They had reached the Fraser River—that celebrated stream of British Columbia which waters a country that was destined in after years to become one of the great gold-mining regions of the world. On the afternoon of which we write, the party rode with difficulty down the rugged banks of the river, which, roaring through a narrow valley, had overflowed its banks, so that the trail was completely covered, the horses being frequently up to the girths in water. In the course of the day they came to a place where the trail passed along the face of a lofty cliff of crumbling slate. The path was only just wide enough for the horses to pass. On the right rose a perpendicular precipice. On the left, a few yards below, the swollen waters of the Fraser roared and boiled down their rocky bed with tremendous velocity. On turning a projection they found the track barred by a huge rock which had recently slipped down the mountain side. As it was impossible to pass the obstacle either above or below, there was nothing for it but to cut down trees, use them as levers, and dislodge the mass. It was discovered, when they dismounted to undertake this task, that Larry O'Hale was amissing. Will Osten had just uttered an exclamation of surprise, and the others had not had time to reply to the question, "Hallo! what's become of Larry?" when that worthy's voice was heard shouting in the distance, and his horse's hoofs were heard clattering along the narrow track as he approached at full gallop.

"Hooroo! howld on, doctor; hi' Bunco an' Ben, look here. Goold, avic, goold, I've got it at long last, sure enough!"

"You've got rid of your senses at last," said Will, as his comrade almost rode him down. "Have a care, man! What makes you ride at such a pace?"

"Goold! goold! goold!" cried the excited Irishman, plucking a little bag from his breast, leaping off his horse, and pouring the contents—a mass of glittering lumps and particles—on a flat stone. "Didn't I tell ye I was born to make my fortin' out o' goold? There's plenty more where that comed from. Come back an' I'll show 'ee the place!"

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, Larry," said Will, examining the so-called gold, "but I have seen this stuff before, and I believe it to be a substance which is not worth its weight in brass. Many poor fellows have been deceived by it before now."

Larry's face elongated very much at this. "What say you, Ben?" he inquired.

"I fear me that it an't worth picking up," replied the trapper, fingering the shining particles. "Leastwise I once collected a bag o' the same an' showed it to a man in the settlements who got the credit o' bein' a knowin' fellow in regard to metals. He told me it was somethin' that I don't remember the name of, but worth nothing, so I heaved it away."

Thus doubly assured, Larry sighed deeply as he collected the shining metal into the bag, and stood eyeing it disconsolately. At this point Bunco chuckled.

"Worse luck to it," cried Larry, starting and tossing the bag violently into the stream, where it sank and vanished for ever. Little did any of the party imagine, at that time, that they had actually cast away some hundred pounds worth of pure gold, yet such was actually the case!

As it left Larry's hand, the bag touched the nose of his horse, which shied, slipped over the bank, fell into the river, and was swept away. Instantly they all clapped their shoulders to the big stone, and pushed with such good-will that it slipped and went crashing into the stream, while the party went off at full speed after the horse. The poor animal was found at last stranded amid a mass of driftwood, with its saddle and baggage gone, but beyond this and the fright, no harm was done.

"Misfortin's niver come single. 'Tis always the way. Howsiver, niver say die; better luck nixt time; ye'll make yer fortin' yit, av ye only parsevair an' kape up yer heart, ould boy." Thus soliloquising, the unfortunate man remounted his wet and bare-backed steed, and rode away.

Time and tide are usually understood to wait for no man; we therefore decline to wait either for time or tide, but, sweeping onward in advance of both, convey our readers at once to the sea coast near Vancouver's Island, where our adventurers arrived after an unusual share of toil and trouble, and found a small craft about to sail for California—took passage in her, and, in due time, arrived at San Francisco. The gold-fever had just set in there. The whole town was in an uproar of confusion. Excitable men had given up their ordinary work, or shut their shops, and gone off to the diggings. Ships were lying idle in the bay, having been deserted by their crews, who had gone to the same point of attraction, and new arrivals were constantly swelling the tide of gold-seekers. Here Will Osten found his father's agent—a staid old gentleman of Spanish extraction, who, being infirm as well as old, was fever-proof. Being somewhat taciturn, however, and rendered irritable by the upheavings of social life which were going on around him, he only vouchsafed the information that the estate which belonged to the late Mr Osten was near the goldfields; that it was not a rich one by any means, and that his advice to Will was to go and see it for himself. Accepting the advice, our hero expended the greater part of his remaining cash in purchasing provisions, etcetera, for the journey to the Sacramento River. By steamer they accomplished the first part of it, and on horseback progressed north-eastward until they drew near to the mighty mountain range named the Sierra Nevada.

On the way they had more than enough of company, for men of every clime and of all ages, between sixteen and fifty, were travelling on every description of horse and mule in the same direction. From most of these, however, they parted on reaching the entrance to the narrow valley in which the estate was said to lie.

"Is it far up the valley?" asked Will Osten of the landlord of the last ranche, or inn (a small hovel) in which they had passed the night.

"Not far," replied the innkeeper, a shrewd intelligent Yankee, with a touch of the nasal tone for which the race is noted; "guess it's about three leagues off."

"A wild gloomy sort o' place, no doubt?" asked Larry.

"Rayther. It'll stand tamin' a bit. There's nobody lives in the whole valley 'xcept a band o' miners who have been prospectin' all over it an' locatin' themselves in the house without leave."

"Locatin', is it?" exclaimed Larry, "faix, it's vacatin' it they'll be, widout so much as 'by yer lave,' this night."

"Have they found much gold, do you know?" asked Will Osten.

"Believe not," replied the innkeeper. "It's not a likely place—though there may be some, for gold has been found below this, as you would see, I s'pose, when you passed the diggers on Cocktail Creek."

Bidding the host good-bye, our hero and his friends rode off to take possession of the estate. They were well armed, for, in these days, might, not right, was the law of the land.

It was evening before they reached the head of the valley where stood the house or wooden cottage which had been the abode of Will's eccentric old relative. The scenery was savage and forbidding in the extreme. Lofty mountains rose on every side, and only a small portion of the land in the neighbourhood of the dwelling had been brought under cultivation. The house itself was a low long-shaped building, and stood on the banks of a stream which gushed and tumbled furiously along its rocky bed, as if in hot haste to escape from the dark mountain gorges which gave it birth. A hut near by was the residence of an old native who had been the owner's only servant, and a few cattle grazing in the meadow behind the house were tended by him with as much solicitude as though his late master had been still alive. The only cheering point in the scene was a gleam of ruddy light which shot from a window of the house and lost itself in the deepening gloom of evening.

"A most lugubrious spot," said Will, surveying it sadly as he rode forward.

"Faix, I'd recommend ye to sell it to the miners for whativer it'll fetch," said Larry, in a disappointed tone.

"They're a jovial set of squatters, whatever else they may be," said Big Ben, as an uproarious chorus issued from the house. "Hallo! Bunco, what d'ye hear, lad?"

Bunco's visage displayed at that moment a compound expression of surprise and deep attention. Again the chorus swelled out and came down on the breeze, inducing Bunco to mutter a few words to Big Ben in his native tongue.

"What is it?" inquired Will, eagerly, on beholding the huge frame of the trapper quivering with suppressed laughter.

"Nothin', nothin'," said Ben, dismounting, "only the redskin's ears are sharp, and he has heard surprisin' sounds. Go with him on foot. I'll hold the horses."

"Come 'long, foller me quick as you can," said Bunco, in a whisper—"no take gum?—no use for dem."

Filled with surprise and curiosity, Will and Larry followed their comrade, who went straight towards the window from which the light streamed. A voice was heard singing within, but it was not loud, and the air could not be distinguished until the chorus burst forth from, a number of powerful lungs:—

"Hearts of oak are our ships, Jolly tars are our men—"

At the first note, Larry sprang past his companions, and peeped into the room. The sight that met his gaze was indeed well calculated to strike him dumb, for there, in a circle on the floor, with the remains of a roast of beef in the centre—red-shirted, long-booted, uncombed, and deeply bronzed—sat six old comrades, whom they had not seen for such a length of time that they had almost forgotten their existence—namely, Captain Dall, long David Cupples, old Peter, Captain Blathers, Muggins, and Buckawanga! They were seated, in every variety of attitude, round a packing-box, which did duty for a table, and each held in his hand a tin mug, from which he drained a long draught at the end of the chorus. The last shout of the chorus was given with such vigour that Larry O'Hale was unable to restrain himself. He flung open the door, leaped into the room with a cheer and a yell that caused every man to spring up and seize the nearest weapon, and Captain Dall, in a burst of fiery indignation, was in the act of bringing a huge mass of firewood down on the Irishman's skull when Will Osten sprang in and arrested his arm. At the same moment Muggins recognised his old messmate, and, rushing at him, seized him with a hug worthy of a black bear!

To describe the scene of surprise, confusion, and delight that followed were impossible. The questions put that were never answered; the answers given to questions never put; the exclamations; the cross purposes; the inextricable conglomeration of past, present, and future history—public, personal, and local; uttered, ejaculated and gasped, in short, or incomplete, or disjointed sentences—all this baffles description. After a few minutes, however, they quieted down, and, while the new arrivals attacked the roast of beef, their former messmates talked incessantly, and all at once!

"You're the laird of a splendid estate of rocks and scrub," said Captain Dall to Will.

"Not to mention the river," replied Will, smiling.

"Without fish in it, ha!" groaned Cupples.

"But lots o' goold," suggested Larry, with a wink; "give us a drop o' yer grog, lads, it's dry work meetin' so many friends all at wanst."

"Nothin' but water here!" said Muggins.

"What! wos ye singin' like that on cowld wather?"

"We wos!" returned Muggins.

"An' what's more," said Old Peter, "we've got used to it, an' don't feel the want of grog at all. 'What's in a name,' as Jonathan Edwards says in his play of 'Have it yer own way,' or somethin' like that. Why, if you call it grog an' make believe, it goes down like—like—"

"Wather," suggested Larry; "well, well, let's have a drop, whativer it is."

"But how comes it to pass," inquired Will, "that we should all meet here just as people are made to do in a novel, or at the end of the last scene in a play?"

"Nothing more natural," said Captain Blathers. "You know, when we were cast adrift by the scoundrels that took my ship, Captain Dall, Mr Cupples, and I, made the coast, and got to San Francisco, where we remained, working at what we could, to scrape together a little money before leaving for England, as we had no heart for the goldfields. Some months after that we were surprised to see Old Peter and Muggins wandering about the town like beggars. They had come in a small craft from South America, and were very glad to join us. We were soon persuaded by them to go to the goldfields, and were about to start when we heard of this estate that had been left to a Mr Osten by his brother. I made inquiries, found it was your father it was left to, and, having heard from Muggins of your father's death, I wrote a letter to let you know we were here, and to ask advice—which letter, by the way, is about half seas over to England by this time, if all's well. Then we agreed to come here, and prospect for gold all over the estate— the which we have done, but without much luck as yet, I'm sorry to say."

"But you have not yet accounted for the appearance of Buckawanga?" said Will.

"Oh, as to that, Muggins recognised him one day in the street. We found he had come over from them rascally Cannibal Islands, in the service of a missionary—"

"What!" exclaimed Will, dropping his knife and fork.

"The missionary, you know," said Captain Dall; "Mr Westwood, who—"

"Is he—is his family—in San Francisco?" asked Will, recovering himself and pretending to be busy with his supper.

"Ay, he is on his way to England—waiting for a ship, I believe; but Buckawanga prefers the goldfields, and so, has come with us, as you see."

"Are the Westwoods well—all of them?"

"So far as we know, they are. But in regard to the gold hereabouts—"

"Ay, that's the thing," said Larry, who had glanced at our hero with twinkling eyes when reference was made to the Westwoods; "nothin' like goold to warm the heart of a poor man an' gladden the eyes of a rich wan. It's that same as'll interest the doctor most."

"Well," resumed the captain, "as I was about to say—"

"Didn't I hear you say something about going to San Francisco for fresh supplies and more tools a few minutes ago?" asked Will, abruptly.

"You did; we are short of provender and hard up for tools. I meant to start to-morrow, but now that you've come I'll delay—"

"We'll not delay an hour," cried Will, with unusual energy. "It will never do to waste time here when people are making fortunes all round us. The rest of the party can remain to prospect—but you and I, captain, will start for San Francisco to-morrow!"

"Ho, ho!" said Larry to himself that night, as he smoked his pipe after retiring to rest; "it's neck or nothin' is it—never ventur' never win, is the word? Well, well, 'tis the way o' the world. My blessin' go wid ye, doctor." With this benediction on his lips he turned round, shook the ashes out of his pipe and went to sleep.



CHAPTER SIX.

IN WHICH WILL MAKES A RETROGRADE MOVEMENT, AND THINGS COME TO A PRETTY PASS—A SUDDEN AND DECISIVE STEP.

Next morning, true to his word, Will Osten started off to retrace his steps to San Francisco, much to the regret as well as surprise of all his friends, except Larry O'Hale and Bunco, both of whom, being aware of his motive, chuckled mightily in their sleeves but wisely said nothing. Will was accompanied by Captain Dall and Mr Cupples, the former of whom gave him an account of his adventures since the period of their separation in the South Seas. As most of these adventures, however, were not particularly striking, and as they do not bear upon our tale, we will not inflict them on the reader, but merely refer to that part of the captain's career which was mixed up with our hero's new possessions in the Grizzly Bear Gulch, as his valley was named.

"You see, doctor," said Captain Dall, as they cantered easily over the soft turf of a wide plain, which, a little beyond the entrance to the gulch, spread out for a considerable distance along the base of the Sierra Nevada, "you see, when we discovered that this valley, or gulch, as they call it here, was yours—or your father's, which I suppose means the same thing—Captain Blathers, Mr Cupples, Muggins, Old Peter, and I held a council of war, and came to the conclusion that we would go up an' have a look at it, hopin' to find gold, but first of all we went to the regular diggin's on the Sacramento River to learn how to wash out the dirt an' make enough to keep us goin'. When we had done this an' lined our pockets with enough of gold-dust to set us up, we started for Grizzly Bear Gulch, where we found nobody but Old Timothy, the native that had been your uncle's servant."

"Timothy," said Will, "was that his name?"

"No, but he could not tell us his name, for the good reason that he does not understand a word of English, so we christened him Timothy, and he answers to it. The old man cut up rusty at first, and seemed disposed to drive us away, but by howling the name of Osten into his ears and giving him a little gold, we converted him into a friend, and got him to allow us to squat in the empty house. Then we went off prospecting, and found gold, sure enough, in the stream in front of the door, but there was not much in the places we tried—little more than enough to pay."

"Then you don't think much of the property, I suppose," said Will, "for it is evident that in regard to agriculture it is not worth a straw?"

"I'm not so sure of that," returned the captain. "What do you think, Mr Cupples?"

The mate, whose melancholy tones and expressions had increased with his shore-going experiences, said that he did not know; that he was no judge of such matters, but that gold might be found in quantity, and, if so, the place would be worth something!

"A safe conclusion," said the captain, laughing; "but that is just the point. Gold has turned up in all directions near the valley, and why should we not find it there? Besides, there is a pretty fair bit of land under cultivation, and vegetables fetch fabulous prices at the diggin's; in addition to which there are a good many cattle on the ground, and provisions of all kinds are as good as gold just now—so, you see, I think that even if we don't find more of the dust on it, there is some chance that you may raise the wind by the property if you act wisely."

"Well, we shall see," said Will; "at all events I intend to make the most of my opportunities—and, talking of that, Captain Dall, as I see that Mr Cupples is lagging behind, a word in your ear—I'll tell you a secret."

Hereupon our hero made the captain his confidant; told him of the object of his journey, and begged his advice and assistance, both of which the worthy man agreed to give him, to any extent, at any time, and under all circumstances—proving the sincerity of his assurances on the spot by at once offering several pieces of advice. One of these was, that Will should hasten on the consummation of his wishes without delay. This, as may be believed, was so consonant with Will's own opinion that he accepted it at once, and acted upon it then and there, as far as was possible, by plying whip and spur so vigorously that his steed skimmed over the plain more like a swallow than a quadruped.

Progressing thus they were not long in reaching the city of Sacramento, which was four or five days' journey from Grizzly Bear Gulch. Here they embarked in a small schooner, and descended the noble Sacramento River, into which all the other rivers in California flow. Thence they coasted along the bay of San Francisco, which is a land-locked sea of more than forty miles in length, and, finally, anchored off the town of the same name. And a wonderful town it was! The news of the discovery of gold had drawn so many thousands of ships and men to the port, that the hamlet of former days had become a city of tents and iron and wooden edifices of every kind. Gold can indeed work wonders—and never was its power more wonderfully displayed than in the rapid growth of San Francisco.

But our hero took small note of such matters. He was bent on a mission which engrossed his whole soul and all his faculties, and the fear that the Westwoods had found a homeward-bound ship, and perhaps had already set sail, induced him to go about everything he did in feverish haste. During the few weeks that had passed since he last saw it, the town had so changed its features that Will could scarce find his way, but at last he managed to discover the office of the agent who had advised him to go and see his property. Mr Zulino, as he was named, received his visitor with his wonted crustiness mingled with surprise, which was somewhat increased when he found that Will could not give a very comprehensible reason for his sudden return to the city. He could give no information as to the Westwoods, knew nothing about them, but advised that Will should make inquiry at the principal hotels in the town and at the shipping office, adding that he believed one of the ships which had long been lying in the port, unable to sail for want of hands, had at last succeeded in getting up a crew, and was to sail in a day or two for England, but he did not know her name or anything about her.

"It is plain we can make nothing out of Mr Zulino," said Will, with a look of chagrin, on quitting the office. "Come, let us go hunt up the hotels."

"Agreed," cried Captain Dall. Mr Cupples groaned his readiness to follow, so they set off.

All that day the three wandered about the city into every hotel and shipping office, and every public place they could find, until they were thoroughly exhausted, but without success.

"Now, doctor," said the captain, wiping his heated brow, "if we are to gain our ends, it is plain that we must feed. I feel like a ship's hold without a cargo. See, here is a comfortable-looking inn; let us go and stow away something solid, have a pipe, and then turn in, so as to go at it fresh to-morrow morning early."

"Very well," said Will, languidly; "but I cannot rest, so do you go and order something while I try to cool myself by taking a stroll up this hill; I'll be back before supper is ready."

"I will go with you," said Mr Cupples, gloomily.

Poor Will would have gladly gone alone, but as he had no good reason for declining the companionship of his tall and solemn friend, he merely said "Very good," and walked away. Passing over the hill they came to a neat little cottage with a small garden in front, in which were a variety of flowers that evidently were well tended. The windows and doors of the cottage were invitingly open. As they passed the garden-gate a voice suddenly exclaimed, "Walk in."

They stopped abruptly, looked at the open door, and then at each other in surprise.

"Walk in," repeated the voice, louder than before.

"Well, really, I don't see why we should refuse so pressing an invitation," said Will with a smile.

"You may go in; I'll wait for you," said Mr Cupples.

In another minute our hero was in the lobby of the cottage, and then he discovered,—on the words "walk in" being reiterated very gruffly,—that it was a grey parrot which had been thus taught to use the language of hospitality! Will laughed, and was about to turn on his heel when he observed a female reclining on a couch in one of the rooms. She looked up quickly on hearing his step and laugh, and Will, hesitating for a moment, advanced with the intention of explaining and apologising.

"Forgive my apparent intrusion, madam," he said, "but your parrot deceived—what!—am I—Flora—Miss Westwood!" he exclaimed in amazement, leaping forward and seizing her hand.

"Mr Osten!" said Flora, with a look of unfeigned surprise, "can it be— I—I—did not know—really—"

Now, reader, it would be ungenerous were we to give you a detailed account of all the absurd things that were uttered at the commencement of the conversation. Suffice it to say that Will and Flora stammered and blushed, and grew hot and cold, and tried to look cool and failed, signally, and then, feeling how very awkward their position was, made a desperate effort to be commonplace, and so began to talk with intense solicitude about "the weather!" Will soon perceived, however, that in the circumstances this was utterly ridiculous, so he made another effort and asked about Flora's father and mother, and then, happy thought, he suddenly remembered Buckawanga, and began to descant upon him, after which he naturally slid into ships and voyaging, and so came abruptly to the question:—

"By the way, Miss Westwood, is it true that you are trying to secure a passage to England just now?"

"We have succeeded in securing one," said Flora, with a deep blush and a peculiar look. "We sail to-morrow."

"To-morrow!" cried Will, in consternation.

There was for a moment a great swelling of something in our hero's breast; then a sudden thought occurred, "Never venture never—;" next instant he seized Flora's hand. "Oh, Miss West—Flora, dearest Flora—forgive—nay, do not turn away, I entreat, I beseech—"

"Old rascal!" exclaimed a stern voice at his back at that moment.

Will sprang up, burning with anger, and turning sharply round, observed the parrot gazing at him in mute surprise.

"Walk in—old rascal," repeated the bird.

Will laughed, but there was a touch of bitterness in his tone as he turned again to Flora, who had risen from the couch.

"This is an awkward interruption, Flo—Miss Westwood, but necessity constrains me. I must, I will speak now, if—bear with me, dear girl, I did not mean to be rude, but—"

A footstep was heard in the passage.

"Supper will be cooling, I fear," said the hollow voice of Mr Cupples. "Oh! I beg pardon. I did not know—I—"

Will turned, and rushed at his friend with savage intentions. At the same moment the figure of a man darkened the doorway. Mr Cupples vanished out of the house, Flora glided away, and Will Osten found himself face to face with Mr Westwood!

It might have been expected that the scene which followed would have been an embarrassing one, but such was not the case. Our hero had reached that point of nervous and mental turmoil and exasperation in which extremes meet. As the strong current of a river meets the rush of the rising tide, and at a certain point produces dead calm, so the conflicting currents in Will's bosom reached the flood, and he became desperately serene, insomuch that he held out his hand to Mr Westwood, and, with a smile of candour and a tone of deep earnestness, explained "the situation," and made "a clean breast of it." The result was, that Mr and Mrs Westwood received his advances favourably, but, being naturally cautious and solicitous about the happiness of their daughter, they pointed out that it was impossible to come to any conclusion at that time, because, in the first place, Will was, by his own showing, a poor wanderer with only the prospect of an income at his mother's death, and without professional practice; and, in the second place, as they were to set sail for England on the morrow, there was no time left even for consideration. Mr Westwood, therefore, said that he could not permit Will to see Flora again, except to bid her farewell, and advised him to have patience until he should return to England, where, he said frankly, he would be happy to see him. Will thereupon left the cottage, in a state of distraction, to lay his case before Captain Dall.

"So you see, captain," he added, after detailing all the circumstances, "there is only one course open to me, and that I am resolved to pursue. I shall sail for England in the—the what's the name of the ship the Westwoods are to sail in?"

"Don't know," answered the captain.

"Of course not—no matter. We shall find out. She sails to-morrow at all events, and I go with her. You will go back with Mr Cupples to Grizzly Bear Gulch, work the gold, make what you can out of it, pay yourselves, and hold the estate for me. I'll get that legally arranged to-night. You'll tell my comrades how sorry I am to leave them so abruptly, but under the circumstances they will—"

"Softly," interrupted Captain Dall; "if all this is to be settled to-night, we had better set about it at once, and not waste time with words."

"Right, captain. Let us off to search for the captain of the ship."

Leaving Mr Cupples to eat the supper alone, our hero and his friend went out in hot haste, and soon found themselves in the presence of the captain of the Roving Bess, which was to sail next day.

"By the way," whispered Will to his friend, as they were entering the room in which the skipper sat, "do you happen to have any cash? for I have only twenty pounds."

"Not a rap," whispered the captain.

"You are the captain of the Roving Bess, I am told?" said Will, addressing a big rawboned man, who sat at a table solacing himself with a glass of spirits and water and a cigar.

"Ya-a-s, Cap'n Bra-a-o-wn, at y'r sarvice."

Captain Brown drawled this out so slowly that one might have supposed he did it on principle, as a sort of general protest against the high-pressure speed and hurry that influenced every one around him.

"You have passengers going, I understand?"

"Ya-a-s. Reverend genlm'n an' two ladies."

"Can you take another?"

"A dozen mo-a-r, if need be."

"Then put my name down. How much is the passage fare?"

"Fo-a-g-sl two hundred, cabin three hundred pa-o-unds."

"What!" exclaimed Will.

Captain Brown smiled. "You see," said he, "it c-a-unt be done for less—ha—'Bliged to give fa-bu-lous wages to crew, and only too thankful to get 'em at any price. Provisions cost their weight, a-most, in gold."

"Will you be here an hour hence?" asked our hero.

"Ya-a-s, two hours hence," drawled Captain Brown, lighting a fresh cigar at the stump of the old one.

Will Osten linked his arm through that of Captain Dall, and hurried him into the street.

"Now to the agent," he said. "If he fails me, all is lost—stay! no; I can offer to work my passage. That did not occur to me till now. I shall keep it in reserve."

A few minutes more and they stood in the presence of Mr Zulino.

"Is it possible," said Will, with an anxious expression of face, "to sell the property in Grizzly Bear Gulch immediately?"

The dry visage of the agent wrinkled into a sarcastic smile as he replied "Ha! I see, you are like all the rest—wish to turn everything into gold. Well, it is possible to sell it, I make no doubt, because it is well situated and will increase in value; but what, do you mean by immediately?"

"To-night," said Will.

"Impossible."

"What's to be done?" cried our hero, turning to Captain Dall with a look of such perplexity and disappointment that even the hard heart of Mr Zulino was touched.

"Why such haste?" he inquired.

"Because business of the most urgent kind requires that I should embark for England in a vessel which sails to-morrow, and I have not money enough to pay for my passage."

"I can lend you some on the property, at a high rate of interest," said the agent.

"Then do so, my dear sir," said Will earnestly, "at any rate of interest you choose, and I will sign any papers you may require. My friend here, Captain Dall, will see that you are regularly paid. I assure you that I shall never forget the obligation."

"Follow me," said Mr Zulino, rising and putting on his hat.

He led them to the office of a man who appeared to be connected with the law, and who drew up a paper which, being duly signed and witnessed, Mr Zulino put in his pocket, at the same time handing Will Osten a cheque for four hundred pounds.

"Now, captain," said Will, with a deep sigh of relief, as they, once more issued into the street, "we'll go and enjoy our supper."

Next morning Will Osten, with a small portmanteau containing his little all in his hand, and accompanied by Captain Dall and Mr Cupples, pushed his way through the crowded streets to the quay, where a boat awaited him.

"Once more, Captain Dall," he said, turning round and grasping his friend's hand, "farewell! I am sorry—more so than I can tell—to leave you. May God prosper you wherever you go. Remember my messages to our friends at the gulch. Tell Larry and Bunco, and the trapper especially, that I feel almost like a criminal for giving them the slip thus. But how can I help it?"

"Of course, of course," said Captain Dall, returning the hearty squeeze of Will's hand, "how could you? Love, like necessity, has no law—or, rather, itself is a law which all must obey. Good-bye, lad, and good luck attend ee."

Silently shaking hands with Mr Cupples, whose lugubrious expression seemed appropriate to the occasion, Will leaped into the boat and was soon rowing over the bay to the spot where the Roving Bess lay with her anchor tripped and her sails loose. On approaching, he saw that Mr Westwood and his wife were pacing the quarterdeck, but Flora was not visible, the reason being that that busy little woman was down in her father's berth putting it to rights—arranging and re-arranging everything, and puzzling her brains with numerous little contrivances which were all meant to add to the comfort and snugness of the place— wonderfully ingenious contrivances, which could not have emanated from the brain of any woman but one who possessed a warm heart, an earnest soul, a sweet face, and a turned-up nose! She was a good deal dishevelled about the head, in consequence of her exertions, and rather flushed, and her eyes were a little moist. Perhaps she was sad at the thought of leaving San Francisco—but no—she was leaving no friends behind her there. That could not have been the cause!

The little round port-hole of the berth was open, and she stopped ever and anon in the midst of her operations to look out and listen to the variety of shouts and songs that came from the boats, vessels, and barges in the bay. Suddenly she stopped, turned her head the least bit to one side, and listened intently.

"My dear," said Mr Westwood to his wife, standing on the deck and leaning over the bulwarks, exactly above the open port near to which Flora stood, "can that be Mr Osten in yonder boat?"

Flora's bosom heaved, and her colour vanished.

"I think it is—stay—no—it looks like—yes, it is he," said Mrs Westwood.

Flora's face and neck became scarlet.

Presently the plash of oars were heard near the vessel, and next moment a boat approached, but not from such a quarter as to be visible from the port-hole.

"Mind your starboard oar," said a deep voice, which caused Flora's heart to beat against her chest, as if that dear little receptacle of good thoughts and warm feelings were too small to contain it, and it wanted to get out.

"Good morning, Mr Osten," cried Mr Westwood, looking down.

"Good morning, sir,—good morning, Mrs Westwood," answered Will, looking up.

"It is very kind of you to take the trouble to come off to bid us good-bye," said Mr Westwood.

Flora trembled a little, and leaned upon the side of the berth.

"I have not come to say good-bye," said Will (Flora's eyes opened wide with astonishment), "I am going—fend off, men, fend off, mind what you are about—I am going," he said, looking up with a smile, "to sail with you to England."

A peculiar gleam shot from Flora's eyes; the blood mantled again on her brow, and, sinking into a chair, she pressed her hands to her face and buried her head in her father's pillow!



CHAPTER SEVEN.

RAMBLING REMINISCENCES OF ABSENT FRIENDS, AND A HAPPY TERMINATION.

On the evening of a cold December day—the last day of the year—many months after the occurrence of the events narrated in the last chapter, old Mrs Osten sat in her drawing-room, toasting her toes before a cheerful fire. The widow looked very happy, and, to say truth, she had good reason for being so, for her stalwart son had come home to her safe and sound, and was at that moment sitting by her side talking in a most amazing way about his Flora—referring to her as a sort of captive bird which had now no chance of escaping, saying that he meant to take her to Paris, and Switzerland, and Rome, and in summer to the English Lakes, and Killarney, and the Scotch Highlands.

"In fact, mother," said Will, "after that little event comes off, which is fixed to take place next week, I mean to act the part of Wandering Will over again under entirely new and much more interesting circumstances. Ah! mother," he continued with enthusiasm, "how little did I think, when I was travelling through the wild regions of the far west, that I was being led to the spot where I should find such a wife!"

"Yes, dear, you were indeed led," said Mrs Osten, "for that wild region was the very last place in the world to which you would have thought of going to look for a good wife, had you been guided by your own wisdom."

"True, mother, most true. Gold is much more plentiful in that land than wives, either good or bad. I wonder how my old comrades are getting on there now. You remember Larry, mother, and Bunco. How I wish I could have had them all here at our wedding! You would have delighted in old Captain Dall, and Captain Blathers, too, he's not a bad fellow though rather wild, but Big Ben would have pleased you most—by the way, this is the last night of the year. I doubt not they will be remembering me to-night, and drinking my health in clear cold water from the crystal springs of the Sierra Nevada. Come, I will pledge them in the same beverage," said Will, seizing a glass of water that stood at his elbow; "may success, in the highest sense of the word, attend them through life."

"Amen," murmured the widow, as Will drained the glass; "I hope they may get plenty of gold without catching the gold-fever, which is just another name for the love of gold, and that, you know, is the root of all evil. But go on telling me about your adventures, Will; I never tire of hearing you relate them."

"Well, mother, I'll begin again, but if you will be for ever interrupting me with questions and remarks about Flora, I shall never get to the end of them. Now, then, listen."

Hereupon Will began to talk, and his mother to listen, with, we need scarcely say, intense interest.

Thus was the last night of that year passed in the drawing-room. Let us see how it was spent in the kitchen.

"Yes, Jemimar," said Maryann, with her mouth full of buttered toast, "I always said it, and I always thought it, and I always knowed it, that Master Will would come 'ome, and marry a sweet beautiful young lady, which 'as come true, if ever a profit spoke, since the day of Jackariah—let me fill your cup, my dear, p'raps you'll 'and me the kettle, Richards."

The worthy coachman rose with alacrity to obey, and Jemima accepted the proffered cup of tea in the midst of a vain attempt to quiet the baby Richards, which happened to be unusually restive that night.

"To think, too," continued Maryann with a laugh, "that I should 'ave gone an' mistook the dear creetur at first for a cannibal!"

"Maryhann," said Jemima, solemnly, "I don't believe there's no such things as cannibals."

"No more do I, Jemimar—did you speak, Mr Richards?" inquired Maryann, with a sudden assumption of dignity.

The coachman, who was devotedly engaged with his fifth slice of buttered toast, protested solemnly that he had not spoken, but admitted that he had experienced a tendency to choke—owing to crumbs—just at the point when Maryann happened to allude to the cannibals. Maryann had a suspicion that the tendency to choke was owing to other causes than crumbs; but as she could not prove her point, and as the baby Richards took it into his head at that moment to burst into an unaccountable and vehement fit of laughter, she merely tossed her head, and resumed her observations.

"No, Jemimar, nothing will ever convince me that there are any savages so depravated as to prefer a slice of 'uman flesh to a good beefsteak, an' it's my belief that that himperent Irishman, Larry O'Ale, inwented it all to gammon us."

"I quite agree with you, Maryhann," said Jemima, who indeed always agreed with any proposition her friend chose to put forth; "an' I 'old that it is contrairy to 'uman reason to imagin such beastliness, much less to do it."

Here Richards had the temerity to observe that he wasn't quite sure that such things were never done; "for," said he, "I 'eard Mr Osten himself say as 'ow he'd seen 'em do it, an' surely he wouldn't go for to tell a lie." At which remark Jemima advised him to hold his tongue, and Maryann replied, with an expression of scorn, that she wondered to 'ear 'im. Did he suppose Master Will didn't sometimes indulge in a little 'armless jesting like other people? She would have added more, but unfortunately the crumbs got into Richards' throat again, causing that sceptical man to grow red in the face, and give vent to sounds like mild choking.

"'Owever," observed Jemima, "it don't matter now, as Mr William and 'is bride are safe 'ome again, and if Mr O'Ale also was fond of a joke, like other people, there is no 'arm in that. Poor fellow, I 'ope 'e's well, an' Mr Bunco too, though he is a Red Hindian."

"'Ear 'ear!" said Richards, suddenly seizing his cup; "let us drink their 'ealth, an' the 'ealth of all their comrades, for this is the last night of the year, an' by all accounts they won't likely be spendin' it in the midst o' such comforts an' blessin's as we does. Come, lasses, drink it merrily, fill yer glasses, let the teapot circle round."

The tone in which this proposal was made, and the fact that it was the last night of the year, induced Maryann to respond, with gracious condescension:—

"Well, Richards, I'm agreeable."

"Here, then," said Richards, raising his cup on high, "I give you the 'ealth of Mr Larry O'Ale, Mr Bunco, an' all absent friends—wishin' 'em luck, an' lots o' gold."

"An' a 'appy deliverance from these 'orrible countries," added Maryann.

"I agree with you, Maryhann," said Jemima, draining her cup to the dregs in honour of the toast.

But how did Larry and his friends spend that last night of the year in the far-off golden land? Let Larry speak for himself, in a letter which was received by Will Osten, many months afterwards, and which we now give verbatim et literatim.

The letter in question was written in a remarkably cramped hand, on several very dirty sheets of blue ruled foolscap, folded with much care and crookedness, and fastened with a red wafer which bore the distinct impression of an extremely hard knuckle. It ran thus:—

"Grizlie bar gultch first janooary.

"Dear mister osten, i taik up my pen, the its litil i has to do wid sitch things, to let yoo no that this coms hopin' your al wel as it leeves us—barrin bunko who overait hiself last nite at super but hees al rite again, yool be glad to larn that we hav diskivered lots o goold. wan day whin i wos up the straim i thowt id tri me luk in a hole, an faix didnt i turn up a nugit o puer goold as big as my hid. i tuk it down to the hous an' didnt we spind a nite over it! its glad i was we had no likker for i do belaive weed have all got rorin drunk, as it was, sure we danced haf the nite to the myoosik of a kitle drum—an owld tin kitle it was, but we didnt mind that, niver a taist, for the nugit kep up our sperits. Wel, we wint an turned up the hole kuntry after that, an' got heeps o goold. yool niver belaive it—there was nugits o' all sises from a pay to a pitaity. Kaptin dal wint to sanfransisky last munth an hees paid of the det to mister zooleeno, interest an all, so yoor free, an' theres a big sum in the bank, but i dont no ritely how much, but Kaptin dal is to rite yoo soon as to that an' a good many other things, he's too much exited about the nugit just now to midle wid the pen, so he's maid me his depity, dee see, an its that saim im allways willin to be, for im at all times as kool as a kookumber, an had a first-rate eddikashun—good luk to the parish praist, anyhow—theres a good skreed to begin wid, an' so as theres enuff in this part o' me leter to kaip ye thinkin till dinner, ill just go out an have another dig in the straim an resoom me pen when i cum bak.

"Wel, mister osten, as i wor saying, ive returned havin got nothin, bad skran to it, but a few small bits like a thimble, howsumeiver, that samell pay for sharpnin the tools, i now sit down to resoom me pen, as i said before i got up, but och! if ye heerd the row the other boys is goin on wid, yed find it as diffikilt to read this as i do to spel it. but niver mind, that saim dont mater much, for, as i said before, im allways kooll.

"Wel—youve no notion what a work we hav wid the goold, bekais, dee see, weer pikin it up in handfulls, sumtimes wid a nugit, now an again, like yer fist, an the boys is raither exited, for ov koorse they kant al keep as kool as me—but let that pas. as I wor sayin, the row is diffinin for that blakgird Buckywangy is spinin a yarn as long as the mane yard o a sivinty-fore about wan o' thim spalpeens in the kanible ilands as had his unkles darters waitin maid, as wor a slaiv, hashed up, wid two litle boys an a pig, into what hees got the face to call a Irish stu, an it didnt sit lit on the Kanibles stumick for the raisin they forgot the pepper—its not aisy to write wid sich blarny ringin' in wans eers—an the boys larfin too as loud, amost as the nigers yel in the Kanible islands—be the way, that minds me o purty miss westwood as we met thair. its mistress osten sheel be by this no doubt, plaiz give her Larry's best respeks, an its wishin her good luck i am, an the saim to yersilf.

"Yool be glad to heer that buncos found his wife, he wint away south for three or fore weeks, an brot her bak wid him, an she hadnt married nobody in his absence, the its urgin her purty hard they was. shees patchin a pair o me owld breeches at this minit while I write them lines, an is uncomon usful wid her needle, capn blathers says he had no notion before that wimin was so nisisary to man. but hees a dirty owld bachiler. the traper tawks o laivin us, im sory to say. hees a good harted man an a rail broth of a boy is big ben, but he dont take kindly to goold diggin, thats not to say he kant dig. hees made more nor most of us, an more be token he gave the most of it away to a poor retch of a feller as kaim hear sik an starvin on his way to sanfransisky. but big bens heart is in the roky mountins, i kan see that quite plain, i do belaiv he has a sowl above goold, an wood raither katch foxes an bars, he sais heel stop another month wid us an then make traks for his owld hants—just like the way we sailors long for the say after a spree on shore, the i must say non of us say-dogs have any longin as yit to smel salt water, big ben sais that this sort o work is nother good for body nor sowl—an, dee no, i half belaiv hees rite, for kool the i am i feels a litle feverish sometimes, i wos goin to tel ye a anikdot about mister cupples an a brown bar, but the boys are off to the straim again, so i must stop, but il resoom ritein after tay—hopin yool exkuse my fraquint interupshuns, mister ostin, il go.

"Wel, heer i am again—just comed in wid a failin about my inside like a botimles pitt, but thats aisy kured. il taik up the pen after tay, only i want to tell ye weer in luk agin, i got fore nugits as big as walnuts, and heeps o smal wans, an the rest has got a dale o goold wan way or other, now for super.

"There, the pitts fild up now. wel, whair was i. och! yes, it was about mister cupples an the brown bar. you must no that hees got the fever pritty bad, has mister cupples—the goold fever i mean, an goes off an owr or too before the rest of us waiks up of a mornin, but he dont make no more goold, which owld peter—yoo remimber owld peter, mister ostin— sais is a spechiel visitashun for his beein avaridgious. anyhow, he gits les slaip than the rest of us an no more goold. wel, as i wor sayin, he wint off wan mornin up the straim, an it so hapind that big ben and bunco wint in the saim direkshun. in the afternoon, as they was comin home, they turned off the trak an sot down to rest a bit. who shood they see comin along the trak soon arter but mister cupples. he was cumin along slow—meditatin like—for he always comed back slow from digin, as if he was loth to leav, but wint thair kuik enuff, anyhow, close behind him wos trotin a big brown bar. the bar didnt see him, by raisin that the trak was krookit and the skrub thik; but it was goin fast, and had almost overhawled mister cupples whin he wos cloas to the place whair the too men was hidin. heers fun, sais the traper, kokin his gun. bunco he grin'd, but didnt spaik. yool remimber, mister osten, bunco had a way of his own o grinin widout spaikin, but big ben sais his eyes more nor makes up for his tung. wel, just as he comes fornint the too men, mister cupples he heers a sound o futsteps behind him, an stops an turns round, heed no gun nor nothin wotsomiver wid him, havin left all the tools at the place he was digin. in a moment round the corner cums the bar ful swing, it was a sharp turn, and the site o the mate kuite took him aback, for he got up on his hind legs and showed al his grinders, mister cupples was also much took by surprise, but he suddently shook his fist in the bar's face, an shoutid, ha, yoo raskal, as if he wor spaikin to a fellar creetur. whether it wos the length o the mate's face, or not bein yoosed to convarsashun, no wan nos; but the bar he 'bout ship, clapt on all sail, and stood away up the gulch at the rait o 15 or 20 nots, while mister cupples he looked after him chuklin, an bunco and big ben too was larfin fit to bust their sides, the they larfed inside, like, for fear o diskiverin thimselves, but when big ben see the bar cleering off like that he up wid his gun, let drive, an put a bal kuite nate in the bak of his skul if mister cupples wasnt afeerd o the bar, he got a most awful frite by the shot, for yoo must no theres bin a dale o murtherin going on at the digins of lait, tho, be good luk, its not cum our way as yet, so he turned and run like al posesed. yoo no what long leggs hees got, faix, he cleerd the ground wid them like a peir o kumpasses, an he was out o site in no time, an cum heer pantin and blowin like a broken-winded steem-ingin. soon after that, big ben cum in wid the skin o the bar over his shoulder, and bunco caryin his too hams to smok, for bar hams ant bad aitin, let me tel yoo, if yoor hungry an not partickler. of koorse mister cupples hasnt had the life of a dog since, for the boys are for iver jokin him amost out of his siven sensis about that bar.

"This is about all iv got to tell, mister osten, not but that i cud go on for paiges an paiges yit, given ee odds an ends o smal tawk an ginral nuse, for whin i wance begin wid the pen i niver no when to stop—its awthership il taik to, maybe, if iver i git into diffikultys—but its ov no yoos spinin out a yarn when its done, so il stop now, wishin ye all helth an hapines, wid the saim from all yer owld frinds at the grizlie bar gultch digins. they bid me say thail never forgit the hapy days theyve spent wid ye in the south says, an the forests of south ameriky an the roky mountins. but them days is all past an gon now. sure i sometimes feel as if the hole thing was a draim. dont you, mister osten. wid best wishes, yoors til deth.

"Larry o hale."

"p.s.—Plaze give my apologys to yoor muther for forgitin to send my respeks to her. also to maryan, whos a dasent woman av she wasnt so fond o' fitein. also to richards an' his beter haf gemima. Shees a good sowl too av she wasnt aflikted wid too ardint a desir to wair some of her husbands garmints. so no more at present from L.o.h."

We can add little to the record so graphically penned by Larry O'Hale, and it were well, perhaps, that, having spun our yarn out to the end, we should follow his example and write no more. But we feel that it would be unjust to the memory of our hero were we to dismiss him without a "few words" as to his subsequent career.

It happens sometimes, though we believe not frequently, that those who begin life with what may be called a wild burst settle down at last into quiet domestic men, whose chief delight it is to "fight their battles o'er again" with sympathetic comrades, and to "wander in dreams." Such was the case with Will Osten. Flora acted the part of a best-bower anchor to him all through life, and held him fast; but, if the whole truth must be told, it is our duty to add that Will did not strain hard at the cable! He rode easily in the calm harbour of home, which was seldom ruffled with gales—matrimonial or otherwise.

The success of his Californian estate was so great that, besides setting up in life the most of the comrades who had followed his fortunes, it placed himself beyond the necessity of working for his daily bread. Will did not, however, lead an idle life on that account. He recognised the great truth that he was answerable to his Creator for the management of his time and talents just as much as the man who has to earn his bread in the sweat of his brow, and he made it his chief aim in life to act the part of a faithful steward. That he did not succeed in this to the full extent of his wishes is certain, nevertheless his success must have been considerable if we are to believe the opinion of his friends, who used to say of him, with enthusiasm, that he was a blessing to the community in the midst of which he dwelt, for, in imitation of the Master whom he served, he went about continually doing good.

In process of time, several little boats (if we may be allowed the expression) appeared in the harbour and cast anchor alongside of Will; or, rather, attached themselves to the anchor which held him fast; and Flora was quite able to hold them all—though it must be admitted that she had infinitely more trouble with the little boats than she had with the big ship, for they had all wandering wills of their own, and, from the time of their first appearance, evinced a strong tendency to strain with tremendous vigour at their cables. Indeed, on several occasions, one or two of the boats attempted actually to cut their cables and make off, as the old ship had done before them, but Will's wisdom and Flora's winning ways prevailed, and it was found that, having been trained in the way in which they should go from the commencement, they did not depart from that way when they grew old.

In reference to the early existence of this little flotilla, we may, with propriety, quote the opinion of Maryann—than whom there could not be a better witness, for she dwelt in Will's house, and nursed them all as she had nursed their father before them—superintended, of course, by old Mrs Osten, who dwelt in a cottage of her own hard by, and watched the rise and progress of her descendants for many a year with keen felicity. Maryann, in talking over matters with her faithful bosom friend, was wont to say:—

"Yes, Jemimar, I never had two opinions about it, they're the beautifulest an' sweetest children I ever did 'ave had to do with—just as Master Will, their papa, was simularly so; but I'm free to confess that they all has a surprisin' sperrit. There's Master William, now (I can't abear to call him Will, because that was the name as 'is father went by, and I 'old that in a sense it is sacred), there's Master William, though 'e's only jist out o' frocks an' frilled trousers, and noo into blue tights an' brass buttons, there 'e is, goin' about the country on a pony as isn't much bigger than a Noofoundland dog, but goes over the 'edges an ditches in a way as makes my blood to curdle an' my skin to creep, with that dear boy on 'is back and 'is tail flyin be'ind, an' shoutin' with a sort of wild delight that I do think is wicked—I do indeed, Jemimar, I give you my word I think it sinful, though, of course, 'e dont mean it so, poor child, and 'is father cheerin' 'im on in a way that must sear 'is conscience wuss than a red 'ot iron, w'ich 'is mother echoes too! it is quite past my compre'ension. Then 'e comes 'ome sich a figur, with 'oles in 'is trousers an' 'is 'ats squeezed flat an' 'is jackets torn. But Master Charles aint a bit better. Though 'e's scarcely able to walk 'e can ride like a jockey, an' needs more mendin' of 'is clo'se than any six ordinary boys. Miss Flora, too, would be just as wild if she weren't good and bidable, w'ich is 'er salvation; an' the baby—oh! you wouldn't believe it! didn't I catch that hinfant, only the other day, tryin' to throw a summerset in its bed, in imitation of Master William, an' yesterday morning I caught Master Charles trying to teach it to 'ang on to the clo'se-rope in the nursery by its toes! It's an awful trainin' the poor things is gettin'—an' the only comfort I 'ave in 'em is, that their dear mother do constantly teach 'em the Bible—w'ich condemns all sich things,—an' she do manage to make 'em fond o' wisitin' an' considerin' of the poor."

To which observations Jemima, holding up her hands and gazing at her bosom friend in sympathy, would reply that her own sentiments was hidentically simular, that things in general was to her most amazin', and that there was no accountin' for nothin' in this life, but that w'atever came of it she 'oped the family would live long an' 'appy in a world, w'ich was, she must confess, a most perplexing mixture of good and evil, though of course she wasn't rightly able to understand or explain that, but she was sure of this anyhow, that, although she was by no means able to explain 'erself as well as she could wish, she knew that she wished well to every one who stuck to the golden rule like Mr and Mrs Osten.

With which sentiment, good reader, we shall conclude this chronicle of the life and adventures of Wandering Will, and respectfully bid you farewell.

THE END.