self to the utmost, to get home again. Mr. Gilman appeared almost afraid Sam should know the amount they had collected. In one month after Colcord left, they had more than made up the amount paid to him, and Mr. Gilman was never tired of calculating it to himself. He seemed to grudge the smallest remittance to his family, telling Sam it was "all for them in the end, every cent," when he began to talk about sending home to his mother for the winter, as they had promised. It was always to be done by the next opportunity, but opportunities passed, and Mrs. Gilman was looking forward to a penniless winter, while her husband was hoarding nearly two thousand dollars, on the banks of the Yuba.

CHAPTER XI.

THE FATHER AND SON.

SAM was always up at the earliest light, and busied himself about the tent, preparing breakfast, which was generally ready before Mr. Gilman woke. The first warning he had of his father's illness was seeing him toss restlessly on the earthen floor of their tent, moaning and muttering in his sleep.

"I'd lie by to-day, if I was you, father”—he said, bringing a tin cup of coffee, as Mr. Gilman sat up with a start, and looked wildly around him. "I can wash that pile out alone, and to-morrow's Sunday. One day's rest will set you right up again.”

"Who's talking about resting! I don't want rest! I ain't sick, I tell you, I ain't sick, who said I was ?"

Sam was still more alarmed at the quick, almost fierce, manner in which his father spoke.

Nobody said so, sir," he answered as quietly as he could. "Only you know how tired you were last night, and you talked some in your sleep."

"Did I? What did I say?" Mr. Gilman began dressing with trembling hands, the matted hair falling over his thin, sunburnt face, and his blood-shot eyes glaring around the tent, with the wildness of fever. "What did I say, Sam-why don't you answer me? Did I tell you somebody had stolen every cent? Don't let them know it, Sam, the rest of them, will you? I mean it shall be two thousand dollars before the week's out. Some rascal or other will track it yet-I know they will. There's Tucker, don't tell him; he wanted to know yesterday, how things stood. His pile don't grow so fast just by hard work,-yes, it's all gone, every cent-ain't it hard, Sam ?"

"I guess your mistaken, father," Sam said, soothingly. "It was all right last night, don't you remember? If I was you, I'd just drink some coffee and lay down awhile-you'll remem

ber all about it by-and-by. It ain't time to go to work yet, any way.”

But Mr. Gilman would not be persuaded to lie quietly. He insisted on following Sam to the pile of earth they had prepared for washing out, and plunged knee-deep into the water, as if the coolness would take way the fever heat. It was the very worst thing he could have done, for the fever was followed by chills, and though he worked more than an hour with unnatural strength, it left him at once, and he laid down as helpless as a child, in the very glare of a hot sun.

He had been muttering to himself all the while, and his wild gestures drew the notice of those working around him. Sam was bending over his father almost as despairingly as he had done on the plains, trying to rouse him, when he heard some one say―

"I thought the old man needed looking after the last two or three days. Bear a hand, and we'll carry him where he can lie more like a Christian."

It was a young man Sam liked best of any in the camp. He was a general favorite; for, with his careless manner, and rough ways, there

was an unselfish, generous temper, shown in numberless good turns, to those less experienced or less fortunate than himself. Nobody knew his real name, but they all called him "Major." His costume was rather peculiar, even for the mines, his red flannel drawers and shirt being girt by a crimson military sash. For the six weeks since his arrival at Larkin's Bar, he had not been guilty of the extravagance of a pair of pantaloons; it was the only economy, however, that could be set down to his credit, as the storekeeper could testify. His eyes and teeth were almost all that could be seen of his face, a mass of brown, waving hair falling over his broad forehead, and his heavy beard reaching almost to his sash; but the eyes had always a good-natured smile, and his teeth were even and brilliantly white.

"Well, you're not as heavy as you might be, are you, neighbor?" he said, lifting Mr. Gilman, as if he had been a child, when he found he was unable to assist himself. Sam followed with a brandy-flask, some one had brought forward; brandy was both food and medicine to most of them. He had never seen severe illness before,