Joe Wynbrook’s sentimentalism, albeit only argumentative and half serious, had unwittingly touched a chord of simple history, and the flush which had risen to his cheek was not entirely bashfulness.  The home and relationship of which they spoke so glibly, he had never known; he was a foundling!  As he lay awake that night he remembered the charitable institution which had protected his infancy, the master to whom he had later been apprenticed; that was all he knew of his childhood.  In his simple way he had been greatly impressed by the strange value placed by his companions upon the family influence, and he had received their extravagance with perfect credulity.  In his absolute ignorance and his lack of humor he had detected no false quality in their sentiment.  And a vague sense of his responsibility, as one who had been the luckiest, and who was building the first “house” in the camp, troubled him.  He lay staringly wide awake, hearing the mountain wind, and feeling warm puffs of it on his face through the crevices of the log cabin, as he thought of the new house on the hill that was to be lathed and plastered and clapboarded, and yet void and vacant of that mysterious “mother”!  And then, out of the solitude and darkness, a tremendous idea struck him that made him sit up in his bunk!

A day or two later “Prossy” Riggs stood on a sand-blown, wind-swept suburb of San Francisco, before a large building whom forbidding exterior proclaimed that it was an institution of formal charity.  It was, in fact, a refuge for the various waifs and strays of ill-advised or hopeless immigration.  As Prosper paused before the door, certain told recollections of a similar refuge were creeping over him, and, oddly enough, he felt as embarrassed as if he had been seeking relief for himself.  The perspiration stood out on his forehead as he entered the room of the manager.

It chanced, however, that this official, besides being a man of shrewd experience of human weakness, was also kindly hearted, and having, after his first official scrutiny of his visitor and his resplendent watch chain, assured himself that he was not seeking personal relief, courteously assisted him in his stammering request.

“If I understand you, you want some one to act as your housekeeper?”

“That’s it!  Somebody to kinder look arter things—­and me—­ginrally,” returned Prosper, greatly relieved.

“Of what age?” continued the manager, with a cautious glance at the robust youth and good-looking, simple face of Prosper.

“I ain’t nowise partickler—­ez long ez she’s old—­ye know.  Ye follow me?  Old—­ez of—­betwixt you an’ me, she might be my own mother.”

The manager smiled inwardly.  A certain degree of discretion was noticeable in this rustic youth!  “You are quite right,” he answered gravely, “as yours is a mining camp where there are no other women, Still, you don’t want any one too old or decrepit.  There is an elderly maiden lady”—­But a change was transparently visible on Prosper’s simple face, and the manager paused.