ACT I.--_Wooded and rocky flat; inclined run R., masked by

rocks, leading up from a rocky platform C.; door and part of a log cabin, L., creepers and vines running over it, rocks and foliage; L. mask the remainder; R. rocks and foliage, rock for a seat R., near 2 entrance. Stump for a seat L., between platform and door; on rock masking run R. in large white letters, "Busted's Balm" to which with paint-pail in left hand, and brush in right, SILAS STEELE is discovered giving a finishing touch. SILAS sings_,--

Oh! here's to good old Busted, Write him down; Oh! here's to good old Busted, Write him down; Oh! here's to good old Busted, For his balm is always trusted: Write him down, write him down, write him down.

(_Stands off, and looks at his work._) Again the missionary of health plants his victorious banner on a giant bowlder, that shall forever point the westward hoers to the fountain of health. (_Sets down pail, and looks at his hands._) A fountain of water would be more to my taste just now: the handle of that pail is in a bad condition, but I'll fix it. (_Takes a newspaper from his pocket, and wraps it round handle while speaking._) Big scheme of Busted to spread his balm all over the continent, from Switcham, Vt., to the top of the Sierra Nevadas. Such outward applications of the infallible awaken curiosity, curiosity stirs the sluggish brain to action, the active brain arouses the torpid system, and health re-animates the sinking frame. For further particulars see small bills. That M's a little shaky; I'll touch it up a little, or some of these hardy miners will take it for a bad spell: and, being so choice in their language, that would never do. (_Works with brush. Sings_),--

Oh! here's to good old Busted.

(_Enter from cabin MOTHER MERTON, with broom._)

MOTHER. Who on earth is that howling?

SILAS (_sings_),--

Write him down,

MOTHER. A stranger! What's he doing to that rock?

SILAS (_sings_),--

Oh! here's to good old Busted.

MOTHER. Busted! I do believe he's trying to blast it right before my door--blow us all up. (_Brings broom down on his back smartly._) Here, stop that!

SILAS (_turning, and presenting brush like a pistol_). Look out for paint. (_MOTHER steps back._) I beg your pardon; but, if there is any thing in my personal appearance that leads you to suspect my jacket needs dusting, a gentler application of the duster might save the dustor some strength, and the dusteed much wind. Hang it! you nearly took away my breath.

MOTHER. Served you right. Who are you? Where did you come from? What's that daub?

SILAS (_aside_). Daub! shade of Michael Angelo! (_Aloud._) Madam, I am a missionary.

MOTHER. Good gracious! A parson. Why didn't you say so before? Settled?

SILAS. No. (_Rubs shoulders._) I thought I was just now.

MOTHER. Where do you hail from, parson?

SILAS. Switcham, Vt. That answers your second interrogatory. The third I will save you the trouble of repeating by announcing the fact that the daub, as you are pleased to call my etching, is the good tidings I am ordained to proclaim. That's one of my sermons; and sermons in stones, though not original with me, have at least the merit of brevity to recommend them.

MOTHER. "Busted's Balm." Are you Busted?

SILAS. No; but I shall be if you ask any more questions.

MOTHER. Oh, come, be sociable! I came from Vermont myself.

SILAS. Possible?

MOTHER. Yes: twelve years ago, with my husband, expecting to return in two years with a fortune; but in two years husband died.

SILAS. Ah! A _mis_fortune.

MOTHER. And here I've been ever since, the mother of this camp; and my boys--white, black, and yellow--take good care that I have my share of the dust.

SILAS (_shrugs shoulders_). I understand--with a broom.

MOTHER. La, parson! don't bear malice: do you suppose I'd have struck you, if I'd an idea of your cloth?

SILAS. Thank you. My coat _is_ rather thin.

MOTHER. Expect to locate here? The boys would be mighty glad to have you; and they'd see that you had a peaceful hearing, if they had to shoot the whole congregation.

SILAS. Would they? Very kind of the boys, but I hope they'd leave somebody to pass the contribution-box.

MOTHER. Vermont would see to the dust.

SILAS. Who's Vermont?

MOTHER. The best of the lot, steady as a clock, but a powerful wrestler; that's his weakness.

SILAS. Is it? I've a strong weakness in that line too.

MOTHER. You'd have no show with him. Now, parson--

SILAS. Oh, drop that! This person is no parson, but, if the old saying is true, just the opposite; for I am a deacon's son.

MOTHER. The deuce you are!

SILAS. No: the Deuce's grandson.

MOTHER. What's your name?

SILAS. Silas Steele, jun. I'm the little one, and dad's the big Steele. I'm travelling for Busted's Balm.

MOTHER. Where do you expect to find it?

SILAS. 'Tis found already. And, to spread abroad the glorious fact, I've taken a large contract; and it's the biggest undertaking any undertaker ever undertook. I never realized before that there was such a strong objection to clean white paint; but I've found it out now, for I've been peppered by indignant shot-guns, pounded by angry broomsticks, booted by revengeful brogans, and bulldozed by man's faithful friends, the puppies.

MOTHER. Then, you're only a pill-pedler, after all.

SILAS. A pill-pedler! great Busted!

MOTHER. You said you were a missionary.

SILAS. So I am. What nobler mission than mine, to proclaim to a suffering world, sunk in misery by aches and torments, the advent of the wonderful cure-all that will eradicate the ills with which the body groans, from bald head to bunions? For further particulars see small bills. (_Looks off R._) Ah! there's a bowlder I missed; must secure that before Foggarty's Liniment, or some other quack nostrum, defaces the fair face of nature with a lie. (_Goes up run, turns._) Good-by, widow. Give the parson's benediction to the boys. (_Exit._)

MOTHER. Well, of all harum-scarum chaps, he's the tongueyist; I couldn't get a word in edgeways.

(_Enter VERMONT, R. 2 E._)

VERMONT. Little one come, widder?

MOTHER. No: supper's all ready for her.

VERMONT. Stage's about due. Widder, I've a little matter on my mind I'd like to pan out afore the little one gets here.

MOTHER. About her?

VERMONT (_sits on rock R._). Yes, about her. It's ten years, widder, since your old man passed in his checks, and had a hole scooped for him out there under the hill.

MOTHER (_sighs_). Ah, yes!

VERMONT. It was jest about that time that I dropped into your ranch one dark night, with a little girl in my arms. She might have been a five-year old--

MOTHER. Or six: we never could make out. She was burning with fever. You found her in a basket, floating in the creek.

VERMONT. Exactly. That's what I told you, and I brought her to you because you was the only female woman in the camp.

MOTHER. Yes: bless her! she brought luck with her.

VERMONT. You bet she did. Those little ones always do. Well, I read a long while ago, while prospecting in the big book,--that's pay-dirt way down to bed-rock,--about that king pin what struck the little game "Faro," and named it arter hisself, how he had a darter what found a baby floating in a creek, and called it "Moses;" and, as I warnt goin' back on scripter, I named our little one Moses too.

MOTHER. And, as that was not a girl's name, I changed it to Moselle.

VERMONT. That was too Frenchy for the boys; so they split the dif, and called her Mosey.

MOTHER. And Mosey is just worshipped by the boys. I believe, if you would let them, they would cover her with gold.

VERMONT (_rising_). Likely. But, when I washed that nugget outer the creek, I staked a claim in which I wanted no partners. Says I, "Vermont, here's a chance for you to use your dust, and don't you forget it." I believe the angels dropped one of their little sisters into the creek, to make an ugly old sinner ashamed of his wickedness. (_Passes his arm across his eyes._) Widder, you've been a mother to her, and a good one.

MOTHER. And you, the best of fathers. Every year you've sent her off to school, and to-day she comes back to us----

VERMONT. With Tom Carew, our Tom, the handsomest and squarest miner in the diggin's. I wouldn't trust the bringin' of her home to any other of the boys.

MOTHER. Except Dick: she's very fond of Dick.

VERMONT. Dandy Dick, as the boys call him. Oh, he's well enough for a short acquaintance. He's only been here six months, and there's something about him--Well, if Mosey likes him, it's all right.

JUBE (_outside R._). Hi, hi! Mudder Merton, de stage am come, Mosey's to hum.

(_Enter JUBE, down run, with a hat-box under one arm, a valise in hand, followed by WIN-KYE with a valise in left hand, an umbrella spread over his head. Jube comes down L., WIN-KYE drops valise on platform, tumbles over it, and mixes himself up with the umbrella._)

JUBE. Golly, see dat ar mongo! hist yerself, hist yerself. Want to broke ebery bone in dat ar ambril?

WIN-KYE (_jumping up and closing umbrella_). Umblillee spillee all ligh'.

JUBE. Dar's a surprise party comin', Mudder Merton. Golly! such a bobbycue. Smoove yer har, Vermont, smoove yer har, take yer boots outer yer pants; dust de cheers, mudder, dust all de cheers; dar hasn't been sich an arribal since--since the Queen ob Shebang went wisiting ole King Soloman Isaacs, nebber.

WIN-KYE (_puffing_). Jube walkee fast, talkee fast, me no catchee bleath, me puffee.

VERMONT. What's the matter, Jube? it's only our Mosey.

WIN-KYE. Mosey nice gally, velly nice gally; me chin chin Mosey, Mosey chin chin me; all ligh'.

JUBE. Mosey. Yah, yah, she's come, bress her! Jes' as lobely and libely as eber. Why, de boys jes' crowd roun' dat ar stage, and shook her han's, and she shook back, an' laff; golly, how she laff! might heard her a mile off. But dar's anuder.

MOTHER. Another, Jube?

JUBE. Yas indeed, a rale lady; no riff-raff, but de real ting, de dust in de pan, jes a seraphine, hansom', oh, my! an' sweet, sweet--golly! when I seed that lilly foot ob hers creepin' out ob der stage, it jest smashed _me_.

WIN-KYE. She snapee eyes, she smilee so (_grins_), she smashee me.

MOSELLE (_outside_). Never mind me, Tom, help Agnes; my foot is on my native heath, my name's (_appears on run_)--

ALL. Mosey?

MOSELLE. Yes, Mosey, Moses, Moselle,--we three. Ha, ha, ha! that's me. (_Runs down into Mother Merton's arms._) O you dear old soul, ain't I glad I'm home!

MOTHER. 'Tis a happy day for us, darling.

MOSELLE (_breaking away_). Where's daddy?

VERMONT. Right here, little one.

MOSELLE (_throws her arms about his neck_). Here's your nugget, daddy. Ain't you glad to get it back?

VERMONT. Glad? that's no name for it (_holds her off_). Let's have a look at you,--sunshine all over, and as fine as a fiddle in your store-clothes.

MOSELLE. I'll not be in them long, daddy, so take a good look at them; for I'm just dying to get into my old climbing-suit, and away for a scamper over the rocks. Ah, Jube! there's lots of fun ahead.

JUBE. Yas, indeed, honey! jes' waitin' fer yer to touch it off.

MOSELLE. Ha, ha, ha! I'm a match for it. Ain't I, Win?

WIN-KYE. You sclatchee match, blow high-sky, fitt!

MOSELLE (_in front of WIN-KYE_). Oh, you queer bit of broken China! I'd like to set you on a shelf at school, and set your head a-going to please the boys. (_Points forefingers up, and nods head à la Chinese._)

WIN-KYE (_imitating her_). No settee up fol the boys.

MOSELLE. Ha, ha, ha! but you must go. Ah, daddy! I'm as full of mischief as I was the day I threw the powder-flask into your frying-pan. (_All laugh._)

JUBE. Dat was rough on de ole man.

MOSELLE. Jube remembers it; for, while he was helping daddy put a new roof on and patch up the rent, I hid his shovel and pick; and he couldn't find it for a week. (_All but JUBE laugh._)

WIN-KYE (_points to JUBE_). That blakee him all uppee.

MOSELLE. So look out for yourselves, old folks, young folks: I give you fair warning. Mind that pigtail, Win: I want it for my back hair.

WIN-KYE. All ligh'! you catchee, you clippee, you Mosee, me mosee too.

TOM (_outside_). Be careful of that rock, Miss. Give me your hand. Now you're all right.

MOSELLE. Oh! what am I thinking of? Mother, I've brought you a visitor,--Miss Fairlee, one of our teachers, and a very dear friend of mine.

JUBE. Dat's what I tole yer, de Queen ob Shebang.

(_TOM and AGNES appear on run descending._)

MOTHER. She is heartily welcome.

TOM (_on platform_). You hear that, Miss,--she speaks for us all. A rough set we miners, rough and rugged as the soil in which we search for gold; but there are many among us who remember homes far off, made happy by mothers, wives, and sisters. So have no fears. To the rude cabins that shelter us, to the homely fare that sustains us, and to the protection of strong arms, you are heartily welcome. (_Leads her down to MOTHER MERTON._)

MOTHER (_takes her hand_). Indeed you are!

AGNES. Thank you. I fear I shall trespass on your kindness. But the hope of finding some trace of a very dear friend has induced me to accept Moselle's invitation.

MOSELLE. Agnes, you must know my daddy. (_Brings VERMONT up C. from L._) Miss Fairlee, daddy; daddy, Miss Fairlee.

VERMONT (_bowing_). Very glad to meet you.

AGNES (_offering her hand_). And I am proud to know you. Moselle is a bright scholar: she has made many friends at school, but I know the warmest corner in her heart is kept for you.

VERMONT. Thank you, marm: if I can serve you, call on Vermont every time.

JUBE. An' when de ole man ain't roun', jes' look dis way. I's spry, and dreffel willin'.

WIN-KYE. Alle same so lookee me.

AGNES. Thank you all.

MOTHER. You must be hungry after your long ride. Supper's all ready.

MOSELLE. Supper! Where is it? I never was so hungry but once: that's now.

MOTHER. This way, Miss Fairlee. (_Exeunt MOTHER and AGNES into cabin._)

JUBE. Come on, Win. Tote de luggage in. (_Exit into cabin._)

WIN-KYE. All ligh'! Schoolee-marm some punkee. (_Exit to cabin._)

MOSELLE. Ain't she lovely, daddy? (_Goes to door, turns, and looks at TOM, who stands L. C. looking at door._) Tom (_puts her hand on heart, and sighs_), I'd pity you, but I'm so hungry. Ha, ha, ha! (_Exit._)

(_VERMONT crosses, and sits on rock R., watching TOM, who stands with his eyes on door._)

TOM. Lovely? Never was a more tempting bait set before the eyes of a hungry miner to lure him back to civilization. Out of a world from which we have banished ourselves for greed of gold, she comes, gentle and refined, to show us the lost state of peace and happiness to which, though the earth unbosom its richest treasures, we hardened wretches can never return.

VERMONT. Tom, what yer starin' at that door for? Ain't in love, air yer?

TOM (_comes down_). In love? I never yet saw a woman that could bring a blush to my face. That's one of the indications, isn't it?

VERMONT. Exactly.

MOTHER _(sticking her head out of door_). Tom, come and have some supper. (_Disappears._)

TOM. No, thank yer: I'm not hungry.

VERMONT. That's another indication.

TOM. Vermont, isn't she lovely?

VERMONT. The widder?

TOM. The widow! No: the other.

VERMONT. Mosey?

TOM. Miss Fairlee,--Agnes Fairlee,--Agnes,--what a name! So poetical! Agnes,--so sweet!

VERMONT. Spell it, Tom: there's nothing like lengthened sweetness long drawn out.

TOM. Old man, you're laughing at me. You needn't: I'm all right.

VERMONT. Not in love?

TOM. Not a bit of it.

VERMONT. Ain't goin' back on the comforts of life?

TOM. No, old man; but when that--

VERMONT. Agnes (_smacks his lips_) does taste kinder sweet.

TOM. When Miss Fairlee placed her little hand in my arm, and looked up into my face, I felt as though I would like to die for her.

VERMONT. Must have been a killing look.

TOM. And when she spoke, the queerest feeling--There it is again. Old man, I feel sick.

(_Enter JUBE and WIN-KYE from cabin._)

JUBE. Sick? Don't you do it. Dar ain't a fusycian widdin fourteen miles.

WIN-KYE. Me bling pillee man velly quick.

VERMONT. All the doctor he wants is in the cabin. Tom, you're talking like a blamed fool; but it's jest nater: when a woman touches the fancy of a man, it's like the wind among the timber. The little ones sway and rustle, and seem mighty tickled; but the big brawny trees groan and tremble as though their last day had come. Shake yourself together, boy, jump into your hole, a good steady diet of pick and shovel is a sure cure for love or bile.

(_JERDEN appears on run._)

JERDEN (_speaking as he comes down to stage_). Morning, mates: where can I find one Tom Carew?

TOM. I answer to that name, stranger.

JERDEN. Ah! I'm in luck. They say you're the best informed miner in these parts. I'm looking for a man who came from the East,--Richard Fairlee.

TOM. Don't know him, stranger.

VERMONT. Names don't count here. Most of us is baptized and rechristened when we arrive. What does he look like?

JUBE. Has he got all his arms and legs, years and eyes?

WIN-KYE. Any strawbelly marks, John?

JERDEN. I have traced him by many _aliases_. How he looks now, I cannot say; but when he left the East he looked like this.

(_Takes photograph from pocket-book, and hands it to TOM, who looks at it, VERMONT, JUBE, and WIN-KYE crowd round him._)

TOM. A good-looking fellow. I don't know him.

JERDEN. Don't belong in this camp.

JUBE. No, sir: dat air feller ain't got no beard, an' has light complex, jes' like Win-Kye.

WIN-KYE. No Chinaman; 'Melican man plaps, Ilishman plaps; no Chinaman.

JERDEN. Well, there he is; and he's wanted by a bank.

TOM. Robbery?

JERDEN (C.). Forgery, twenty thousand dollars.

(_VERMONT and JUBE R., TOM and WIN-KYE L._)

TOM. You're a detective?

JERDEN. Yes. Shall I have your help in securing this fugitive from justice?

TOM (_coldly_). We're not man-hunters. Many a poor fellow, made criminal by passion or misfortune, has drifted among us to be made better by a life of hardship and privation. We ask no man's past history. If he be knave or fool, he shows his hand, and he is lost. Miner law is swift and sure.

VERMONT. You've your answer, stranger.

JERDEN. All right: I'll find my man without your help; but, if you should change your minds, there's a thousand dollars for the man who gives information.

TOM and VERMONT (_draw revolvers, cover JERDEN, and speak together_). You get!

(_JERDEN turns, and runs up run, against SILAS, who is descending._)

SILAS. Look out for paint. (_Exit JERDEN._) Seems to be in a hurry. (_Comes down to stage._) How are you, boys? White, black, and yellow. The widow said she had an assortment of colors, and here they are. Put up your shooting-irons, gentlemen: I'm a friend of the widow's. I left my card here an hour ago. (_Points to rock._)

TOM. Any friend of the widow's is heartily welcome.

VERMONT. From the east, stranger?

SILAS (_sets paint-pail down near rock_). Switcham, Vt. Name, Silas Steele. Occupation, painter and decorator. For further particulars seek any prominent bowlder, and look out for paint.

JUBE. Golly! dar's a heap er talent in dat ar brush, I know; fur I used to whitewash myself.

(_WIN-KYE edges up to paint, examines it, takes brush, and daubs a little on rock during the following scene, dropping it, and taking it up as SILAS turns and watches him._)

SILAS. Whitewash yourself? You took a big contract.

TOM. Stopping with the widow?

SILAS. No: only a chance acquaintance. She came from Vermont.

VERMONT. So did I.

SILAS. Did you? Then, you're the man I've been looking for.

VERMONT (_starts_). Eh?

SILAS. My old man took it into his head about twelve years ago to start west, minin'; and we've never seen him from that day to this. Nice old fellow, the deacon, but queer. Started off without so much as a good-by, Hannah, and has been lost to his family, the church, and Switcham, ever since. But we heard from him occasionally in the shape of gold-dust to mother, but no word or clew to his whereabouts. Mother's worried so, I've come out here to look him up if he's alive. Any of you know Deacon Steele?

JUBE. Deacon who? Golly! we's all out ob deacons: dey fall from grace when dey git out here.

VERMONT. You're wasting time, youngster: the deacon's dead and buried.

SILAS. You knew him?

VERMONT. No: but deacons die young here.

TOM. Perhaps 'tis Nevada.

VERMONT and JUBE. Nevada!

SILAS. Who's Nevada?

TOM. The mystery of the mines: you may meet him here to-day, to-morrow in some gloomy gulch,--a ragged, crazy miner, seeking, as he has sought for ten years, a lost mine.

SILAS. A lost mine?

TOM (C.) This was his story as I have heard it from old miners. He was known among them a dozen years ago, as a quiet, reserved man, working by himself, wandering off prospecting alone. At times they missed him. He had been off for a week, when, one night, he came in staggering, faint from the loss of blood, with a deep wound in his head, and the wild air of a maniac. From his broken speech, they gathered this: He had found indications of gold, had opened a tunnel, and worked far in, all by himself, mind, following some theory of his own, when suddenly, with his pick, he loosened a stone above his head, which fell and crushed him; not, however, until he had caught one glimpse of a rich vein of gold. Poor fellow, he could never find his way back, and none of his mates could help him. They would have believed his story to be but the wild speech of his wandering mind, had they not found in his tangled hair, mingled with dirt and blood, flakes of gold.

VERMONT. Poor old chap.

SILAS. With a gold-mine in his hair. Rich old beggar.

TOM. Nevada is no beggar; though no cabin is shut against him, no miner's friendly hand withheld. He will neither eat nor sleep until he has earned both food and shelter. For a willing mate in an ugly tunnel, with a steady grip and a strong arm, give me Nevada.

NEVADA (_outside_). Who calls Nevada? (_Dashes down run, and stands C.; music pianissimo._) Nevada, the gold king. My dominions are beneath the hills, stretching away in veins broad and deep, so rich that I could overturn empires; but I am shut out, the golden doors are closed against me, and the key, the key, is lost. (_Puts his hand to head, drops his head, and comes down slowly; music stops._)

TOM. Ah! it's one of his off days. Nevada, old man, don't you know me?

NEVADA (_slowly raises his head, looks wildly at TOM, then his face brightens_). Tom, Tom Carew. (_They shake hands warmly._) You want me. Many a day we have worked together. (_Looks round._) And here's Vermont.

VERMONT (_grasping his hand_). Right here, pard.

NEVADA. Ah! old grizzly and--woolly.

JUBE. Dat's me to a har.

NEVADA. And little pigtail.

WIN-KYE. Piggee tail velly well, John; alle same you, John?

NEVADA. I'm hungry and tired, Tom: give me a pick.

TOM. Not to-night, old friend: you shall go to my ranch, and to-morrow--

NEVADA. To-morrow. (_Looks about wildly. All draw away from him. Music pianissimo._) To-morrow I must go back, back along the ravine, three miles, then climb the bowlders, to where that fallen giant lies across the stream; over it to the gorge a mile beyond, and then--and then I'm lost--straight ahead to the right, to the left, again and again, no trail, no trace; and yet 'tis there, ever before my eyes, the wealth of a kingdom, the jewel of Nevada, lost to me forever. (_Covers his face with his hands._)

TOM. Ah! if we could only keep him from that lost mine.

SILAS. What a wreck! But he's not the first man crazed by gold.

NEVADA. Far off, a mother and her child wait anxiously for my coming,--wait for the gold I promised them. I left the little one sleeping in her cradle. Oh! when shall I see my little child again? (_Music stops._)

(_Enter, from cabin, MOSEY, with a change._)

MOSELLE (_running to him_). Now, Nevada, here I am. Have you, too, missed me?

NEVADA (_looking into her face anxiously_). I know that voice and that face.

MOSELLE. Of course you do. It's the same voice that has sang you to sleep many and many a time, and it's the same face you have kissed often. Why don't you now?

NEVADA (_takes her face between his hands, and kisses her forehead_). It's little Moselle back from school.

MOSELLE. With a head full of knowledge, and a heart bubbling over with fun.

VERMONT. And when the two get working together, this camp will be a howling wilderness, you bet.

MOSELLE. Come, Nevada, mother will be glad to see you.

NEVADA. No, child: I cannot go in.

MOSELLE. Then, I'll lead you. You shall find plenty to do,--bring water and wood for mother; and when you are tired I will sing for you.

NEVADA. Sing! I'll come, I'll come. I love to hear you sing. (_Music pianissimo._) She was singing to the child the whole day long,--the little one sleeping in her cradle. She smiled in her sleep when I stooped to kiss her, and that smile is ever with me. I see it in the first faint, rosy tints of the breaking day, and watch it deepen and broaden into gold--(_fiercely_)--gold that mocks me, drives me mad. (_Music stops._)

MOSELLE. Come, come, Nevada, you need rest and quiet. (_Takes his hand, and leads him into cabin._)

NEVADA. Yes, little one, with you. (_Music until off._)

TOM. He's safe for to-night.

SILAS. Now, if some good Samaritan would take me in, I'd esteem it a favor for which I will pay liberally. (_Takes bag from his breast._) Art is my mistress; but, when I get hungry, I turn my eyes from her lovely face to the ground, and dig like the rest of you. There's a little left in the bag.

TOM. You can't pay here.

VERMONT. No, tender foot; but you shall bunk with me.

TOM. With you, Vermont? He'll be the first stranger that ever saw the inside of your ranch.

JUBE. Dat's so. Swachability ain't no 'count wid him.

VERMONT. Come on, stranger: it's jest about the time I fry my bacon.

SILAS. And it's just the time I eat mine,--when I can get it. (_Exeunt VERMONT and SILAS R. 2 E., SILAS taking pail._)

JUBE. Golly! de idea ob dat ole Vermont takin' in a stranger. De meanest man in de camp.

TOM. He's not mean with Mosey.

JUBE. Das a fac'. But to cotton to a tender hoof. Golly! I jes' like to see him set about it. Come on, Win-Kye: see de fun. (_Exit R. 2 E._)

WIN-KYE. All ligh', Jube. Me likee funee too. (_Exit R. 2 E._)

(_Enter DANDY DICK down run, knapsack on back._)

DICK (_speaking as he comes down_). If there's any fun, let me share it.

TOM. Ah, Dick!

DICK. Tom (_they shake hands_), you brought the sunlight with you?

TOM. Yes, Dick: Mosey's safe and well.

DICK. Tom, the old hole's petered out. (_Takes off knapsack, and drops it near rock R. C._) I've dug and panned for a week, and not an ounce of dust.

TOM. That's bad; but better luck next time.

DICK. Luck! Not while you hold to such an unlucky partner as I. Tom Carew, I never met a man I so much admired as I do you. When I dropped into this camp, a stranger, without a penny, you took me by the hand, let me in to your claim, an equal partner,--the best paying claim in the camp,--till I struck it; since then we haven't panned enough to pay for bacon. It's my infernal luck. I wouldn't care for myself, but to blast your prospects of a rich find--

TOM. Hold on, Dick. You complain of bad luck,--you whom Moselle loves.

DICK. That's another matter.

TOM. Right. The pure ore of a loving heart is not to be compared to the glittering lie we take to ourselves with which to purchase happiness. The one purifies and ennobles its possessor, the other too often drags us down to the dust from which we filch it.

DICK. Sentimental, Tom? Why, what's come over you?

TOM. A woman. No, an angel. Dick, the sweetest woman you ever set eyes on.

DICK. That's Moselle.

TOM. Oh, you're blind!

DICK. And you expect me to see through your eyes? Well, who is this paragon?

TOM. Moselle's friend, who came home with her to-day. I have only met her once. She is all grace and beauty, and, I'll swear, as good as she is beautiful. If I could only win her, Dick.

DICK. Well, what's to prevent?

TOM. I am only a poor miner, and she--

DICK. A poor judge of manhood, if she takes you at your own valuation. Send her to me: I'll tell her, that if she wants a warm heart, a determined spirit, and a courageous arm, she will find them in Tom Carew, who, in those virtues, stands head and shoulders above all the miners of Nevada. I suppose that is her picture you are nursing so carefully in your belt.

TOM. No: that is a poor devil whom a detective is tracking.

DICK. Ah! let's have a look at him. (_Takes picture._)

TOM. A detective was here an hour ago; but it's not one of our boys. (_Turns away to L._)

DICK (_looks at picture, starts, but instantly recovers himself as TOM turns_). No: he's none of us.

TOM. Not a bad face?

DICK. No, but a weak one. A good subject for some designing villain to make a victim of. (_Hands it back, TOM replaces it in belt._)

(_MOSELLE runs on from cabin._)

MOSELLE. Now for a run.

DICK. Right into my arms.

MOSELLE (_runs into his arms_). Why, Dick, I never thought of seeing you.

DICK. But you're glad to see me again?

MOSELLE. O Dick! you know I'd rather meet you than any other here (_sees TOM, draws away from DICK, and casts down her eyes_), except Tom.

TOM. Humbug!

MOSELLE. And Tom is lost to me. Poor Tom! He's discovered a wonderful nugget. It's in our cabin now; and Tom is so worried that he's been watching the door ever since it was deposited there, for fear some one should steal it. Ha, ha, ha!

TOM. I was only waiting till you should appear to keep Dick company. Now I'm off. (_Goes to R. 2 E._)

MOSELLE. Don't be gone long, Tom, we shall be so lonesome without you.

TOM. Oh, have your little love-feast! I'll be back in time.

MOSELLE. In time for what?

TOM. To count the spoons. (_Exit R. 2 E._)

MOSELLE. Now, what does he mean by that?

DICK. I'm sure I don't know, unless he expects you and I to--

MOSELLE (_holding up her finger threateningly_). Beware!

DICK. Exactly. _Beware_ silver ware, spoons. (_Puts arm about her waist._)

MOSELLE (_slips away_). Oh, drop the spoons!

DICK. But you dropped my arm.

MOSELLE. I like freedom.

DICK. Then, why do you run away from me?

MOSELLE. To catch my breath. Freedom is a virtue. You make it a vice.

DICK. Ah! but remember, I haven't seen you for three months. Think of the lonely hours without you.

MOSELLE. Think of my lonely hours over those horrid studies,--geography, history, arithmetic! One and one are two.

DICK (_again slipping his arm about her waist_). No: one and one _are one_.

MOSELLE. You're wrong, Dick: one and one are still one and (_slips away_) one.

DICK. Moselle, I'm afraid you'll never be won.

MOSELLE. Not by arithmetic. I hate figures.

DICK. I admire yours.

MOSELLE. Do you, Dick? What! in these rags? Ah! you should see me in regimentals.

DICK. Regimentals?

MOSELLE. Yes: silks and satins, kids and laces, as Madam Ferule turns us out for inspection.

DICK. I should like that.

MOSELLE. I hate it. Give me a gown like this, that shows the honorable tears of contact with briers and rocks; a pair of boots like these, that won't slip on the bark of trees,--and I'm just jolly. I can run, climb, fly. And here I am wasting time. I can stand still no longer. I'm off (_flies up run_): catch me if you can.

DICK. Moselle!

MOSELLE (_stops and turns_). Well, Dick?

DICK. Good-by. In a few moments I shall have left the camp.

MOSELLE (_coming down_). Left the camp! why?

DICK. That is my secret; you may hear bad report of me, may be told to shun me, taught to despise me; but, Moselle, believe me, I love you, and will one day ask you to be my wife.

MOSELLE. Your wife! Dick, who are you?

DICK. Still Dick, or Dandy Dick as the boys style me: the other, an honored name, must still be withheld, even from you. You see, I am frank with you.

MOSELLE. Frank! you tell me nothing.

DICK. Exactly; but I love you.

MOSELLE. You needn't have told me: I knew it long ago.

DICK. And I may hope?

MOSELLE. Yes, on one condition.

DICK. Name it.

MOSELLE (_darting up run_). That you catch me before I reach the big bowlder.

DICK. Catch me losing you. (_Exit up run._)

(_Enter TOM R. 2 E._)

TOM. Dick, where's my knife? (_Looks round._) Gone! The cabin is upside down, no hatchet, no knife; nice housekeeper to leave when one goes a journey. There's his pack, and I want my knife; so, Master Dick, by your leave--(_Picks up pack, and is at work on the strap; enter AGNES from cabin._)

AGNES. I wonder what keeps Moselle.

TOM (_rises, and removes his hat_). Miss Fairlee!

AGNES. O Mr. Carew! the very man I was thinking of.

TOM. Were you? That's odd--no, even--for I was thinking of you: in fact, I've done little else but think of you. (_Confused, takes up pack._) No: I don't mean that--confound this strap!--you see, my partner has left every thing in confusion: he's no housekeeper.

AGNES. Did you ever know a man that was? You need a wife, Mr. Carew.

TOM. I know it: that's the reason I was thinking of you.

AGNES (_laughs_). You're the tenth miner who has said the same thing to me within a month.

TOM. Only ten? well, it's been a pretty bad month.

AGNES. I hope not.

TOM. Yes: the boys are off in their holes. Wait a few days, and the air will be black with matrimonial speculators.

AGNES. Then, I think I'd better be leaving.

TOM. Good fellows, too, who will make their advances timidly, and feel relieved when they are put out of their misery by a refusal.

AGNES. All of them?

TOM (_dropping pack_). No: for here and there among miners, as among men in every station, you will find one who looks upon women as pure gold; as something to be approached with reverence, and, if won, to be enshrined in the devotion of a life.

AGNES. Such men are scarce.

TOM. And such women plenty, but they don't come this way often.

AGNES. Did ever such a woman cross your path?

TOM (_sighs_). In my dreams.

AGNES (_laughs_). A visionary woman. Do you see her often?

TOM. As often as I see you.

AGNES (_turns away confused. Aside_). This must go no farther. (_Aloud._) Mr. Carew, would you do me a service?

TOM. Willingly.

AGNES. A very dear friend, one to whom I am in duty bound, has left his home and friends. I have reason to believe he is in this part of the country. Will you help me find him?

TOM (_agitated_). Very dear to you?

AGNES (_casting down her eyes_). Yes.

TOM (_after a struggle_). His name?

AGNES. I cannot tell you that: I cannot even give you the name by which he is known.

TOM. Then, how am I to discover him?

AGNES. You have my name: go among the miners, tell them of me and my quest. He will hear of me, and, in spite of dangers that beset him, will find some way to meet me.

TOM. You set me a hard task.

AGNES. But you will make the attempt? O Mr. Carew! if you could look into that once happy home, now desolate by the absence of a son, for whom a fond mother is slowly but surely breaking her heart, a loving sister mourning, and I--I would give the world to reclaim! (_Weeps._)

TOM. He shall be found. I'll seek him. Your name shall be the spell to conjure him from his hiding-place, were he in the deepest mine of Nevada.

AGNES. Oh, thanks, thanks! I knew that in you I should find a friend, a helper.

TOM (_bitterly_). Rare confidence, when you have known me but a day.

AGNES. Longer than that. Your brave acts, the generous promptings of your true and noble heart, have been morning lessons to me for many a day.

TOM. You speak in riddles. Where have you heard aught of me?

AGNES. From Moselle, who believes, were she in danger, you would never forsake her. From her eloquent thankfulness of heart, I was led to hope that I, too, might find a champion in you.

TOM. Thank you. You were right. I will serve you faithfully.

AGNES (_giving him her hand_). Thank you. (_Looks into his face, then casts down her eyes, and slowly exits into cabin._)

TOM (_stands looking after her, then looks at the hand she took, then sighs_). "One who is very dear to me." She said that,--said it calmly, never dreaming of the crushing force with which those words fell. One very--He is her lover, perhaps her husband. And I--I love her. (_Sighs._) Well, old boy, you've struck a blind lead this time. No pay-dirt here; and yet, I'll swear there was something in those sweet eyes of hers. (_Sighs._) I must forget her. I'll quit the camp, get far away, and then--no, I have promised to serve her, and I'll do it. Bring him to her arms. (_Sighs._) Not a pleasant task; but I'll do it, I'll do it. (_Goes to pack._) Now for my knife. (_Opens pack, pulls out blanket._) There's no knife here. (_Unrolls blanket. Sitting on rock, photograph drops out._) What's this? A picture! (_Looks at it, rises._) It's Agnes, Agnes Fairlee; and he, Dick, is the runaway, her lover, perhaps her husband, Fairlee? (_Pulls other picture from belt._) Why, this (_looks at it closely_) is Dick. Put a beard on that face, and 'tis Dick the forger. I sha'n't have to go far to find him; and he and I both love the same woman. One word to that detective, he is in prison and she is free. Well, I must be pretty far gone to harbor such a thought. Betray my partner, the man with whom I have eaten and slept, dug and quarried? No, no, not for so bright a pair of eyes as yours, Agnes Fairlee.

DICK (_outside_). Moselle, where are you?

MOSELLE (_laughing_). Ha, ha, ha! Seek and find, seek and find.

TOM. Ah! I had forgotten our Moselle. She loves him; and he, villain that he is, has trifled with her. She must be protected, saved, though justice overtake him. (_Darts up run._)

(_Enter JUBE, R. 2 E._)

JUBE. Say, Tom, Thomas, whar's de fire? Say! so he's off: yas, so's ole Vermont. Nebber did see sich carrin's on in de 'hole course ob my life. Jes took dat ar tender hoof, de whitewasher, into his cabin, gib him de best cheer,--on de floor,--de best china, den fill him up wid bacon, chock up to de muzzle: den tender hoof was tired--too much bacon--laid down on de bench, an' went to sleep, ole man settin' dar watchin' him. Bym-by de ole man get up sofly, git a blankit, kivers him up, tucks him in. Seed it all fro a crack. Ole man jes clean gone on dat ar tender hoof.

(_Enter MOTHER, from cabin._)

MOTHER. Jube, where's Moselle?

JUBE. Oh, she's in anoder scrape.

MOTHER. What kind of a scrape?

JUBE. Candy-scrape, I guess. She an' Dandy Dick havin' a sweet time up dar onto de rocks.

MOSELLE (_coming down run_). O mother, mother!

(_Throws her arms about MOTHER'S neck._)

MOTHER. Why, what's the matter, child?

MOSELLE. Don't ask me. Look there.

(_Enter down run, DICK, his hands fastened behind him, head down, followed by JERDEN, with a pistol in his hand._)

JERDEN. Attempt escape, and you are a dead man.

(_DICK comes slowly down, goes R., and sits on rock. JERDEN stands beside him._)

JUBE. By golly, he's took!

(_Enter VERMONT, R. 2 E._)

VERMONT. Who's took?

JUBE. Dandy Dick. He's de twenty fousan feller.

VERMONT. Ah! we've a traitor in the camp. Who has done this? (_Crosses to L._)

TOM (_descends run_). Tom Carew.

VERMONT. You, Tom? (_Levels pistol._) Then, take that.

MOSELLE (_throws herself before TOM_). No, daddy, not Tom. O Tom! why have you done this?

TOM. For your sake, little one: he has deceived you.

DICK. 'Tis false!

(_Enter AGNES, from cabin._)

AGNES. Who's that? Ah! (_Runs across stage, and falls on DICK'S neck._) Richard!

DICK. Agnes!

TOM. Look there, Moselle. (_Points to DICK._)

MOSELLE. No, no! (_Throws herself into VERMONT'S arms._) O daddy, my heart is breaking!

(CURTAIN ON PICTURE.--_TOM C., points to DICK. AGNES kneeling, her arms about DICK'S neck. JERDEN behind them. JUBE L. C., scratching his head. MOTHER at door L., her hands clasped, looking at DICK. VERMONT with MOSELLE'S arms about his neck L._)