A Country Idyl, and Other Stories. Sarah Knowles Bolton

was besought to take out life insurance, to buy acres of land in the far West, unseen by buyer or seller, to give to every charity within the State, where-ever the knowledge of the fifteen-thousand-dollar inheritance had permeated.

      Finally the town for a home was decided upon, and the business—that of selling coal.

      A pretty house was purchased, his children placed in school, a seat in church rented, and a shop for the sale of hard and soft coal.

      Mr. Kimball knew nothing of the coal business; but he formed a partnership with a man who knew everything about it—in fact, too much, for at the end of a year the firm failed, the five thousand dollars that Mrs. Kimball gave to her husband having melted away like snow in spring.

      Mrs. Kimball’s patience had not increased with her gift of money. She blamed her husband for losing, blamed herself for giving the money to him, blamed the world in general.

      Mr. Kimball tried other matters, and failed. It was difficult to find a situation in which to work for others, as he was of middle age and young men were preferred. He tried life insurance, and either lacked the courage to visit people in season and out of season, or he lacked volume of speech or multiplicity of argument.

      It became evident to the neighbors and to the minister of the parish that matters were going wrong in the Kimball home. The husband wished to go into business again; the wife felt sure that he would lose, and nothing would be left for the children. They reasoned, they quarrelled, and Mrs. Kimball became ill from anxiety.

      At last it was noised about that a separation might come in the divided family. Friends interposed, but nothing satisfactory was accomplished. The few thousands that remained were safe in the bank; and this amount Mrs. Kimball had decided should not be touched.

      One morning the little village was thrown into consternation. The bank had lost all its funds through the speculation of one of its officers. Save for the little home, the Kimballs were penniless.

      Sorrow is sometimes a great strengthener. Mrs. Kimball rose from her illness to face the problems of life. Both parents loved their children, and they were too young to be thrown upon the world.

      “Let us sell our home,” said Mrs. Kimball, “buy back the old farm, and live together till the end.”

      And Jason said, “Yes, wife, we shall be happier in the old place without the fifteen thousand dollars.”

      THE RING OF GOLD.

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      MARTIN DALY had become discouraged. Like many another miner in the far West, he had made money and lost it, had prospected for mines, found ore, and been cheated out of his rights, had grown poor and ill, and had thrown himself under a tree, careless whether he lived or died.

      The great snowy mountain-peaks and the rich verdure had lost their attraction for him. He had hoped and been disappointed so many times that he had come to believe himself unlucky; that he should never possess a dollar; that there was neither happiness nor home for him.

      He had seen more prosperous days. His large dark eyes, his broad brow, his well-shaped mouth and chin, bespoke refinement in the years that were gone. He had been well educated, had tried many things and failed in them, not from lack of energy nor from lack of judgment, but his fate seemed to be an adverse one.

      He had done many good acts, had always helped his brother miners, had tried to look on the bright side of life, had fought manfully, and been defeated in the battle. He had imagined sometimes that the clouds had a silver lining, but the storms always came sooner or later. He meditated thus as he lay under the tree, and finally, more dead than alive from want and exhaustion, fell asleep.

      Two men passed along under the brow of the mountain, by the tree. They were tall and straight, and from their dark hair and skin it was easy to perceive their Indian blood.

      “The white man is dead,” said one of the men, as he bent on his knee beside the sleeper.

      “No, there is a twitching of the eyelids,” said the other. “He is pale and sick. I will take him home, and Mimosa will care for him.”

      The conversation, carried on in a low tone, awakened the miner.

      “Come with us, and you shall have food and shelter,” said the friendly Indian.

      Scarcely able to bear his weight, Martin leaned upon the arms of the two men, and soon found himself in the humble Indian cabin.

      “Mimosa, here is a stranger. Take care of him. Red Cloud never left a human being to die. He will get well, and then we will send him back to his people.”

      A shy, pale Indian girl came forward and did as she was bidden. She did not speak, but looked very pityingly out of her fawn-like dark eyes. When Martin had been placed in the simple bed she prepared food for him, and fed him as though he were a child. Day by day she came and went, speaking little, but doing gently the things which only a woman’s hands can do.

      After a time the miner, still a young man, gained in strength, and began once more to hope for a successful future.

      “Mimosa,” he said one day, “I owe my life to you, and if I am ever rich I will come back and reward you.”

      “I shall miss you,” said the girl shyly. “But I want no money. I shall be happy because you are well again and happy.”

      “I shall yet find gold, Mimosa. I used to think I should be rich, and then I became poor and sick and lost heart. You wear a ring on your finger and sometimes a chain about your neck, both of beaten gold. Did the metal come from mines near here?”

      “My father gave them to me,” she replied, and nothing more could be learned from her on the subject.

      “Would you care, Mimosa, if I wore the ring until I went away? Perhaps I can find the place where the gold came from.”

      “You may wear it till you come back rich,” she said, smiling.

      Days grew into weeks, and the time drew near for the miner to say good-by to the girl who had become his comrade as well as deliverer. Tears filled her eyes as they parted. “You will forget Mimosa,” she said.

      “No, I will bring back the ring, and you shall give it to the man who makes you his bride. I shall never forget Red Cloud nor his daughter.”

      Strong and hopeful again, Martin took up life, obtained work, and believed once more that he should find gold.

      But he missed the Indian girl. The pines on the snowy mountain-peaks whispered of her. The evenings seemed longer than formerly; the conversation of the miners less interesting. He was lonely. He was earning a fair living, but of what use was money to him if he was to feel desolate in heart? Mimosa was not of his race, but she had a lovable nature. He remembered that she looked sad at his going away. He wondered if she ever thought about him. If she had some Indian suitor, would she not wish for the ring again? He would like at least to see the man and his daughter who had saved his life. He would carry back the ring. Ah! if he knew where the gold in it came from, perhaps he would indeed become rich, and then who could make him so happy as Mimosa?

      Months only increased the loneliness in Martin’s heart. He was becoming discouraged again. He even began to fear that Mimosa was married, and his soul awakened to a sense of loss. He would go back just once and see her, and on his journey back he would sit for a half-hour under the tree where Red Cloud had found him.

      “What ails Martin?” said one miner to another. “He must be in love—no fun in him as in the old days. Going to quit camp, he says.”

      After Martin had decided to go to see Red Cloud his heart seemed lighter. If Mimosa were married he could at least show her his gratitude. And if she were not? Well, it would be very restful to see her once more!

      He started on his journey. The full moon was rising as he neared the old