“Would you care, Mimosa, if I wore the ring until I went away? Perhaps I can find the place where the gold came from.”
“You may wear it till you come back rich,” she said, smiling.
Days grew into weeks, and the time drew near for the miner to say good-by to the girl who had become his comrade as well as deliverer. Tears filled her eyes as they parted. “You will forget Mimosa,” she said.
“No, I will bring back the ring, and you shall give it to the man who makes you his bride. I shall never forget Red Cloud nor his daughter.”
Strong and hopeful again, Martin took up life, obtained work, and believed once more that he should find gold.
But he missed the Indian girl. The pines on the snowy mountain-peaks whispered of her. The evenings seemed longer than formerly; the conversation of the miners less interesting. He was lonely. He was earning a fair living, but of what use was money to him if he was to feel desolate in heart? Mimosa was not of his race, but she had a lovable nature. He remembered that she looked sad at his going away. He wondered if she ever thought about him. If she had some Indian suitor, would she not wish for the ring again? He would like at least to see the man and his daughter who had saved his life. He would carry back the ring. Ah! if he knew where the gold in it came from, perhaps he would indeed become rich, and then who could make him so happy as Mimosa?
Months only increased the loneliness in Martin’s heart. He was becoming discouraged again. He even began to fear that Mimosa was married, and his soul awakened to a sense of loss. He would go back just once and see her, and on his journey back he would sit for a half-hour under the tree where Red Cloud had found him.
“What ails Martin?” said one miner to another. “He must be in love – no fun in him as in the old days. Going to quit camp, he says.”
After Martin had decided to go to see Red Cloud his heart seemed lighter. If Mimosa were married he could at least show her his gratitude. And if she were not? Well, it would be very restful to see her once more!
He started on his journey. The full moon was rising as he neared the old tree where Red Cloud had found him. As he approached he was startled by a white figure. He turned aside for a moment, and then went cautiously up to the great trunk. Two dark eyes full of tears gazed up into his eyes, at first with a startled look and then with a gleam of joy and trust.
“Mimosa!” he exclaimed, and clasped the Indian girl in his arms. “Why are you here, child, at this time of night?”
“I came here to think of you, Martin, and the moonlight is so sweet and comforting. The green trees and the mountains tell me of you.”
“I have brought you back the ring, Mimosa.”
“And are you rich yet? You were to keep it till you were rich.”
“No, but I would be rich, perhaps, if you would tell me where the gold in the ring was found.”
“My father gave it to me,” she replied quietly.
“Mimosa, would you love me if I were rich?”
“Perhaps I should be afraid of you if you were.”
“Would you love me if I remained poor as I am now?”
“Yes, always.”
“And if I became sick and could not care for you, what then?”
“I would care for you, Martin.”
“I have brought back the ring, Mimosa, that you may give it to the man who shall make you his bride.”
“And would you like to keep the ring yourself, Martin?”
“Yes, dearest.”
They went back to the home of Red Cloud, happy because promised to each other in marriage.
After a quiet wedding Mimosa said one day: “Come with me, Martin, and I will show you where the gold in the ring and the necklace were found.”
Not very far from the tree where the miner had lain down discouraged Mimosa pointed out the shining ore, the spot known only to the few Indians.
“Mimosa, there is a mine here! This gold is the outcropping of the veins. I shall yet be rich, my darling.”
“Would you surely love me as much, Martin, if you were rich?”
“I would give you everything your heart desired.”
“And not go to an Eastern country, and be great, and forget Mimosa?”
“Never!”
With a happy heart Martin Daly took his pick to the mountains. The golden ore opened under his touch. His claim each day showed more value. He had, indeed, become rich through the ring of Mimosa.
Times have changed. The children of the Indian girl, educated, gentle as their mother and energetic as their father, are in a handsome house. Love in the home has kept as bright as the gold in the mountain.
FOUR LETTERS
DEAR ERNEST: I am sitting under a great oak this summer afternoon, just as the sun is setting. The western sky is crossed with bands of brilliant red and yellow, while overhead, and to the east, pink fleecy clouds are floating like phantom ships of coral. The green forest of beech and oak at my right mellows in the deepening gray of the twilight, and the white mansion at my left, with its red roof, looks like some castle in a story. The grand blue lake in the distance seems closer to me in the subdued light, and I almost question if this be a picture or reality.
How I wish you were here to sit beside me, and talk as we used to do in college days! Then we wondered where each would be, what experiences would fill each heart, and what the future had for us in its shadowy keeping.
You have been a wanderer, and seen much of the world. I have had, for the most part, a quiet life of study, have finished a book, have had anxieties, as who has not, but, best of all, I have found my ideal.
You will perhaps smile at this, and recall to me my love of athletic sports, my disregard of the affections, my entire ability to live without the gentler sex. Not that you and I both did not admire a brilliant eye, or a rosy lip, or a perfect hand, but life was so full without all this that we looked at women as one does at rare pictures – expensive luxuries, to be admired rather than possessed.
But all has changed with me. I have met one who will, I think, fill my vision for life. She is not strictly beautiful. Her blue eyes are calm and clear. Her manner is not responsive, and she would seem to a stranger like one to be worshipped from afar. She has depth of affection, but it is not on the surface.
Edith Graham is to most persons a mystery. She loves nature, sits with me often to enjoy these wonderful sunsets, makes me feel that I am in the presence of a goddess, and goes her way, while I continue to worship her.
Yes, I think I have used the right word – “worship.” I walk a thousand times past the house where she lives because she is there. I linger in the pathways where she daily walks, with the feeling that her footsteps have given them a special sacredness. I know well the seat in the forest near here where she comes to read and look upon the distant lake. Every friend of hers is nearer to me because her friend. The graves, even, of her dear ones are precious to me. Every tree or flower she has admired is fairer to me. The golden-rod of the fields I keep ever in my study because she loves and gathers it. I have planted red carnations in my garden because she delights to wear them. The autumn leaves are exquisite to me because she paints them, and I recall the sound of her feet among the rustling leaves with the same joy which I feel in remembering the music of the priests of Notre Dame, or the voices of the nuns of the Sacré Cœur in Rome, at sunset.
The moon, from new to full, has an added beauty because when Edith and I are separated she speaks to us both the eternal language of love. When I watch the clouds break over her majestic face I know that Edith too enjoys the beauty of the scene.
The song of the robins among our trees is sweeter because Edith hears it. The little stream that wanders near us and glides over the stones at the foot of the hill in a white sheet of