“It may be amusing to you, and I reckon likely it was all a California joke,” she said with slightly trembling lips; “I don’t know No’thern gentlemen and their ways, and you seem to have forgotten our ways as you have your kindred.  Perhaps all this may seem so funny to them:  it may not seem funny to that boy who is now crying his heart out in the hall; it may not be very amusing to that poor Cissy in her sick-bed longing to see her brother.  It may be so far from amusing to her, that I should hesitate to bring you there in her excited condition and subject her to the pain that you have caused him.  But I have promised her; she is already expecting us, and the disappointment may be dangerous, and I can only implore you—­for a few moments at least—­to show a little more affection than you feel.”  As he made an impulsive, deprecating gesture, yet without changing his look of restrained amusement, she stopped him hopelessly.  “Oh, of course, yes, yes, I know it is years since you have seen them; they have no right to expect more; only—­only—­feeling as you do,” she burst impulsively, “why—­oh, why did you come?”

Here was Bob’s chance.  He turned to her politely; began gravely, “I simply came to”—­when suddenly his face changed; he stopped as if struck by a blow.  His cheek flushed, and then paled!  Good God!  What had he come for?  To tell them that this brother they were longing for—­living for—­perhaps even dying for—­was dead!  In his crass stupidity, his wounded vanity over the scorn of the young girl, his anticipation of triumph, he had forgotten—­totally forgotten—­what that triumph meant!  Perhaps if he had felt more keenly the death of Lasham the thought of it would have been uppermost in his mind; but Lasham was not his partner or associate, only a brother miner, and his single act of generosity was in the ordinary routine of camp life.  If she could think him cold and heartless before, what would she think of him now?  The absurdity of her mistake had vanished in the grim tragedy he had seemed to have cruelly prepared for her.  The thought struck him so keenly that he stammered, faltered, and sank helplessly into a chair.

The shock that he had received was so plain to her that her own indignation went out in the breath of it.  Her lip quivered.  “Don’t you mind,” she said hurriedly, dropping into her Southern speech; “I didn’t go to hurt you, but I was just that mad with the thought of those pickaninnies, and the easy way you took it, that I clean forgot I’d no call to catechise you!  And you don’t know me from the Queen of Sheba.  Well,” she went on, still more rapidly, and in odd distinction to her previous formal slow Southern delivery, “I’m the daughter of Colonel Boutelle, of Bayou Sara, Louisiana; and his paw, and his paw before him, had a plantation there since the time of Adam, but he lost it and six hundred niggers during the Wah!  We were pooh as pohverty—­paw and maw and we four girls—­and no more idea