fairfax understood that I—­” began Mr. Carr.

He was interrupted by the pressure of Christie’s fingers on his arm and a subdued exclamation from Jessie, who was staring down the street.

“What are they?” she whispered in her sister’s ear.  “Nigger minstrels, a circus, or what?”

The five millionaires of Devil’s Ford had just turned the corner of the straggling street, and were approaching in single file.  One glance was sufficient to show that they had already availed themselves of the new clothing bought by Fairfax, had washed, and one or two had shaved.  But the result was startling.

Through some fortunate coincidence in size, Dick Mattingly was the only one who had achieved an entire new suit.  But it was of funereal black cloth, and although relieved at one extremity by a pair of high riding boots, in which his too short trousers were tucked, and at the other by a tall white hat, and cravat of aggressive yellow, the effect was depressing.  In agreeable contrast, his brother, Maryland Joe, was attired in a thin fawn-colored summer overcoat, lightly worn open, so as to show the unstarched bosom of a white embroidered shirt, and a pair of nankeen trousers and pumps.