“And who led you to this beautiful mountain?  Was it Johnny?”

“No.”

“Who then?”

Florry opened her eyes on the speaker.  “I fink it was Dod,” she said, and closed them again.

But here Dr. Duchesne hurried in, and after a single glance at the child hustled Mr. Staples from the room.  For there were grave complications that puzzled him, Florry seemed easier and quieter under his kindly voice and touch, but did not speak again,—­and so, slowly sinking, passed away that night in a dreamless sleep.  This was followed by a mad panic at Burnt Spring the next day, and Mrs. Medliker fled with her two girls to Sacramento, leaving Johnny, ostensibly strong and active, to keep house until his father’s return.  But Mr. Medliker’s return was again delayed, and in the epidemic, which had now taken a fast hold of the settlement, Johnny’s secret—­and indeed the boy himself—­was quite forgotten.  It was only on Mr. Medliker’s arrival it was known that he had been lying dangerously ill, alone, in the abandoned house.  In his strange reticence and firmness of purpose he had kept his sufferings to himself,—­as he had his other secret,—­and they were revealed only in the wasted, hollow figure that feebly opened the door to his father.

On which intelligence Mr. Staples was, as usual, promptly on the spot with his story of Johnny’s secret to the father, and his usual eager questioning to the fast-sinking boy.  “And now, Johnny,” he said, leaning over the bed, “tell us all.  There is One from whom no secrets are hid.  Remember, too, that dear Florry, who is now with the angels, has already confessed.”

Perhaps it was because Johnny, even at that moment, hated the man; perhaps it was because at that moment he loved and believed in Florry, or perhaps it was only that because at that moment he was nearer the greater Truth than his questioner, but he said, in a husky voice, “You lie!”

Staples drew back with a flushed face, but lips that writhed in a pained and still persistent eagerness.  “But, Johnny, at least tell us where—­wh—­wow—­wow.”

I am obliged to admit that these undignified accents came from Mr. Staples’ own lips, and were due to the sudden pressure of Mr. Medliker’s arm around his throat.  The teamster was irascible and prompt through much mule-driving, and his arm was, from the same reason, strong and sinewy.  Mr. Staples felt himself garroted and dragged from the room, and only came to under the stars outside, with the hoarse voice of Mr. Medliker in his ears:—­

“You’re a minister of the gospel, I know, but ef ye say another word to my Johnny, I’ll knock the gospel stuffin’ out of ye.  Ye hear me!  I’ve driven mules afore!”

He then strode back into the room.  “Ye needn’t answer, Johnny, he’s gone.”

But so, too, had Johnny, for he never answered the question in this world, nor, please God, was he required to in the next.  He lay still and dead.  The community was scandalized the next day when Mr. Medliker sent for a minister from Sacramento to officiate at his child’s funeral, in place of Mr. Staples, and then the subject was dropped.