was hers, quoting Samson and Absalom in support of this opinion.  His arms were long and thin, and when he gesticulated in the pulpit on Sundays flew about like a couple of flails, which gave him a most unhappy resemblance to a windmill.  The ‘Lamentations of Jeremiah’ are not the most cheerful of reading, and Mr Marchurst, imbued with the sadness of the Jewish prophet, drinking strong tea and sitting in a darkened room, was rapidly sinking into a very dismal frame of mind, which an outsider would have termed a fit of the blues.  He sat in his straight-backed chair taking notes of such parts of the ‘Lamentations’ as would tend to depress the spirits of the ‘Elect’ on Sunday, and teach them to regard life in a proper and thoroughly miserable manner.

He was roused from his dismal musings by the quick opening of the door of his study, when Kitty, joyous and gay in her white dress, burst like a sunbeam into the room.

“I wish, Katherine,” said her father, in a severe voice, “I wish you would not enter so noisily and disturb my meditations.”

“You’ll have to put your meditations aside for a bit,” said Kitty, disrespectfully, crossing to the window and pulling aside the curtains, “for Madame Midas and M. Vandeloup have come to see you.”

A flood of golden light streamed into the dusky room, and Marchurst put his hand to his eyes for a moment, as they were dazzled by the sudden glare.

“They’ve got something to show you, papa,” said Kitty, going back to the door:  “a big nugget—­such a size—­as large as your head.”

Her father put his hand mechanically to his head to judge of the size, and was about to answer when Madame Midas, calm, cool, and handsome, entered the room, followed by Vandeloup, carrying a wooden box containing the nugget.  It was by no means light, and Vandeloup was quite thankful when he placed it on the table.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you, Mr Marchurst,” said Madame, sitting down and casting a glance at the scattered papers, the cup of tea, and the open Bible, “but I couldn’t help gratifying my vanity by bringing the new nugget for you to see.”

“It’s very kind of you, I’m sure,” responded Mr Marchurst, politely, giving way suddenly in the middle as if he had a hinge in his back, which was his idea of a bow.  “I hope this,” laying his hand on the box, “may be the forerunner of many such.”

“Oh, it will,” said Vandeloup, cheerfully, “if we can only find the Devil’s Lead.”

“An unholy name,” groaned Marchurst sadly, shaking his head.  “Why did you not call it something else?”

“Simply because I didn’t name it,” replied Madame Midas, bluntly; “but if the lead is rich, the name doesn’t matter much.”

“Of course not,” broke in Kitty, impatiently, being anxious to see the nugget.  “Do open the box; I’m dying to see it.”

“Katherine!  Katherine!” said Marchurst, reprovingly, as Vandeloup opened the box, “how you do exaggerate—­ah!” he broke off his exhortation suddenly, for the box was open, and the great mass of gold was glittering in its depths.  ‘Wonderful!’