men's faces to each other came from the candles in their miner's hats. The feeble rays lighted up a small space of the gallery of the silver mine where they were standing, and beyond, on either side, all was black and dark.
It was not easy to recognize the exquisitely dressed New Yorker whom we left at Newport, in the man sitting on a mound of earth, dressed in a red shirt, corduroy breeches, and top boots, all besplashed and bemired with the dark mud of the mine. He looked infinitely more original and individual in this dress, which showed his fine well-knit body and strong limbs. His hair, untroubled for the past six weeks by barber's shears, had grown rather longer than Gladys Carleton had seen it since his childhood, and the curl had got the better of him, as it had in those old days.
Jack Cartwright stood looking at his friend with a puzzled expression. Farwell had come to Leadville in answer to his telegram telling
